TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS, BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.
He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of Love, By Death's _unequal_[1] hand alike controul'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
[Footnote: 1. The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease.]
IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.
SULPICIA AD CERINTHUM (LIB. QUART.).
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease [i]
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for Love and you again; But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate: By Death alone I can avoid your hate.
[Footnote i:
'does this fell disease'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.]
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
LUGETE VENERES CUPIDINESQUE (CARM. III.) [i]
Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd: [ii]
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, He chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, [iii]
Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, [iv]
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.
[Footnote i:
_Luctus De Morte Passeris_.
[4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.] ]
[Footnote ii: _Which dearer_. [4to] ]
[Footnote iii: _But chirrup'd_. [4to] ]
[Footnote iv: _But now he's pass'd_. [4to] ]
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. [1]
TO ELLEN. [i]
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 numbers did exceed [ii]
The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist?--ah! never--never.
November 16, 1806.
[Footnote 1: From a note in Byron's copy of Catullus (now in the possession of Mr. Murray), it is evident that these lines are based on Carm. xlviii., 'Mellitos oculos tuos, Juventi'.]
[Footnote i: 'To Anna'. [4to] ]
[Footnote ii: 'E'en though the number'. [4to. 'Three first Editions'.]]