Animula vagula blandula

thumb|animula vagvla blandvla hospes comesqve corporis, qvae nvnc abibis in loca? pallidvla rigida nvdvla nec vt soles dabis iocos Animula vagula blandula is the incipit of a poem which appears in the Historia Augusta as the work of the dying emperor Hadrian, and is an address to his soul. It has been extensively studied and there are numerous translations. Quotes Animula vagula blandula, hospes comesque corporis, quae nunc abibis in loca, pallidula, rigida, nudula, nec ut soles dabis iocos? Historia Augusta, "Hadrianus", pt. 2, sec. 25, par. 9 Translated by John Molle: Minion soul, poor wanton thing The body’s guest, my dearest darling, To what places art thou going? Naked, miserable, trembling, Reaving me of all the joy Which by thee I did enjoy. Translated by Henry Vaughan: My soul, my pleasant soul and witty, The ghest and consort of my body, Into what place now all alone Naked and sad wilt thou be gone? No mirth, no wit, as heretofore, Nor Jests wilt thou afford me more. Translated by Matthew Prior: My little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling Wing, To take thy Flight thou know’st not whither? Thy humorous Vein, thy pleasing Folly Lyes all neglected, all forgot; And pensive, wav’ring, melancholy, Thou dread’st and hop’st thou know not what. thumb|upright=1.1|Whither, ah whither art thou flying? To what dark, undiscovered shore? Thou seem’st all trembling, shiv’ring, dying, And Wit and Humour are no more. —Pope's translation Translated by Alexander Pope: Ah, fleeting Spirit! wand’ring fire    That long hast warmed my tender breast, Must thou no more this frame inspire?    No more a pleasing, cheerful guest? Whither, ah whither art thou flying?    To what dark, undiscovered shore? Thou seem’st all trembling, shiv’ring, dying,    And Wit and Humour are no more. Translated by the Rev. James Ford: Light airy tenant of this mortal clay, Its guest and comrade, fleeting fast away, Dear precious Soul, ever so fond and kind, Where wilt thou go? where now a refuge find? Cast forth, a stranger, on some unknown shore, Pallid benumbed, bereaved, thou wilt no more Joy with thy partner, as thy wont before! ——— Say, fleeting Spirit, gentle, dear, The body’s guest and comrade here, Whither, Oh whither, now away? Into what regions wilt thou stray? Pale, numb, and desolate; no more To jest and trifle, as before. Translated by Lord Byron: Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, Friend and associate of this clay! To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. Translated by Dr. Barclay, of Edinburgh: Thou little, wandering, witching thing, My guest, companion, on the wing! But know’st thou where? once fled from me, Lone, pallid, naked, cold thou’lt be, And jest no more with sprightly glee. thumb|upright=1.1|Perhaps to roam in some lone glade, For aye a wan and joyless shade. —Andrew Coventry's translation Translated by Andrew Coventry: Ah, playful, kindly spirit, My body’s friend and guest, Where be the unknown fields Thou now wilt seek for rest, Perhaps to roam in some lone glade, For aye a wan and joyless shade? Translated by the Right Rev. Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells: Stay, darling soul, sweet wanderer, stay, Ah! whither dost thou flit away, Leaving thy long-loved home of clay? The realms without are bleak and drear, Those fields are stiff with cold, and bare. Poor laughter-loving soul! no mirth wilt thou find there. ——— My pretty soul, my minion! My body’s friend and guest! Borne on thy vagrant pinion, Where seekest thou thy rest? I see thee naked, stiff, and wan, Thy humour changed, thy mirth all gone. Translated by Thomas Lewin: My darling soul! my petted stray! That has such wayward, winning way! The welcome guest and loving mate    Long of this mortal clay! Ah! wherefore called by cruel fate    To unseen worlds away? Thy colour flown, thy gambols o’er,    Thy vesture turned again to earth, Thou’rt gone, and never more    Shall ring thy jocund mirth. Translated by the Rev. H. M. Scarth: Spirit fleeting, fluttering, seeing, Friend and partner of my being,    Tarrying yet on earth and living; Pallid, rigid, shalt thou roam Sad, in shades and cheerless gloom,    Then no longer pleasure giving. Translated by Miss Scarth: Oh, little spirit, playful, fluttering, gay, Guest hitherto of this my body frail, How soon, in silence, wilt thou flt away? All mirth forsaking, naked, cold, and pale. Translated by the Rev. Preb. Buckle: Little darling soul of mine,    Wildly fluttering hither, thither, Guest and comrade half divine,    Whither art thou going, ah! whither? Naked, pale, and shivering, say, Wilt thou, when thou goest away,    There as here be blythe and gay? Translated by Charles Tennyson Turner: Little wild and winsome sprite, The body’s guest and close ally; To what new regions wilt thou fly? A pale and cold and naked blight, With all thy wonted jokes gone by. Translated by the Rev. H. B. Whiting: Sweet soul, the body’s genial guest, Co-partner in its weal and woe; Ah! why, so blessing and so blest, Not tarry here below? Why leave thy tenement a prey To "cold obstruction"—dull decay? Dear dainty thing! how wilt thou fare, On that inhospitable shore, Where is nor sun, nor balmy air, And earth’s fair face is seen no more? Where cheerless memories find their home, But mirth and laughter never come. Translated by the Rev. G. B. Paley: My gentle soul, my little dear, Associate in my joy and sorrow, Departing soul! today still here, But where, oh where, when dawns tomorrow? Feeling yea deeply, every thought Akin to jesting now too late; Fearful and pallid, lonely brought Art thou into some lonely state. Translated by D. Johnston: Sweet Soul, in tender joy possest,    Through life my true abiding friend, My body’s loved and loving guest,    Must then our fond communion end? Into what realms to mental eye    Or mystery of thought unknown, Trembling and fluttering, wilt thou fly,    Disrobed and cheerless, cold and lone? Weaving thy fancies now no more As in the pleasant days of yore. ——— Oh, loving Soul, my own so tenderly, My life’s companion and my body’s guest, To what new realms, poor flutterer, wilt thou fly? Cheerless, disrobed, and cold in thy lone quest, Hushed thy sweet fancies, mute thy wonted jest. Translated by Frederick Lewin: Fond, kindly soul, thro’ death’s portal    Wandering aimless away, Leaving the body thy mortal    Comrade and host to decay; Lonely to far distant places,    Pallid and naked thou’lt flit, Heedless of old loving faces,    Charming no more with thy wit. Translated by the Rev. Thomas P. Rogers: Restless, flitting, still endearing Soul of mine—the body cheering,    Guest and comrade on life’s way; Whither—thing old haunt forsaking With thy wit and merry-making,    Cold and naked wilt thou stray? Translated by Henry Julian Hunter: O, little guest too shy for sense or sight, So wayward, fanciful, and yet so dear, Where next wilt rest thee on thy spectral flight? Where mope in dismal silence, stark and sere? I gave thee for thy dwelling place my heart, And for thy chamber yielded up my brain, Assign a trysting spot before we part, That we may not have comraded in vain. Translated by George S. Jenks: Endearing soul, unhappy wanderer, stay; My body’s friend and guest from day to day, What fearful doom will end thy forlorn flight? Perchance the doleful realm of endless night! Pallid and woebegone, naked, distrest, There none will cheer thy wonted playful jest. Translated by the Rev. R. Malone: Pretty spirit, tiny fleeting flame, Guest and partner of my earthly frame, Whither passest thou away? Pale one, stark, unclothed—never more Sparkling now with joy as heretofore. Translated by Henry Duncan Skrine: Where, oh my soul, my darling art going, Poor little wanderer, all unknowing? Comrade and guest of the body, thou’rt leaving Naked now, shivering, pale and grieving, No more sprightly fancies weaving. Translated by William Leonard Courtney: Wandering, shrinking, loving soul,    Stranger-inmate of my breast, Why wilt seek death’s bitter dole?    Homeless, chill, and ill at rest, Granting no more the boon of wonted jest. Translated by W. R. K.: Little, charming, fluttering soul, My body’s guest and oldest friend, What strange abode doth thee enfold, Ah, whither do they wanderings tend? Trembling, naked, shivering, cold, Thou from thy old ally hast gone; No more thou’lt prattle as of old, Thy wit all past, thy jokes all done. Translated by Miss A. B. Rowlandson: Dear wandering Soul, my body’s genial guest, And loved companion, from that homely nest Exiled, what regions wilt thou soon survey? Denuded, pallid, stern, thou’lt take thy way, Nor more, as erst, wilt join in converse light and gay. Translated by Percy J. M. Rogers: Little spirit, roving, Comrade sweet and loving,    Guest of clay; Chill and stark and wan, Mirth and laughter gone,    Whither away? Translated by Frederick E. Hunter: Pleasant spirit, home forsaking,    Guest and cherished friend to-day,    Whither art thou bent, now say, Timid, trembling, with thee taking    All the joy of life away? Translated by Erasmus Henry Brodie: Soul of mine, dear fluttering pet, Bodiless—sans friend and host— Ah whither! ah whither! dost post? Poor shivering, stiff and stark ghost, Nor a joke from thee more may I get. Translated by Thomas Hughes: Spirit, wayward, gentle, fine, Guest-friend of this frame of mine,    To what realms thou now retreatest Tell me? wan thou growest, and cold, Nor, my Spirit, as of old    In my ear glad things repeatest. Translated by the Rev. C. G. Lane: Poor ghost, my body’s friend and guest    Erewhile, thou leav’st thy home; To what uncertain place of rest    A wanderer dost thou roam? Pale, cold, and naked, henceforth to forego Thy jests among the sullen shades below. Translated by Lord Charles Neaves: My own dear soul, that warm’st this clay, The body’s guest and comrade gay, To what new realms would’st thou repair? Pallid, and cheerless, chill and bare; Must I lie down, a clod of earth, And thou for ever cease thy mirth? Translated by Morton Luck: Belovèd, vagrant, tender thing,    Inmate and mate of this poor home, Ah! too untimely wandering,    Tell me, my soul, where wilt thou roam! Ah! with what naked, shuddering flight, Through chilling regions of dread night, Thou hurriest forlorn of beauty and delight! Translated by W. P. Brooke: Soul of mine, that may’st not rest Where thou cam’st, a joyous guest,    This mortal frame within; Long its fellow-traveller thou Through this world hast been, but now    Thy wandering must begin; Leave the bright, glad life of old, Go stiff, naked, pallid, cold—    What other home to win? Translated by Russell Duckworth: Dear little soul,    Why wilt thou roam? Long has thou found    In me a home. Numb, pale, and naked, whither fly From my companionship, and why? Thy merry jests no more shall ring— And must thou leave me, little thing? Translated by W. A. S. Benson: Wandering, gentle little sprite, Guest of my body and its friend,    Whither now    Goest thou? Pale, and stiff, and naked quite, All thy jests are at an end. Translated by H. B. Baildon: Oh! soul of mine, so wayward, fond, My body’s guest, my body’s mate Who now along dost fare beyond Bright earth to regions desolate, Cold-bound and spectral——as of yore Thou makest merriment no more. Translated by "Moribundus": Thou us’d with me to dwell,    To roam, to sport, so bright! But now, why stiff? why pale?    Why cast me off, for flight? Translated by James Duff: Little wand’rer, soul of mine, That dost within the body stay, Now thy dwelling-place is gone, Whither wilt thou go away, Pale, defenceless, stiff and chill? Hush’d is thy wonted voice and still. Translated by Christina G. Rossetti: Soul rudderless, unbraced, The body’s friend and guest, Whither away to-day? Unsuppled, pale, dis-cased, Dumb to thy wonted jest. Translated by J. W. Duff: Dear fleeting sweeting, little soul, My body's comrade and its guest, What region now must be thy goal, Poor little wan, numb, naked soul, Unable, as of old, to jest? See also Anna Laetitia Barbauld: Life! we've been long together,Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good night, but in some brighter climeBid me Good morning. External links Translations, Literal and Free, of the Dying Hadrian's Address to His Soul (1876) Category:Latin literature