Fugitive Pieces

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.—­

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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.]

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