Carmen LXV (Cornish)

Though I am worn out with constant grief, Hortalus, and sorrow calls me away, apart from the learned Maids, nor can the thoughts of my heart utter the sweet births of the Muses, tossed as it is with such waves of trouble;—so lately the creeping wave of the Lethaean flood has lapped my own brother's death-pale foot, on whom, torn away from our sight, under the shore of Rhoeteum the soil of Troy lies heavy, Never shall I speak to thee, never hear thee tell of thy life; never shall I see thee again, brother more beloved than life: but surely I shall always love thee, always sing strains of mourning for thy death, as under the thick shadows of the boughs sings the Daulian bird bewailing the fate of Itylus lost. Yet, in such sorrows, Hortalus, I send to you these verses of Battiades translated, lest haply you should think that your words have slipped from my mind, vainly committed to wandering winds: as an apple sent as a secret gift from her betrothed lover falls out from the chaste bosom of the girl, which—poor child, she forgot it!—put away in her soft gown, is shaken out as she starts forward when her mother comes; then, see, onward, downward swiftly it rolls and runs; a conscious blush creeps over her downcast face.