ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN
ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque, corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.
AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region born,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more, with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
EQUAL to Jove, that youth must be,
Greater than Jove, he seems to me,
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms;
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserv'd for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly;
I needs must gaze, but gazing die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd, to the throat, my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night;
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.
THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.
HE who, sublime, in Epic numbers roll'd,
And he, who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's (1) unequal hand alike controll'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS
LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSE IS.
YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's fav'rite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air;
But chirrup'd oft, and free from care,
Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.
(1) The hand of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus, at his decease.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta'en the bird away:
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow,
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay.
OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still, would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still, would I kiss, and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still, would we kiss, and kiss for ever;
E'en though the number did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour,
Could I desist? -ah? never-never.
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON.
I WISH to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo from its rising swell,
How heroes fought, and nations fell;
When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar;
But, still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir'd with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war my harp is due;
With glowing strings, the epic strain,
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides, and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain, my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu! ye chiefs renown'd in arms:
Adieu! the clang of war's alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss, and sighs of flame.
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