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

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

Weep, Children Of Israel. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

So Warmly We Met. (Hungarian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Hymn Of Welcome After The Recess.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Stanzas Written In Anticipation Of Defeat.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

Catullus: XXXI

(After passing Sirmione, April 1887.)



Sirmio, thou dearest dear of strands
That Neptune strokes in lake and sea,
With what high joy from stranger lands
Doth thy old friend set foot on thee!
Yea, barely seems it true to me
That no Bithynia holds me now,
But calmly and assuringly
Around me stretchest homely Thou.

Is there a scene more sweet than when
Our clinging cares are undercast,
And, worn by alien moils and men,
The long untrodden sill repassed,
We press the pined for couch at last,
And find a full repayment there?
Then hail, sweet Sirmio; thou that wast,
And art, mine own unrivalled Fair!

Thomas Hardy

Rhymes On The Road. Extract X. Mantua.

Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.


They tell me thou'rt the favored guest
    Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
    No voice like thine to breathe the song.
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.
Alas, alas! how different flows,
    With thee and me the time away!
Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows--
    Still if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know that without thee
The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare
Thou'st always loved to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deckt thro' festive crowds to run,
    And all the assembled world to see,--
All but the one, the absent one,

Thomas Moore

To A Lady, With Some Manuscript Poems, On Leaving The Country.

When, casting many a look behind,
    I leave the friends I cherish here--
Perchance some other friends to find,
    But surely finding none so dear--

Haply the little simple page,
    Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
    And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those
    Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
    With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt
    With pity, never melt with love;
And such will frown at all I've felt,
    And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
    Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find.
    And linger kindl...

Thomas Moore