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 PASSERIS.
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 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.
* * *
*
