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George Gordon Byron - Translation From Catullus
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[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.]

Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread;
My Lesbia`s favourite bird is dead,
   Whom dearer than her eyes she loved:
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, wild alarm he knew,
   But lightly o`er her bosom moved:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrup`d oft, and, free from care,
   Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass`d the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia`s grief I mourn,
   Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
   For thou hast ta`en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia`s eyes o`erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
   Receptacle of life`s decay.
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