Lines Addressed To A Young Lady.[1]

[As the author was discharging his Pistols in a Garden, Two Ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a Bullet hissing near them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.]

1.

Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead, Wafting destruction o'er thy charms [i] And hurtling o'er thy lovely head, Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.

2.

Surely some envious Demon's force, Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career.

3.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour, The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; But Heaven, with interposing power, In pity turn'd the death aside.

4.

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear Upon that thrilling bosom fell; Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, Extracted from its glistening cell;--

5.

Say, what dire penance can atone For such an outrage, done to thee? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, What punishment wilt thou decree?

6.

Might I perform the Judge's part, The sentence I should scarce deplore; It only would restore a heart, Which but belong'd to thee before.

7.

The least atonement I can make Is to become no longer free; Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake, Thou shalt be all in all to me.

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.

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 unequal hand alike controul'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

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.