Translations From Catullus. 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.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Wo! Wo!

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Like Morning, When Her Early Breeze. (Air. Beethoven.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudges In England. Letter II. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

But Who Shall See. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Translations From Catullus. 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!

Thomas Moore

Translations From Catullus. 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.--

Thomas Moore

Imitation Of Catullus. To Himself.

        Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc.


Cease the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own,
Which all, alas, have falsely flown.
What hours, Catullus, once were thine.
How fairly seemed thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl whose smile was then so sweet--
The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again.

    Ye met--your souls seemed all in one,
Like tapers that commingling shone;
Thy heart was warm enough for both,
And hers, in truth, was nothing loath.

    Such were the hours that once were thine;
But, ah! those hours no longer shine.
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so much before;
And all Ca...

Thomas Moore

Tibullus To Sulpicia.

nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc., Lib. iv. Carm. 13.


"Never shall woman's smile have power
    "To win me from those gentle charms!"--
Thus swore I, in that happy hour,
    When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight--
    Still, tho' our city proudly shine
With forms and faces, fair and bright,
    I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me,
    And couldst no heart but mine allure!--
To all men else unpleasing be,
    So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest
    Of others' envy, others' praise;
But, in its silence safely blest,
    Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power<...

Thomas Moore

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 th...

George Gordon Byron

Translation From Catullus. Lugete Veneres Cupidinesque (Carm. III.)

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

George Gordon Byron