Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/113

Rh 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.

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!