University of Virginia Library

FROM CATULLUS.

Carm. III.—Lugete, o Veneres, &c.

Ye Venuses and Cupids all,
And all polite, well-bred,
Ingenious persons, hear my call!
My lady's sparrow,—he is dead,
And therefore you must drop a tear:
He was so nice a little dear—
Such a darling, such a love;
Round the room, about, above,
He used to flutter and to hurry,—
Then he came, in such a flurry,
Flying to my lady's breast,
Lodging in it like a nest,
Like an infant with a mother;
He would not leave her for another;
He would not move, he would not stir,
Nor chirp for any, but for her.
And now, they say, that he must go,
For ever, to the shades below,
Where not a creature, I can learn,
Was ever suffered to return.
O nasty, spiteful, ugly death,
To be so peevish and absurd,—
To take that dear, delightful bird,
Down to your odious shades beneath;
O dismal and unhappy case,—
Poor Lesbia's eyes and lovely face
Are flush'd with weeping, vex'd and red,
Since her unlucky bird is dead.

Carm. IV.—Phaselus ille, &c.

Stranger, the bark you see before you says,
That in old times, and in her early days,
She was a lively vessel that could make
The quickest voyages, and overtake
All her competitors with sail or oar;
And she defies the rude Illyrian shore,
And Rhodes, with her proud harbour, and the seas
That intersect the scatter'd Cyclades,
And the Propontic and the Thracian coast,
(Bold as it is) to contradict her boast.
She calls to witness the dark Euxine sea,
And mountains that had known her as a tree,
Before her transformation, when she stood
A native of the deep Cytorian wood,
Where all her ancestors had flourish'd long,
And, with their old traditionary song,
Had whisper'd her responses to the breeze,
And waked the chorus of her sister trees.
Amastris! from your haven forth she went,
You witness'd her first outset and descent,
Adventuring on an unknown element.
From thence she bore her master safe and free
From danger and alarm, through many a sea;
Nor ever once was known to lag behind,
Foremost on every tack, with every wind
At last, to this fair inland lake, she says
She came to pass the remnant of her days,
Leaving no debt due to the Deities,
For vows preferr'd in danger on the seas:
Clear of incumbrance, therefore, and all other
Contentious claims, to Castor or his brother,
As a free gift and offering she devotes
Herself, as long as she survives and floats.

Carm. X.—Varus me meus, &c.

Varus, whom I chanced to meet
The other evening in the street,
Engaged me there, upon the spot,
To see a mistress he had got.
She seem'd, as far as I can gather,
Lively and smart, and handsome rather.
There, as we rested from our walk,
We enter'd into different talk—
As how much might Bithynia bring?
And had I found it a good thing?
I answer'd, as it was the fact,
The province had been stript and sack'd;
That there was nothing for the prætors,
And still less for us wretched creatures,
His poor companions and toad-eaters.
At least, says she, you bought some fellows
To bear your litter; for they tell us,
Our only good ones come from there—
I chose to give myself an air;
Why, truly with my poor estate,
The difference wasn't quite so great
Betwixt a province, good or bad,
That where a purchase could be had,
Eight lusty fellows, straight and tall,
I shouldn't find the wherewithal
To buy them. But it was a lie;
For not a single wretch had I—
No single cripple fit to bear
A broken bedstead or a chair.
She, like a strumpet, pert and knowing,
Said—“Dear Catullus, I am going
“To worship at Serapis' shrine—
Do lend me, pray, those slaves of thine!”
I answer'd—It was idly said,—
They were a purchase Cinna made
(Caius Cinna, my good friend)—
It was the same thing in the end,
Whether a purchase or a loan—
I always used them as my own;
Only the phrase was inexact—
He bought them for himself, in fact.
But you have caught the general vice
Of being too correct and nice,
Over curious and precise;
And seizing with precipitation
The slight neglects of conversation.

Carm. XXXI.—Peninsularum Sirmio, &c.

Of all the famous isles and promontories,
From the sun's up-rise to his setting glories,
Of all that Neptune's liquid arms surround,
In oceans or in midland waters found,
The fairest and the best, to thee I call—
Sirmio, the gem and jewel of them all.
How gladly I revisit and review
Thy wonted scenes, and scarce believe it true,
After so long a journey, past and o'er,
From Hellespont and the Bithynian shore,
To find myself amidst your walks once more.
How sweet it is to lay aside the load
Of foreign cares within one's own abode,
And with free heart and unencumber'd head,
To couch ourselves in our accustom'd bed;
That single moment overpays our pain—
Sweet Sirmio receive me once again,
And with thy smiles, thy old possessor greet,
And ye, fair waters of the Lydian Lake,
Salute me with such mirth as ye can make,
And roll your laughing billows at my feet.
Let all be glad and cheerful for my sake.

Carm. XXXIX.—Egnatius quod candidos, &c.

Egnatius has a certain pride that centres
In his white teeth; he smiles at all adventures:
He goes, like other people, to attend
And countenance the trial of a friend:
The orator insists and perseveres;
The audience and judges are in tears;
When in the midst of his pathetic style,
Egnatius sympathises with a smile.
Following a widow to the funeral pile
Of her last child, he cannot choose but smile:
Without a thought of person, time, or place,
He wears a constant smile upon his face:
In business, in distress, in haste, in sadness,
It looks like a disease, a kind of madness:
(Though not a witty madness or refined)—
A madness in degree, though not in kind,
And therefore all his friends must speak their mind.
—My dear Egnatius, if your birth had been
At Tiber, Rome, or in the space between;
Were you a Susian fat or Umbrian poor,
A Volscian, or a Lanuvinian boor,
Sharp-tooth'd and eager at his meals and labours;
Or a Cisalpine, like my friends and neighbours;
Of any nation, tribe, or race, in short,
That scour their teeth and gums in cleanly sort,
I still should disapprove that constant smile,
It shows a silly, poor, affected style.—
But in his native Celtiberian land,
Your Celtiberian, as we understand,
Time out of mind, cleanseth his jaws and bone,
Each for himself, with urine of his own,
Reserved and hoarded from the day before;
And therefore, calculated on that score,
The whiteness of your teeth seems to imply
A steady, copious use of chamber-lye.

Carm. LXI.—Collis o Heliconei, &c.

Carm. XCI.—Non ideo Gelli, &c.

Gellius, it never once was my design,
In all that wretched, tedious love of mine,
To treat you as a worthy man or just,
Alive to shame, susceptible of trust,
In word or act true, faithful, or sincere;
But since that idol which my heart held dear
Was not your sister, niece, or near of kin,
The slight inducement of so small a sin
As broken faith to a confiding friend,
Would scarce, methought, allure you to descend
From those proud heights of wickedness sublime—
Giant ambition that aspires to climb
The topmost pinnacles of human guilt:—
—To make the mistress of your friend a jilt
Appear'd too poor a triumph. I was blind
To that perpetual relish which you find
In crimes of all degrees and every kind.