Dactylic hexameter:
Hīc sedeo solus, tristis sine Nāide fusca.
Ecce torus noster vacuus. Tenuissima vestis
Quam rapui manibus, remanet. Violentia desit!
Eheu dic mihi nunc pastor quo protinus ivit.
Translation
I sit here alone, sad without dark Nais.
Here’s our bed—empty; the sheer slip,
Which I tore off with my hands, still remains.
Damn the violence! Oh, tell me now, shepherd,
Where did she suddenly go?
Querella poetae
Heroic couplets suggested from opening of A.
Pope’s Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot.
“Janitor, O custos, citius nunc obrue postes.
Solve canes nostros! Pestifer hostis adest.
Voces et fremitus audis? Audisne: ‘Camenam’?”
“Ain tu?” “Sic, dico! Garrula Musa permit!
Ducit Musa viros, vetulos, omnes sine mente.
Me tege, sīs, posco. Me miserum, veniunt!
Matronas, nymphas video nuptasque puellas
Carmina portantes. Res lyricae pereant!
Cur opus est semper mihi volvere carmina nequam?
Omnia pessima sunt! Me jugulā subito.”
Translation
“Doorkeeper, oh guardian, quick– bar the door now!
Let lose my dogs! The deadly enemy’s here.
Do you hear their voices and cries?
Do you hear their: ‘Hey there poet’?”
“What do you mean?” “I’m saying this:
The jabbering Muse has come! The Muse
Is bringing up the men, the old, everyone gone mad!
Hide me please, I beg you. Woe is me. They’re coming!
I see matrons and young girls and married ones
Bringing me their poems. To hell with poetry!
Why do I always have to read a stinking poem?
Damn all of it. Come, slit my throat right now.”
Sapphic stanzas
“Suaviter tandem modulare chordas.
Cur lyrae semper latitant quiete
Sub toro juxta calamum tubamque
Somniculosam?
“Omnia haec profer!” Modo pono corpus
Ah! meum subter. Subito amovere
Nec lyram possum neque memetipsum
Firmiter haesum!
“Bob, venī mox mox, simulac potens es
Liberā me. Deinde licet canare
Nos duos nervis fidibusque claris
Dulce sonantes.”
Translation
“Come on, lightly sweep the string.
Why does the lyre always hide silently
Beneath the bed, next to the flute
And sleeping trumpet?
“Bring all of them out!” I finally position
My body under [the bed], and suddenly
I can’t move—not the lyre, not my body
That’s firmly stuck.
“Hey, Bob, come right now; as soon as you can,
Free me. Then together we can play
The sweetly sounding strings and singing chords.”
Alcaic stanzas
Tristes dolores perpetuo premunt
Omnes viros et femineum genus;
Aulae deorum saepe reddunt
Et gemitus lacrimasque multas
Quandoque praesens Impietas fugat
Felicitatem caelicolam ac probam
Vibransque spargens passim hydros
Terribiles etiam tremendos.
“Intro et tabernam pauperis, hinc cito
Invado regum celsa palatia
Omnes fatigans.” Sic profatur
Impia tum volat atque vadit.
Translation
Depressing sorrows constantly oppress
All men and womankind.
The halls of the gods often echo
With their groans and many tears
Whenever Impiety stands, brandishing and
Hurling everywhere her terrible and fearful snakes,
And scares away heavenly
And upright Felicity.
“I go into the hovels of the poor, from there
I quickly invade the lofty palaces
Of kings, oppressing all.” Thus, the Impious one speaks
And hastens and rushes forth.
On a 19th century painting of Tintern Abbey.
Isti homines qui sunt? Quae garrula lingua quietem
Tam sanctam turbat? Nobis intrantibus olim
Numinis has aedes et procedentibus ultra
In navem lente lente, subito sonuit vox
Lusciniae parvae. Cecinit sub imagine Christi
Fundens ex anima pacem mortalibus nobis.
Translation
Who are those people? What blaring tongue
Disturbs this silence, so holy? Once when we
Entered into this divine dwelling and were proceeding
Slowly down the middle aisle, moving so slowly,
The song of a small nightingale suddenly echoed.
She was singing beneath a statue of the Christ,
Pouring out with all her being peace to us mortals.