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1005 e Lingerie native deep
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell,
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! por let me linger o’er
Scenes haild, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding, slowly, thro' the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
D-rmt! farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind,
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend or foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe;
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice.
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought;
If these, ---but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,
Oh ! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain,
The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate,
Will leave thee glorious, as be found thee great,
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL,
Animula ! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque, corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.
An! 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,
"pallid," wonied, distant
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,
Resery'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 langour 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 EPITAPA ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS,
BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.
He, who, sublime, in Epic numbers rollid,
And he, who struck the softer lyre of lov
By Death's (1) unequal hand alike control'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS
LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSER IS.
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's fav’ríte bird is dead,"
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd;
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; 'i '
But chirrup'd oft, and free from care," :
Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain. ..
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 :
From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o’erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow,
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay.
On! 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.