No More Learning

But naught availed it in that hour accurst
To save the maid from such a doom as this,
That her lips were the baby lips that first
Called the king father with their cries and kiss.
For round her came the strong men, and none durst Refuse to do what cruel part was his ;
So silently they raised her up, and bore her, All quivering, to the deadly shrine before her.
And as they bore her, ne'er a golden lyre Rang round her coming with a bridal strain;
But in the very season of desire,
A stainless maiden, amid bloody stain,
—— She died a victim felled by its own sire
*******
That so the ships the wished-for wind might gain, And air puff out their canvas. Learn thou, then,
To what damned deeds religion urges men.
'Tis sweet when tempests roar upon the sea To watch from land another's deep distress
Amongst the waves — his toil and misery : Not that his sorrow makes our happiness, But that some sweetness there must ever be
Watching what sorrows we do not possess : So, too, 'tis sweet to safely view from far Gleam o'er the plains the savage ways of war.
MAN WANTS BUT LITTLE.
But sweeter far to look with purged eyes
Down from the battlements and topmost towers
Of learning, those high bastions of the wise, And far below us see this world of ours,
The vain crowds wandering blindly, led by lies, Spending in pride and wrangling all their powers
So far below — the pygmy toil and strife, The pain and piteous rivalries of life.
O peoples miserable ! O fools and blind ! What night you cast o'er all the days of man,
And in that night before you and behind
What perils prowl ! But you nor will nor can
See that the treasure of a tranquil mind
Is all that Nature pleads for, for this span,
So that between our birth and grave we gain Some quiet pleasures, and a pause from pain.
Wherefore we see that for the body's need A pause from pain almost itself suffices.
For only let our life from pain be freed, It oft itself with its own smile entices,
And fills our healthy hearts with joys indeed, That leave us small desire for art's devices.
Nor do we sigh for more in hours like these, Rich in our wealth of sweet simplicities.
What though about the halls no silent band Of golden boys on many a pedestal
Dangle their hanging lamps from outstretched hand, To flare along the midnight festival —
Though on our board no priceless vessels stand, Nor gold nor silver fret the dazzling wall,
Nor does the soft voluptuous air resound From gilded ceilings with the cithern's sound ;
The grass is ours, and sweeter sounds than these, As down we couch us by the babbling spring,
And overhead we hear the branching trees
That shade us, whisper ; and for food we bring
Only the country's simple luxuries.
Ah, sweet is this, and sweetest in the spring,
When the sun goes through all the balmy hours, And all the green earth's lap is filled with flowers !
THE BUGBEAR OF DEATH.
THE BUGBEAR OF DEATH. By LUCRETIUS.
(Translated by Dryden. )
What has this bugbear death to frighten man,
If souls can die, as well as bodies can ?
For, as before our birth we felt no pain,
When Punic arms infested land and main,
When heaven and earth were in confusion hurled, For the debated empire of the world,
Which awed with dreadful expectation lay, Sure to be slaves, uncertain who should sway : So when our mortal frame shall be disjoined, The lifeless lump uncoupled from the mind, From sense of grief and pain we shall be free ; We shall not feel, because we shall not be. . . .
Nay, e'en suppose, when we have suffered fate, The soul should feel in her divided state,
What's that to us ? for we are only toe
While souls and bodies in one frame agree.
Nay, though our atoms should revolve by chance, And matter leap into the former dance ;
Though time our life and motion could restore, And make our bodies what they were before, What gain to us would all this bustle bring ? The new-made man would be another thing. When onoe an interrupting pause is made,
That individual being is decayed.
We, who are dead and gone, shall bear no part In all the pleasures, nor shall feel the smart Which to that other mortal shall accrue, Whom of our matter time shall mold anew.
For backward if you look on that long space
Of ages past, and view the changing face
Of matter, tossed and variously combined
In sundry shapes, 'tis easy for the mind
From thence to infer, that seeds of things have been In the same order as they now are seen :
Which yet our dark remembrance cannot trace, Because a pause of life, a gaping space,
Has come betwixt. . . .
For whosoe'er shall in misfortunes live,
Must be, when those misfortunes shall arrive ;
And since the man wl o is not, feels not woe,
282
THE BUGBEAR OF DEATH.
(For death exempts him, and wards off the blow, Which we, the living, only feel and bear)
What is there left for us in death to fear ?
When once that pause of life has come between, 'Tis just the same as we had never been.
And therefore if a man bemoan his lot, That after death his moldering limbs shall rot, Or flames, or jaws of beasts devour his mass, Know, he's an unsincere, unthinking ass.
A secret sting remains within his mind ;
The fool is to his own cast offals kind.
He boasts no sense can after death remain ;
Yet makes himself a part of life again ;
As if some other He could feel the pain.
If, while we live, this thought molest his head, What wolf or vulture shall devour me dead ? He wastes his days in idle grief, nor can Distinguish 'twixt the body and the man :
But thinks himself can still himself survive ; And, what when dead he feels not, feels alive. Then he repines that he was born to die,
Nor knows in death there is no other He,
No living He remains his grief to vent,
And o'er his senseless carcass to lament.
If after death 'tis painful to be torn
By birds, and beasts, then why not so to burn, Or drenched in floods of honey to be soaked, Embalmed to be at once preserved and choked ; Or on an airy mountain's top to lie,
Exposed to cold and heaven's inclemency ;
Or crowded in a tomb to be oppressed
With monumental marble on thy breast ?
But to be snatched from all the household joys, From thy chaste wife, and thy dear prattling boys, Whose little arms about thy legs are cast,
And climbing for a kiss prevent their mother's haste, Inspiring secret pleasure through thy breast ;
Ah ! these shall be no more : thy friends oppressed Thy care and courage now no more shall free :
Ah ! wretch, thou criest, ah ! miserable me !
One woeful day sweeps children, friends, and wife, And all the brittle blessings of my life !
Add one thing more, and all thou sayest is true ; Thy want and wish of them is vanished too :
Which, well considered, were a quick relief
THE BUGBEAR OF DEATH.
To all thy vain imaginary grief.
For thou shalt sleep, and never wake again,
And, quitting life, shalt quit thy living pain.
But we, thy friends, shall all those sorrows find,
Which in forgetful death thou leav'st behind ;
No time shall dry our tears, nor drive thee from our mind. The worst that can befall thee, measured right,
Is a sound slumber, and a long good night.
Yet thus the fools, that would be thought the wits, Disturb their mirth with melancholy fits :
When healths go round, and kindly brimmers flow, Till the fresh garlands"on their foreheads glow,
They whine, and cry, Let us make haste to live, Short are the joys that human life can give. " Eternal preachers, that corrupt the draught,
And pall the god, that never thinks, with thought ; Idiots with all that thought, to whom the worst
Of death, is want of drink, and endless thirst, Or any fond desire as vain as these.
For, even in sleep, the body, wrapt in ease, Supinely lies, as in the peaceful grave ;
And, wanting nothing, nothing can it crave. Were that sound sleep eternal, it were death ; Yet the first atoms then, the seeds of breath,
Are moving near to sense ; we do but shake
And rouse that sense, and straight we are awake. Then death to us, and death's anxiety,
Is less than nothing, if a less could be.
For then our atoms, which in order lay,
Are scattered from their heap, and puffed away,
And never can return into their place,
When once the pause of life has left an empty space.
And last, suppose great Nature's voice should call
To thee, or me, or any of us all,
" What dost thou mean, ungrateful wretch, thou vain,
Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain,
And sigh and sob, that thou shalt be no more ?
For if thy life were pleasant heretofore,
If all the bounteous blessings, I could give,
Thou hast enjoyed, if thou hast known to live,
And pleasure not leaked through thee like a sieve ;
Why dost thou not give thanks, as at a plenteous feast, Crammed to the throat with life, and rise and take thy rest ? But if My blessings thou hast thrown away,
If indigested joys passed through, and would not stay,
28-4
THE BUGBEAR OF DEATH.
Why dost thou wish for more to squander still 1 If life be grown a load, a real ill,
And I would all thy cares and labors end,
Lay down thy burden, fool, and know thy friend.
I have emptied all my store, I can invent, and can supply no more ;
To please thee,
But run the round again, the round I ran before. Suppose thou art not broken yet with years,
Yet still the selfsame scene of things appears, And would be ever, couldst thou ever live :
For life is still but life, there's nothing new to give. " What can we plead against so just a bill ?
We stand convicted, and our cause goes ill.
But if a wretch, a man oppressed by fate, Should beg of Nature to prolong his date,
She speaks aloud to him with more disdain,
" Be still, thou martyr fool, thou covetous of pain. " But if an old decrepit sot lament ;
" What thou " (she cries) " who hast outlived content ! Dost thou complain, who hast enjoyed my store ?
But this is still the effect of wishing more.
Unsatisfied with all that Nature brings ;
Loathing the present, liking absent things ;
From hence it comes, thy vain desires, at strife
Within themselves, have tantalized thy life,
And ghastly death appeared before thy sight,
Ere thou hast gorged thy soul and senses with delight. Now leave those joys, unsuiting to thy age,
To a fresh comer, and resign the stage. "
Is Nature to be blamed if thus she chide ?
No, sure ; for 'tis her business to provide
Against this ever-changing frame's decay,
New things to come, and old to pass away.
One being, worn, another being makes ;
Changed, but not lost ; for Nature gives and takes : New matter must be found for things to come,
And these must waste like those, and follow Nature's doom. All things, like thee, have time to rise and rot ;
And from each other's ruin are begot ;
For life is not confined to him or thee :
'Tis given to all for use, to none for property. Consider former ages past and gone,
Whose circles ended long ere thine begun,
Then tell me, fool, what part in them thou hast ? Thus mayest thou judge the future by the past.
THE BUGBEAR OF DEATH.
What horror seest thou in that quiet state,
What bugbear dreams to fright thee after fate ?
No ghost, no goblins, that still passage keep ;
But all is there serene, in that eternal sleep.
For all the dismal tales, that Poets tell,
Are verified on earth, and not in hell.
No Tantalus looks up with fearful eye,
Or dreads the impending rock to crush him from on high : But fear of chance ou earth disturbs our easy hours,
Or vain, imagined wrath of vain imagined powers.
No Tityus torn by vultures lies in hell ;
Nor could the lobes of his rank liver swell
To that prodigious mass, for their eternal meal :
Not though his monstrous bulk had covered o'er
Nine spreading acres, or nine thousand more ;
Not though the globe of earth had been the giant's floor. Nor in eternal torments could he lie ;
Nor could his corpse sufficient food supply.
But he's the Tityus, who by love oppressed, Or tyrant passion preying on his breast,
And ever anxious thoughts, is robbed of rest. The Sisyphus is he, whom noise and strife Seduce from all the soft retreats of life,
To vex the government, disturb the laws :
Drunk with the fumes of popular applause
He courts the giddy crowd to make him great,
And sweats and toils in vain, to mount the sovereign seat. For still to aim at power, and still to fail,
Ever to strive, and never to prevail,
What is but, in reason's true account,
To heave the stone against the rising mount
Which urged, and labored, and forced up with pain,
Recoils, and rolls impetuous down, and smokes along the
plain.
Then still to treat thy ever craving mind
With every blessing, and of every kind, Yet never fill thy ravening appetite
Though years and seasons vary thy delight, Yet nothing to be seen of all the store,
But still the wolf within thee barks for more This the fable's moral, which they tell
Of fifty foolish virgins damned in hell
To leaky vessels, which the liquor spill
To vessels of their sex, which none could ever fill. As for the Dog, the Furies, and their snakes,
;
;
?
is
;
it,
286
THE BUGBEAR OF DEATH.
The gloomy caverns, and the burning lakes,
And all the vain infernal trumpery,
They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be.
But here on earth the guilty have in view
The mighty pains to mighty mischiefs due ; Racks, prisons, poisons, the Tarpeian rock, Stripes, hangmen, pitch, and suffocating smoke ; And last, and most, if these were cast behind, The avenging horror of a conscious mind,
Whose deadly fear anticipates the blow,
And sees no end of punishment and woe ;
But looks for more, at the last gasp of breath : This makes a hell on earth, and life a death.
Meantime when thoughts of death disturb thy head, Consider, Ancus, great and good, is dead ;
Ancus, thy better far, was born to die ;
And thou, dost thou bewail mortality ?
So many monarchs, with their mighty state,
Who ruled the world, were overruled by fate.
That haughty king, who lorded o'er the main,
And whose stupendous bridge did the wild waves restrain, (In vain they foamed, in vain they threatened wrack, While his proud legions marched upon their back :)
Him Death, a greater monarch, overcame ;
Nor spared his guards the more, for their immortal name. The Roman chief, the Carthaginian dread,
Scipio the thunderbolt of war, is dead,
And, like a common slave, by Fate in triumph led.
The founders of invented arts are lost ;
And wits, who made eternity their boast.
Where now is Homer, who possessed the throne ?
The immortal work remains, the immortal author's gone. Democritus, perceiving age invade
His body weakened, and his mind decayed,
Obeyed the summons with a cheerful face ;
Made haste to welcome death, and met him half the race. That stroke even Epicurus could not bar,
Though he in wit surpassed mankind, as far
As does the midday sun the midnight star.
And thou, dost thou disdain to yield thy breath,
Whose very life is little more than death ?
More than one half by lazy sleep possessed ;
And when awake, thy soul but nods at best,
Daydreams and sickly thoughts revolving in thy breast. Eternal troubles haunt thy anxious mind,
THE BUGBEAR OF DEATH.
Whose cause and cure thou never hopest to find; But still uncertain, with thyself at strife,
Thou wanderest in the labyrinth of life.
Oh, if the foolish race of man, who find
A weight of cares still pressing on their mind,
Could find as well the cause of this unrest,
And all this burden lodged within the breast ;
Sure they would change their course, nor live as now, Uncertain what to wish, or what to vow.
Uneasy both in country and in town,
They search a place to lay their burden down. . . .
Thus every man o'erworks his weary will,
To shun himself, and to shake off his ill ;
The shaking fit returns, and hangs upon him still. No prospect of repose, nor hope of ease ;
The wretch is ignorant of his disease ;
Which known would all his fruitless trouble spare ; For he would know the world not worth his care ; Then would he search more deeply for the cause, And study Nature well, and Nature's laws ;
For in this moment lies not the debate,
But on our future, fixed, eternal state ;
That never changing state, which all must keep, Whom death has doomed to everlasting sleep.
Why are we then so fond of mortal life,
Beset with dangers, and maintained with strife ?
A life, which all our care can never save;
One fate attends us, and one common grave.
Besides, we tread but a perpetual round ;
We ne'er strike out, but beat the former ground,
And the same mawkish joys in the same track are found. For still we think an absent blessing best,
Which cloys, and is no blessing when possessed :
A new arising wish expels it from the breast.
The feverish thirst of life increases still ;
We call for more and more, and never have our fill ;
Yet know not what to-morrow we shall try,
What dregs of life in the last draught may lie :
Nor, by the longest life we can attain,
One moment from the length of death we gain ;
For all behind belongs to his eternal reign.
When once the Fates have cut the mortal thread,
The man as much to all intents is dead,
Who dies to-day, and will as long be so,
As he who died a thousand years ago.
288 THE SPINNING OF THE FATES.
THE SPINNING OF THE FATES. By CATULLUS.
(Translated by Sir Richard F. Burton. )
[Caius Valerius Catullus, a leading Roman poet, was born at Verona, b. c. 87 ; died about b. c. 47. He was a wealthy and pleasure-loving gentleman, the friend of Cicero and other chief men of his time. He wrote lyrics, elegies, odes, etc. ]
In the mean time, with shaking bodies and infirm gesture, the Parcae began to intone their veridical chant. Their trem bling frames were enwrapped around with white garments, en circled with a purple border at their heels ; snowy fillets bound each aged brow, and their hands pursued their never-ending toil, as of custom. The left hand bore the distaff enwrapped in soft wool ; the right hand, lightly withdrawing the threads with upturned fingers, did shape them, then twisting them with the prone thumb it turned the balanced spindle with well-pol ished whirl. And then with a pluck of their tooth the work was always made even, and the bitten wool shreds adhered to their dried lips, which shreds at first had stood out from the fine thread. And in front of their feet wicker baskets of osier twigs took charge of the soft white woolly fleece. These, with clear-sounding voice, as they combed out the wool, outpoured fates of such kind in sacred song, in song which none age yet to come could tax with untruth.
" O with great virtues thine exceeding honor augmenting, stay of Emathia-land, most famous in thine issue, receive what the sisters make known to thee on this gladsome day, a weird veridical ! But ye whom the fates do follow : Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
"Now Hesperus shall come unto thee bearing what is longed for by bridegrooms ; with that fortunate star shall thy bride come, who ensteeps thy soul with the sway of softening love, and prepares with thee to conjoin in languorous slumber, making her smooth arms thy pillow round 'neath thy sinewy neck. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
"No house ever yet inclosed such loves, no love bound lovers with such pact, as abideth with Thetis, as is the con cord of Peleus. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
THE SPINNING OF THE FATES. 289
" To ye shall Achilles be born, a stranger to fear, to his foe- men not by his back, but by his broad breast known, who, oft- times the victor in the uncertain struggle of the foot race, shall outrun the fire-fleet footsteps of the speedy doe. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
" None in war with him may compare as a hero, when the Phrygian streams shall trickle with Trojan blood ; and when besieging the walls of Troy with a long-drawn-out warfare, perjured Pelops' third heir shall lay that city waste. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
" His glorious acts and illustrious deeds often shall mothers attest o'er funeral rites of their sons, when the white locks from their heads are unloosed amid ashes, and they bruise their discolored breasts with feeble fists. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
" For as the husbandman bestrewing the dense wheat ears mows the harvest yellowed 'neath ardent sun, so shall he cast prostrate the corpses of Troy's sons with grim swords. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
" His great valor shall be attested by Scamander's wave, which ever pours itself into the swift Hellespont, narrowing whose course with slaughtered heaps of corpses, he shall make tepid its deep stream by mingling warm blood with the water. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
"And she a witness in fine shall be the captive maid handed to death, when the heaped-up tomb of earth built in lofty mound shall receive the snowy limbs of the stricken virgin. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
" For instant fortune shall give the means to the war-worn Greeks to break Neptune's stone bonds of the Dardanian city, the tall tomb shall be made dank with Polyxena's blood, who as the victim succumbing 'neath two-edged sword, with yield ing hams shall fall forward a headless corpse. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
" Wherefore haste ye to conjoin in the longed-for delights of your love. Bridegroom, thy goddess receive in felicitous compact ; let the bride be given to her eager husband. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles.
" Nor shall the nurse at orient light returning, with yester- e'en's thread succeed in circling her neck. [Haste ye, a weav ing the woof, O hasten, ye spindles. ] Nor need her solicitous
mother fear sad discord shall cause a parted bed for her vOl. v. — 19
290
EPITHALAMIUM.
daughter, nor need she cease to hope for dear grandchildren. Haste ye, a weaving the woof, O hasten, ye spindles. "
With such soothsaying songs of yore did the Parcae chant from divine breast the felicitous fate of Peleus. For of afore time the heaven dwellers were wont to visit the chaste homes of heroes, and to show themselves in mortal assembly, ere yet their worship was scorned. Often the father of the gods, a resting in his glorious temple, when on the festal days his annual rites appeared, gazed on an hundred bulls strewn prone on the earth. Often wandering Liber on topmost summit of Parnassus led his yelling Thyiads with loosely tossed locks. . . . When the Delphians tumultuously trooping from the whole of their city joyously acclaimed the god with smoking altars. Often in lethal strife of war Mavors, or swift Triton's queen, or the Rhamnusian virgin, in person did exhort armed bodies of men. But after the earth was infected with heinous crime, and each one banished justice from their grasping mind, and brothers steeped their hands in fraternal blood, the son ceased grieving o'er departed parents, the sire craved for the funeral rites of his firstborn that freely he might take of the flower of unwedded stepdame, the unholy mother, lying under her unknowing son, did not fear to sully her household gods with dishonor : everything licit and lawless commingled with mad infamy turned away from us the just-seeing mind of the gods. Wherefore nor do they deign to appear at such like assemblies, nor will they permit themselves to be met in the daylight.
EPITHALAMIUM.
By CATULLUS. (Translated by John Hookham Frere. )
You that from the mother's side Lead the lingering, blushing bride,
Fair Urania's son —
Leave awhile the lonely mount, The haunted grove and holy fount
Of chilling Helicon.
EPITHALAMIUM. 291
With myrtle wreaths enweave thy hair — Wave the torch aloft in air —
Make no long delay :
With flowing robe and footsteps light, And gilded buskin glancing bright,
Hither bend thy way.
Join at once, with airy vigor, In the dance's varied figure,
To the cymbal's chime : — Frolic unrestrained and free
Let voice, and air, and verse agree,
And the torch beat time.
Hymen come, for Julia Weds with Manlius to-day,
And deigns to be a bride. Such a form as Venus wore In the contest famed of yore,
On Mount Ida's side ;
Like the myrtle or the bay, Florid, elegant, and gay,
With foliage fresh and new ; Which the nymphs and forest maids Have fostered in sequestered shades,
With drops of holy dew.
Leave, then, all the rocks and cells Of the deep Aonian dells,
And the caverns hoar ;
And the dreary streams that weep From the stony Thespian steep,
Dripping evermore.
Haste away to new delights, To domestic happy rites,
Human haunts and ways ; With a kindly charm applied, Soften and appease the bride,
And shorten our delays.
Bring her hither, bound to move, Drawn and led with bands of love,
Like the tender twine
EPITHALAMIUM.
Which the searching ivy plies, Clinging in a thousand ties O'er the clasping vine.
Gentle virgins, you besides, Whom the like event betides,
With the coming year ; Call on Hymen ! call him now ! Call aloud ! A virgin vow
Best befits his ear.
" Is there any deity — More beloved and kind than he
More disposed to bless ; Worthy to be worshiped more ; Master of a richer store
Of wealth and happiness ?
" Youth and age alike agree Serving and adoring thee,
The source of hope and care : Care and hope alike engage
The wary parent sunk in age
And the restless heir.
" She the maiden, half afraid, Hears the new proposal made, That proceeds from thee ; You resign and hand her over
To the rash and hardy lover With a fixt decree.
" Hymen, Hymen, you preside, Maintaining honor and the pride
Of women free from blame, With a solemn warrant given, Is there any power in heaven
That can do the same ?
" Love, accompanied by thee, Passes unreproved and free,
But without thee, not : Where on earth, or in the sky, Can you find a deity
With a fairer lot ?
EPITHALAMIUM. 293
" Heirship in an honored line Is sacred as a gift of thine,
But without thee, not : Where on earth, or in the sky, Can you find a deity
With a fairer lot ?
"Rule and empire — royalty,
Are rightful, as derived from thee,
But without thee, not : Where on earth, or in the sky, Can you find a deity
With a fairer lot? "
The poet is here in his office as manager of the mob, medi ating between them and the gentlefolks within. In the next stanza he speaks as the prolocutor of the rabble outside.
Open locks ! unbar the gate ! Behold the ready troop that wait
The coming of the bride ; Behold the torches, how they flare ! Spreading aloft their sparkling hair,
Flashing far and wide.
Lovely maiden ! here we waste
The timely moments ; — Come in haste !
Come then . . . Out, alack ! Startled at the glare and din,
She retires to weep within,
Lingering, hanging back.
Bashful honor and regret, For a while detain her yet,
Lingering, taking leave : Taking leave and lingering still, With a slow, reluctant will,
With grief that does not grieve.
Aurunculeia, cease your tears,
And when to-morrow's morn appears,
Fear not that the sun
Will dawn upon a fairer face, — Nor in his airy, lofty race
Behold a lovelier one.
294
EPITHALAMIUM.
The town minstrels are here introduced ; they begin with the same image which the poet has already employed in his proper person.
" Mark and hear us, gentle bride ; Behold the torches nimbly plied,
Waving here and there ; Along the street and in the porch, See the fiery-tressed torch,
Spreads its sparkling hair.
" Like a lily, fair and chaste, Lovely bride, you shall be placed
In a garden gay,
A wealthy lord's delight and pride ; Come away then, happy bride,
Hasten, hence away !
" Mark and hear us — he your lord Will be true at bed and board,
Nor ever walk astray, Withdrawing from your lovely side ; Mark and hear us, gentle bride,
Hasten, hence away !
" Like unto the tender vine, He shall ever clasp and twine,
Clinging night and day, Fairly bound and firmly tied ; Come away then, happy bride,
Hasten, hence away ! "
Happy chamber, happy bed, Can the joys be told or said
That await you soon ; Fresh renewals of delight, In the silent fleeting night
And the summer noon.
Make ready. There I see within The bride is veiled ; the guests begin
To muster close and slow : Trooping onward close about, Boys, be ready with a shout —
"Hymen I Hymen ! ho ! "
EPITHALAMIUM.
Now begins the free career, — For many a jest and many a jeer,
And many a merry saw ; Customary taunts and gibes, Such as ancient use prescribes,
And immemorial law.
" Some at home, it must be feared, Will be slighted and cashiered,
Pride will have a fall ;
Now the favorites' reign is o'er : Proud enough they were before —
Proud and nice withal.
" Full of pride and full of scorn, Now you see them dipt and shorn,
Humbler in array ;
Sent away, for fear of harm, To the village or the farm, —
Packed in haste away.
" Other doings must be done, Another empire is begun,
Behold your own domain ! Gentle bride ! Behold it there ! — The lordly palace proud and fair :
You shall live and reign,
" In that rich and noble house, Till age shall silver o'er the brows,
And nod the trembling head, Not regarding what is meant, Incessant uniform assent
To all that's done or said.
" Let the faithful threshold greet, With omens fair, those lovely feet,
Lightly lifted o'er ;
Let the garlands wave and bow From the lofty lintel's brow
That bedeck the door. "
See the couch with crimson dress — Where, seated in the deep recess,
With expectation warm,
EPITHALAMIUM.
The bridegroom views her coming near, The slender youth that led her here
May now release her arm.
With a fixt intense regard
He beholds her close and hard
In awful interview : Shortly now she must be sped To the chamber and the bed,
With attendance due.
Let the ancient worthy wives, That have past their constant lives
With a single mate,
As befits advised age,
With council and precaution sage
Assist and regulate.
She the mistress of the band Comes again with high command,
" Bridegroom, go your way ; There your bride is in the bower, Like a lovely lily flower,
Or a rose in May. #**##
" Ay, and you yourself, in truth, Are a goodly comely youth,
Proper, tall, and fair ; Venus and the Graces too Have befriended each of you
For a lovely pair.
" There you go ! may Venus bless Such as you with good success
In the lawful track ; You that, in an honest way, Purchase in the face of day
Whatsoe'er you lack. "
Sport your fill and never spare — Let us have an infant heir
Of the noble name ; Such a line should ever last, As it has for ages past,
Another and the same.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS. 297
Fear not ! with the coming year The new Torquatus will be here:
Him we soon shall see
With infant gesture fondly seek To reach his father's manly cheek,
From his mother's knee.
With laughing eyes and dewy lip, Pouting like the purple tip
That points the rose's bud;
While mingled with the mother's grace, Strangers shall recognize the trace
That marks the Manlian blood.
So the mother's fair renown Shall betimes adorn and crown
The child with dignity, As we read in stories old Of Telemachus the bold
And chaste Penelope.
Now the merry task is o'er,
Let us hence and close the door, " While loud adieus are paid;
Live in honor, love, and truth, And exercise your lusty youth
In matches fairly played. "
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
Taken at his Word. (Version of Walter Savage Landor. )
Varus would take me t'other day To see a little girl he knew;
Pretty and witty in her way,
With impudence enough for two.
Scarce are we seated, ere she chatters (As pretty girls are wont to do)
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
About all persons, places, matters :
" And pray, what has been done for you f"
" Bithynia, lady," I replied,
" Is a fine province for a praetor,
For none, I promise you, beside,
And least of all am
J
her debtor. "
" Sorry for that ! " said she. " However, You have brought with you, I dare say,
Some litter-bearers : none so clever In any other part as they.
" Bithynia is the very place
For all that's steady, tall, and straight;
It is the nature of the race: " Could you not lend me six or eight ?
" Why, six or eight of them or so," " Said I, determined to be grand :
My fortune is not quite so low
But these are still at my command. "
« You'll send them ? "—"Willingly! " Itold her Although I had not here or there
One who could carry on his shoulder The leg of an old broken chair.
" Catullus, what a charming hap is Our meeting in this sort of way !
I would be carried to Serapis
To-morrow ! " — " Stay, fair lady, stay I
" You overvalue my intention;
Yes, there are eight . . . there may be nine;
I merely had forgot to mention
That they are China's, and not mine. "
To Lesbia's Sparrow.
(Translation of Sir Charles Elton. )
Sparrow ! my nymph's delicious pleasure ! Who with thee, her pretty treasure, Fanciful in frolic, plays
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
Thousand, thousand wanton ways; And, fluttering, lays to panting rest On the soft orbings of her breast ; Thy beak with finger-tip incites,
And dallies with thy becks and bites; When my beauty, my desire,
Feels her darling whim inspire,
With nameless triflings, such as these,
To snatch, I trow, a tiny ease
For some keen fever of the breast,
While passion toys itself to rest ;
I would that happy lady be,
And so in pastime sport with thee,
And lighten love's soft agony.
The sweet resource were bliss untold,
Dear as that apple of ripe gold,
Which, by the nimble virgin found,
Unloos'd the zone that had so fast been bound.
To Himself; on Lesbia's Inconstancy.
(Translation of Thomas Moore. )
Cease the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own, Which all, alas, have falsely flown.
What hours, Catullus, once were thine, How fairly seem'd thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst to meet — The girl whose smile was then so sweet The girl thou lov'dst with fonder pain Than e'er thy heart can feel again.
Ye met — your souls seem'd all in one, Like tapers that commingling shone; Thy heart was warm enough for both, And hers in truth was nothing loath.
Such were the hours that once were thine But, ah those hours no longer shine.
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so much before;
And all Catullus now can do,
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies, Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
!
;
fly
300 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
False maid ! he bids farewell to thee, To love, and all love's misery;
The heyday of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favor more.
Fly, perjured girl I — but whither fly ? Who now will praise thy cheek and eye ? Who now will drink the siren tone, Which tells him thou art all his own ? Oh, none: — and he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more.
A Woman's Promises.
(Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. )
Never a soul but myself, though Jove himself were to woo her, Lesbia says she would choose, might she have me for her mate. Says — but what woman will say to a lover on fire to possess her Write on the bodiless wind, write on the stream as it runs.
To Lesbia, on her Falsehood.
(Translation of Thomas Moore. )
Thou told'st me, in our days of love, That I had all that heart of thine ; That ev'n to share the couch of Jove,
Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.
How purely wert thou worship'd then ! Not with the vague and vulgar fires—
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men, But loved, as children by their sires.
That flattering dream, alas, is o'er ; —
I know thee now — and though these eyes
Dote on thee wildly as before, Yet, ev'n in doting, I despise.
Yes, sorceress — mad as it may seem — With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion ev'n outlives esteem,
And I at once adore — and scorn thee.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
The Parting Message to Lesbia.
Addressed to Furius and Aurelius.
(Translation of Lamb. )
Companions, who would gladly go With me through every toil below To man's remotest seats :
Whether Catullus should explore Far India, on whose echoing shore
The eastern billow beats :
Whether he seek Hyrcania wild, The Tartar hordes, or Arabs mild,
Or Parthia's archer train :
Or tread that intersected isle,
Whence pouring forth the sev'nfold Nile
Discolors all the main.
Whether across the Alps he toil, To view the war-ennobled soil
Where Caesar's trophies stand ; The Rhine that saw its Gaul's disgrace, Or dare the painted Briton race
In their extremest land.
Companions dear, prepared to wend Where'er the gods may place your friend,
And every lot to share ;
A few unwelcome words receive, And to that once-loved fair I leave
My latest message bear.
Still let her live and still be blest, By profligates in hundreds prest,
Still sport in ease and wealth; Still of those hundreds love not one, Still cast off each by turns undone
In fortune and in health.
But let her deem my passion o'er :
Her guilt has crush'd, to bloom no more,
The love her beauty raised ;
As droops the flower, the meadow's pride, Which springing by the furrow's side
The passing share has grazed.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
INVITATION TO CJBCILIUS. (Translation of Lamb. )
Go, paper, to Caecilius say,
To him I love, the bard whose lay
The sweetest thoughts attend ; Say, he must quit his loved retreat, Comum and Larius' lake, to greet
Verona and his friend.
Here let him some advice receive, A friend of his and mine will give.
If wise, he'll speed his way ; Although the fair his haste may check A thousand times, and on his neck
May hang, and beg his stay.
For, when of old she read his strains To her on Dindymus who reigns,
Did raging passion seize
On all her heart ; and since that day She idly wears his youth away
In love and slothful ease.
Yet thee, fair girl, I not abuse,
More learned than the Sapphic Muse,
And warm with all her fire ; For, ah ! so soft, so sweetly flow'd His melting strains, his tender ode,
They well might love inspire.
The Original of "Dr. Fell. " (Translation of Thomas Moore. )
I love thee and hate thee, but if I can tell
The cause of my love and my hate, may I die !
I can feel alas can feel too well,
That love thee and hate thee, but cannot tell why.
To the Peninsula of Sirmio, on his Return Home. (Translation of Leigh Hunt. )
best of all the scatter' spots that lie
In sea or lake, — apple of landscape's eye, —
0
! I d
I
it,
it
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
How gladly do I drop within thy nest,
With what a sigh of full, contented rest,
Scarce able to believe my journey's o'er,
And that these eyes behold thee safe once more ! Oh where's the luxury like the smile at heart, When the mind breathing, lays its load apart, — When we come home again, tired out, and spread The loosen'd limbs o'er all the wish'd-for bed ! This, this alone is worth an age of toil.
Hail, lovely Sirmio ! Hail, paternal soil I
Joy, my bright waters, joy: your master's comel Laugh every dimple on the cheek of home I
To Cobnificius.
(Translation of Leigh Hunt. )
Sick, Cornificius, is thy friend,
Sick to the heart ; and sees no end
Of wretched thoughts, that gathering fast Threaten to wear him out at last.
And yet you never come and bring — — Though 'twere the least and easiest thing
A comfort in that talk of thine : —
You vex me : — this, to love like mine ? Prithee, a little talk for ease, for ease,
Full as the tears of poor Simonides.
To His Dead Brother.
(Translation of James Cranstoun. )
Brother ! o'er many lands and oceans borne,
I reach thy grave, death's last sad rites to pay;
To call thy silent dust in vain, and mourn, Since ruthless fate has hurried thee away : Woe's me ! yet now upon thy tomb I lay —
All soaked with tears for thee, thee loved so well — What gifts our fathers gave the honored clay
Of valued friends ; take them — my grief they tell : And now, forever hail ! forever fare thee well !
304 POEMS OF TIBULLUa
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
[Albius Tibullus, a leading Roman elegiac poet, — the great quartet being, in order of seniority, Gallus, Tibullua, Fropertius, and Ovid, — was probably bom b. o. 64, and died b. c. 10. He was a Roman knight of wealthy family, but early orphaned and his property confiscated in the civil wars; and was attached to die circle of Valerius Messala as Horace to that of Maecenas. He distin guished himself in a campaign for Augustus, and accompanied Messala on a mission to Asia as far as Corcyra, where he fell sick ; but hated war, had no ambition, and chose to live quietly in the country rather even than at Rome. He was of a gentle and affectionate nature, of fine person and winning manners, greatly beloved and his death deeply regretted. His poems, though not of great number or variety, rank high for style and artistic finish ; he has been compared
to Collins. ]
A Husbandman's Life the Ideal One.
(Translation by Sir Charles Elton. )
Let others pile their yellow ingots high,
And see their cultured acres round them spread ;
While hostile borderers draw their anxious eye, And at the trumpet's blast their sleep is fled.
Me let my poverty to ease resign ;
While my bright hearth reflects its blazing cheer ;
In season let me plant the pliant vine,
And, with light hand, my swelling apples rear.
Hope, fail not thou ! let earth her fruitage yield ; Let the brimmed vat flow red with virgin wine :
For still some lone, bare stump that marks the field, Or antique crossway stone, with flowers I twine,
In pious rite ; and, when the year anew Matures the blossom on the budding spray,
I bear the peasant's god his grateful due, And firstling fruits upon his altar lay.
Still let thy temple's porch, O Ceres ! wear The spiky garland from my harvest field ;
And 'midst my orchard, 'gainst the birds of air, His threatening hook let red Priapus wield.
Ye too, once guardians of a rich domain,
Now of poor fields, domestic gods ! be kind. Then, for unnumbered herds, a calf was slain ;
Now to your altars is a lamb consigned.
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
The mighty victim of a scanty soil,
A lamb alone shall bleed before your shrine ;
While round it shout the youthful sons of toil,
" Hail ! grant the harvest ! grant the generous wine I
Content with little, I no more would tread
The lengthening road, but shun the summer day,
Where some o'er-branching tree might shade my head, And watch the murmuring rivulet glide away.
Nor could I blush to wield the rustic prong,
The lingering oxen goad ; or some stray lamb,
Embosomed in my garment, bear along, Or kid forgotten by its heedless dam.
Spare my small flock ! ye thieves and wolves, assail The wealthier cotes, that ampler booty hold;
Ne'er for my shepherd due lustrations fail ; I soothe with milk the goddess of the fold.
Be present, deities ! nor gifts disdain
From homely board ; nor cups with scorn survey,
Earthen, yet pure ; for such the ancient swain Formed for himself, and shaped of ductile clay.
I envy not my sires their golden heap ;
Their garners' floors with sheafy corn bespread;
Few sheaves suffice : enough, in easy sleep To lay my limbs upon th' accustomed bed.
How sweet to hear, without, the howling blast, And strain a yielding mistress to my breast !
Or, when the gusty torrent's rush has past,
Sink, lulled by beating rains, to sheltered rest!
Be this my lot ; be his th' unenvied store,
Who the drear storm endures, and raging sea ;
Ah I perish emeralds and the golden ore,
If the fond, anxious nymph must weep for me !
Messala ! range the earth and main, that Rome May shine with trophies of the foes that fell ;
But me a beauteous nymph enchains at home, At her hard door a sleepless sentinel.
I heed not praise, my Delia ! while with thee ; Sloth brand my name, so I thy sight behold*
voi. v. — 20
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
Let me the oxen yoke ; oh come with me ! On desert mountains I will feed my fold.
And, while I pressed thee in my tender arms, Sweet were my slumber on the rugged ground :
What boots the purple couch, if cruel charms
In wakeful tears the midnight hours have drowned?
Not the soft plume can yield the limbs repose, Nor yet the broidered covering soothe to sleep;
Not the calm streamlet that in murmurs flows, With sound oblivious o'er the eyelids creep.
Iron is he who might thy form possess,
Yet flies to arms, and thirsts for plunder's gains ;
What though his spear Cilician squadrons press,
What though his tent be pitched on conquered plains ?
In gold and silver mail conspicuous he
May stride the steed, that, pawing, spurs the sand ;
May I my last looks fondly bend on thee,
And grasp thee with my dying, faltering hand !
And thou wilt weep when, cold, I press the bier, That soon shall on the flaming pyre be thrown ;
And print the kiss, and mingle many a tear ; Not thine a breast of steel, a heart of stone.
Yes — thou wilt weep. No youth shall thence return With tearless eye, no virgin homeward wend :
But thou forbear to violate my urn,
Spare thy soft cheeks, nor those loose tresses rend.
Now fate permits, now blend the sweet embrace :
Death, cowled in darkness, creeps with stealing tread,
111 suits with sluggish age love's sprightly grace, And murmured fondness with a hoary head.