8.

But thou perhaps may'st now reject Such expiation of my guilt, Come then--some other mode elect?

Let it be death--or what thou wilt.

9.

Choose then relentless! and I swear, Nought shall thy dread decree prevent, Yet hold--one little word forbear!

Let it be aught but _banishment_.

[Footnote 13: This word is used by GRAY in his poem to the fatal Sisters:--

"Iron sleet of arrowy shower, _Hurtles_ through the darken'd air."

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. AD LESBIAM.

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.--

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 [14]_unequal_ hand alike controul'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move.

[Footnote 14: 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 CERINTUM." LIB. QUART.

Cruel Cerintus! does this fell disease, 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.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. LUCTUS DE NORTE Pa.s.sERIS.

Ye Cupids droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Which 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, But chirrup'd oft, and free from care, Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.

But now he's pa.s.s'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.

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. TO ANNA.

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 forever; 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.

_November_ 16, 1806.