hen thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul
Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control!
How often wilt thou look this way, and cry,
O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie?
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me,
Long since--dear heart!--have I been dead to thee.
Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost,
That death to me more grief than this hath cost.
Now, if thou canst--but thou canst not--best wife,
Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life.
At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no news.
And here I wish my soul died with my breath,
And that no part of me were free from death;
For, if it be immortal, and outlives
The body, as Pythagoras believes,
Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I
Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity.
But thou--for after death I shall be free--
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me;
A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay
Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way;
And to inform posterity, who's there,
This sad inscription let my marble wear;
"Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love,
Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove.
But thou,--whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by,
Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye,
If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease,
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!"
This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see
More strong and lasting monuments of me,
Which I believe--though fatal--will afford
An endless name unto their ruin'd lord.
And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me,
Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory;
Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear,
With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear.
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head,
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
Take then this word--perhaps my last--to tell,
Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!

AUSONII. IDYLL VI.

CUPIDO [CRUCI AFFIXUS].

In those bless'd fields of everlasting air
--Where to a myrtle grove the souls repair
Of deceas'd lovers--the sad, thoughtful ghosts
Of injur'd ladies meet, where each accosts
The other with a sigh, whose very breath
Would break a heart, a