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Title: Translations From Catullus
Author: Thomas Moore [
More Titles by Moore]
CARM. 70.
_dicebas quondam, etc_.
TO LESBIA.
Thou told'st me, in our days of love,
That I had all that heart of thine;
That, even to share the couch of Jove,
Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.
How purely wert thou worshipt then!
Not with the vague and vulgar fires
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,--
But loved, as children by their sires.
That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;--
I know thee now--and tho' these eyes
Doat on thee wildly as before,
Yet, even in doating, I despise.
Yes, sorceress--mad as it may seem--
With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion even outlives esteem.
And I at once adore--and scorn thee.
CARM. II.
_pauca nunciate meae puellae_.
Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er
The fates have willed thro' life I've roved,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
These bitter words to her I've loved.
Tell her from fool to fool to run,
Where'er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
But ruining and maddening all.
Bid her forget--what now is past--
Our once dear love, whose rain lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow's last.
Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!
CARM. 29.
_peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle_.
Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye
Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles--
How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking--_can_ it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?
Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lightened mind
Lays down its load of care at last:
When tired with toil o'er land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wished-for bed once more.
This, this it is that pays alone
The ills of all life's former track.--
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.
And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heaven like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice--let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!
[The end]
Thomas Moore's poem: Translations From Catullus
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