On the Dead Sparrow of Lesbia (from Catullus)

O Venus! O ye Loves bewail!
And all who finer passions feel!
Dead is the sparrow of my Fair,
The sparrow, who her tender care,
Who her excess of fondness proved,
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved.
For he the sweetest mind possess'd;
Conscious by whom he was caress'd,
He ne'er from her endearments flew;
Not she her mother better knew;
But leaping round in wanton play,
Twitter'd to her the live-long day.
Now goes he to the gloomy bourn,
Whence no one ever may return.
Perish, ye fatal shades, who spare
Nothing that's either good or fair!
Now have ye snatch'd with ruthless mind
The best and fairest of his kind.
O Impious Deed! from cheerful day
To force the little wretch away!
For whom my Girl finds no relief,
Her swelling eyes are red with grief.