A Poetical Translation of the elegies of Tibullus and of the poems of Sulpicia. With The Original Text, and Notes Critical and Explanatory. In two volumes. By James Grainger |
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A Poetical Translation of the elegies of Tibullus | ||
257
THE SEVENTH POEM.
[At last the natal odious Morn draws nigh]
I
At last the natal odious Morn draws nigh,When to your cold, cold Villa I must go;
There, far, too far from my Cerinthus Sigh:
Oh why, Messala! will you plague me so?
II
Let studious Mortals prize the sylvan Scene;And ancient Maidens hide them in the Shade;
Green Trees perpetually give me the Spleen;
For Crowds, for Joy, for Rome, Sulpicia's made!
III
Your too officious Kindness gives me Pain.How fall the Hail-stones! hark! how howls the Wind!
Then know, to grace your Birth-day should I deign,
My Soul, my All, I leave at Rome behind.
A Poetical Translation of the elegies of Tibullus | ||