The Christian Scholar By the Author of "The Cathedral" [i.e. Isaac Williams] |
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| CATULLUS. |
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| II. |
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| IV. |
| V. |
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 | The Christian Scholar |  |
258
CATULLUS.
I. THE PINNACE.
“Guests, this pinnace which ye see,
“Swiftest of the swift was he,
“There was not a swimming raft,
“None, says he, of all the craft,
“But alike, although he try
“Oars or sail, I pass him by.
“Not unknown to me, I trow,
“Is old Adria's threatening brow;
“Nor the flowing of the seas
“Round the island Cyclades;
“Noble Rhodes, nor horrid Thrace,
“Nor Propontis; or thy base,
“Pontus, with its savage shore.
“Pontus, where in times of yore
“He that's now a sea-worn skiff
“Waved his branches on thy cliff.
“There upon Cytorus high
“Once his whispering boughs would sigh.
“Amastris, thou Pontic town,
“Box-bearing Cytorus, known
“Unto thee from first to last
“Is, he says, his story past.
“How at first a leafy wood
“On thine highest top he stood;
“In thy bay then dipped his oar;
“Thence on seas from shore to shore
“Bore his master, if the gale
“Right or left hath woo'd his sail;
“Or with full-sail'd power to move
“Favouring came the breathing Jove.
“Ne'er had he for dangers o'er
“Vows to pay to Gods on shore,
“Till, his wanderings o'er, at last
“To this limpid lake he pass'd.
“Swiftest of the swift was he,
“There was not a swimming raft,
“None, says he, of all the craft,
“But alike, although he try
“Oars or sail, I pass him by.
“Not unknown to me, I trow,
“Is old Adria's threatening brow;
“Nor the flowing of the seas
“Round the island Cyclades;
“Noble Rhodes, nor horrid Thrace,
“Nor Propontis; or thy base,
“Pontus, with its savage shore.
“Pontus, where in times of yore
“He that's now a sea-worn skiff
“Waved his branches on thy cliff.
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“Once his whispering boughs would sigh.
“Amastris, thou Pontic town,
“Box-bearing Cytorus, known
“Unto thee from first to last
“Is, he says, his story past.
“How at first a leafy wood
“On thine highest top he stood;
“In thy bay then dipped his oar;
“Thence on seas from shore to shore
“Bore his master, if the gale
“Right or left hath woo'd his sail;
“Or with full-sail'd power to move
“Favouring came the breathing Jove.
“Ne'er had he for dangers o'er
“Vows to pay to Gods on shore,
“Till, his wanderings o'er, at last
“To this limpid lake he pass'd.
“These are things which erst have been;
“Castor, with thy brother twin,
“Here he in tranquillity
“Dedicates his age to thee.”
Tranquil lake, calm halcyon nest,
“Castor, with thy brother twin,
“Here he in tranquillity
“Dedicates his age to thee.”
Tutelary Gods of rest,—
Stars, whose gentler light is shed,
When the storm is gone and fled,—
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After life of suffering!
Blessed calm of peaceful age
After toilsome pilgrimage,
Harbour'd in the lake at even
Which reflects the eye of Heaven,
And the star above the hill
In its mirror clear and still.
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II. HOME.
“Brightest Eye of Islets fair,
“Or peninsulas most rare,
“Which in watery friths around,
“Or in either sea are found;—
“Sirmio, with what delight
“Do I see thee safe again,
“And can scarce believe me quite
“'Scaped from the Bithynian plain!
“Or peninsulas most rare,
“Which in watery friths around,
“Or in either sea are found;—
“Sirmio, with what delight
“Do I see thee safe again,
“And can scarce believe me quite
“'Scaped from the Bithynian plain!
“Oh, how blessed thus to cease
“From all cares, and find release,
“When the mind throws off her load
“After wanderings long abroad,
“Wearied out with toils to come
“And to be again at home,—
“There resign ourselves oppress'd
“On the accustom'd bed at rest;—
“Moment long'd for;—this at last—
“This repays all labours past.
“From all cares, and find release,
“When the mind throws off her load
“After wanderings long abroad,
“Wearied out with toils to come
“And to be again at home,—
“There resign ourselves oppress'd
“On the accustom'd bed at rest;—
“Moment long'd for;—this at last—
“This repays all labours past.
“Sirmio, hail, my pleasant Isle,
“Greet thy master! gently smile,
“Lydian lake! About me come,
“All ye laughs that haunt my home.”
“Greet thy master! gently smile,
“Lydian lake! About me come,
“All ye laughs that haunt my home.”
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The last wish to a human breast:
Yes, sweetest spot to them that roam,
It is a little quiet home:
Yet 'twas a Christian's wish to die
With none, or none but strangers, nigh,
At a lone inn: that thought express'd
A fear on earth to find its rest:
'Twas this of old the pilgrim led
To have no place to lay his head,—
No spot on earth to call his own,
Except a grave in lands unknown.
Foxes have holes, the bird a nest,
Man hath on earth no place of rest.
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III. THE FADED FLOWER.
“In shelter'd gardens hid the flower is born,
“Known to no cattle, by no plough-share torn,
“Rear'd by soft airs, warm suns, and genial shower,
“And many youths and maidens love that flower.
“Should some rude hand but nip the bloom in twain,
“No youths nor maidens love that flower again:
“E'en thus the spotless virgin doth appear,
“Cherish'd by kindred, to companions dear;
“But if once stain'd, that loveliness is o'er,
“By youths and maidens is she prized no more.”
“Known to no cattle, by no plough-share torn,
“Rear'd by soft airs, warm suns, and genial shower,
“And many youths and maidens love that flower.
“Should some rude hand but nip the bloom in twain,
“No youths nor maidens love that flower again:
“E'en thus the spotless virgin doth appear,
“Cherish'd by kindred, to companions dear;
“But if once stain'd, that loveliness is o'er,
“By youths and maidens is she prized no more.”
'Tis so among mankind, there is no power
Of restoration for a wither'd flower,
Therefore 'tis cast away; but angels know
No joy in all the things that bloom below,
Till they are taken from that parent stem,
And grafted in the new Jerusalem.
So when a flower on earth may seem half-dead,
And sever'd and despised to hang its head,
Yet in the “inclosed garden ” God may give,
It may be yet transferr'd new life to live.
When men despair, blest angels may rejoice
Hearing from out the dust a suppliant voice,
And thence convey it where it yet may bloom,
Water'd with blood;—and in the tearful gloom
Foster'd awhile, till it can bear bright skies,
Sun, air, and shower in that new Paradise;—
Unharm'd by herd or plough or spoiler rude,
Safe in that Gardener's keeping, Who once stood
In dawn of Resurrection; and is seen
There lifting up the drooping Magdalene.
Of restoration for a wither'd flower,
Therefore 'tis cast away; but angels know
No joy in all the things that bloom below,
Till they are taken from that parent stem,
And grafted in the new Jerusalem.
So when a flower on earth may seem half-dead,
And sever'd and despised to hang its head,
Yet in the “inclosed garden ” God may give,
It may be yet transferr'd new life to live.
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Hearing from out the dust a suppliant voice,
And thence convey it where it yet may bloom,
Water'd with blood;—and in the tearful gloom
Foster'd awhile, till it can bear bright skies,
Sun, air, and shower in that new Paradise;—
Unharm'd by herd or plough or spoiler rude,
Safe in that Gardener's keeping, Who once stood
In dawn of Resurrection; and is seen
There lifting up the drooping Magdalene.
[_]
“Thou that dwellest in the gardens, the companions hearken to thy voice: cause me to hear it.”—Cant. viii. 13.
265
IV. A BROTHER'S DEATH.
TO HORTALUS.
“Though, Hortalus, unceasing sore distress
From the Aonian maids withdraws my mind,
For how can it the Muses' theme express,
Which toss'd by its own woes no rest can find?
From the Aonian maids withdraws my mind,
For how can it the Muses' theme express,
Which toss'd by its own woes no rest can find?
“For lately hath my brother cross'd the strand
Where Lethe's wave flows by his pallid feet;
He on the Rhetian shore in Trojan land
Lies buried, and mine eyes no more shall meet.
Where Lethe's wave flows by his pallid feet;
He on the Rhetian shore in Trojan land
Lies buried, and mine eyes no more shall meet.
“No more to speak to thee! no more to hear!
No more to see thee! from my bosom torn
My brother! unto me than life more dear!
Still will I ever love thee, ever mourn;—
No more to see thee! from my bosom torn
My brother! unto me than life more dear!
Still will I ever love thee, ever mourn;—
“As in the thickest shades the Nightingale
Sings sad, of her lost Itys to complain.
Yet 'mid these woes, my friend, I do not fail
To send Battiades,—the promised strain;
Sings sad, of her lost Itys to complain.
Yet 'mid these woes, my friend, I do not fail
To send Battiades,—the promised strain;
266
“Nor think thy words are from my bosom driven
By sad distress; the pledge I now recall;
As when an apple by her lover given
Should from the virgin's bosom chance to fall;—
By sad distress; the pledge I now recall;
As when an apple by her lover given
Should from the virgin's bosom chance to fall;—
“Hid in her dress forgotten there it lay,
Till at her mother's entrance with a start
It falls down on the ground, and rolls away;
The conscious blush betrays her grieving heart.”
Till at her mother's entrance with a start
It falls down on the ground, and rolls away;
The conscious blush betrays her grieving heart.”
TO MANLIUS.
“From me whom floods of sorrow drown
Seek not such happy gifts again.
Since first I took my manhood's gown,—
A flowery spring my life was then,—
Seek not such happy gifts again.
Since first I took my manhood's gown,—
A flowery spring my life was then,—
“Much have I played,—the Goddess knows
Who blends with love sweet misery;
A brother's death now all o'erthrows,
O brother snatch'd from wretched me!
Who blends with love sweet misery;
A brother's death now all o'erthrows,
O brother snatch'd from wretched me!
“My comforts now with thee have perish'd;
With thee our house doth buried lie;
And all the joys thy sweet love cherish'd,
Liv'd in thy life and with thee die.”
With thee our house doth buried lie;
And all the joys thy sweet love cherish'd,
Liv'd in thy life and with thee die.”
267
OFFERINGS AT A BROTHER'S GRAVE.
“Through many nations and through many seas,“Brother, I come to thy sad obsequies,
“To bear thee these last gifts, by sorrow led,
“And to address in vain the silent dead.
“Since my sad lot hath me bereft of thee,
“Alas, dear brother, gone from wretched me!
“This one sad consolation now remains,
“Receive these gifts as ancient rite ordains,
“Gifts with a brother's tears all dripping o'er,
“And now, farewell, my brother, evermore.”
ON THE FOREGOING PASSAGES.
Sweetest of poets, one spot good and pure'Mid all thy bosom stains could still endure,—
'Neath thy deep breast wherein far ruder things
Folded too oft their pestilential wings,—
The love of a lost brother;—as hope died
To nobler duties rais'd and sanctified.
As if thy tender spirit in its woes
Could in that pure affection find repose,
Like evening gleams which light surrounding gloom,—
The love of thy lost brother and thy home.
Yet could that grief most sad, most sweet, most calm,
Have met our Christian Gilead, breathing balm,
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Finding upon the ground a tranquil nest,
Might thence have soar'd unto diviner things,
And shed a holier music from thy wings.
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V. TO HIMSELF.
“If good deeds past bring to mankind delight,
In pious memories if aught is sweet,
Ne'er to have broken faith, forsworn the right,
Or call'd on God with purpose of deceit—
In pious memories if aught is sweet,
Ne'er to have broken faith, forsworn the right,
Or call'd on God with purpose of deceit—
“Catullus, many joys in life's review
'Neath this ungrateful love are yet in store;
For of things kind that men can say or do,
All have been said and done by thee of yore.
'Neath this ungrateful love are yet in store;
For of things kind that men can say or do,
All have been said and done by thee of yore.
“Though these be lost on an ungracious soul,
Yet why thyself torment, to sorrow given?
Strengthen thy mind, draw thence in self-control;
Cease by thy griefs to struggle thus with Heaven.
Yet why thyself torment, to sorrow given?
Strengthen thy mind, draw thence in self-control;
Cease by thy griefs to struggle thus with Heaven.
“'Tis hard at once to yield love cherish'd long;—
'Tis hard, yet safety lies in this alone;
Thou must, by mastering self, subdue the wrong;
Canst thou, or canst thou not, it must be done.
'Tis hard, yet safety lies in this alone;
Thou must, by mastering self, subdue the wrong;
Canst thou, or canst thou not, it must be done.
270
“O Gods, if ye are pitiful, if e'en
On verge of death ye e'er have brought relief,
Look on my woe; if pure my life hath been,
Remove this plague, this pestilential grief;—
On verge of death ye e'er have brought relief,
Look on my woe; if pure my life hath been,
Remove this plague, this pestilential grief;—
“It creeps like poisonous torpor through each vein,
And every sense of joy drives from my breast;
I ask not that her love I may regain,
And with restor'd fidelity be blest.
And every sense of joy drives from my breast;
I ask not that her love I may regain,
And with restor'd fidelity be blest.
“It is for mine own health is all my prayer,
For power to cast aside this foul disease.
O Gods, in my life past if pious care
Hath aught of you deserv'd, grant me release.”
For power to cast aside this foul disease.
O Gods, in my life past if pious care
Hath aught of you deserv'd, grant me release.”
ON THE FOREGOING.
'Tis so with every passion of the breast,
Ambition, covetousness, or love of praise;
Though men awhile, by vain success caress'd,
Know not the weight which on the heart it lays.
Ambition, covetousness, or love of praise;
Though men awhile, by vain success caress'd,
Know not the weight which on the heart it lays.
Yet if the soul thwarted and check'd should turn
Upon itself, it feels the deadly chain,
Nor seeks whereby that flame may stronger burn,
But knows no freedom while it doth remain.
Upon itself, it feels the deadly chain,
Nor seeks whereby that flame may stronger burn,
But knows no freedom while it doth remain.
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The covetous would oft give worlds away,
Could he but 'scape the thirst within his breast;
Love, scared by disappointment, in dismay
Yearns from itself to flee, and so to rest.
Could he but 'scape the thirst within his breast;
Love, scared by disappointment, in dismay
Yearns from itself to flee, and so to rest.
Then oh, how vain is every heart's desire,
Enslaved the more the more that it hath won!
It is the kindling of a deathless fire
In souls that find their rest in God alone.
Enslaved the more the more that it hath won!
It is the kindling of a deathless fire
In souls that find their rest in God alone.
| The Christian Scholar | |