MASTER NEGA TIVE NO. 91-80016 MICROFILMED 1992 COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES/NEW YORK as part of the "Foundations of Western Civilization Preservation Project" Funded by the NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE HUMANITIES Reproductions may not be made without permission from Columbia University Library COPYRIGHT STATEMENT The copyright law of the United States - Title 17, United States Code - concerns the making of photocopies or other reproductions of copyrighted material... Columbia University Library reserves the right to refuse to accept a copy order if, in its judgement, fulfillment of the order would involve violation of the copyright law. AUTHOR: CATULLUS, GAIUS VALERIUS TITLE: SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS PLACE: BOSTON DA TE : 1915 COLUMBIA UNIVliKSITY LIBRARIES I'RESHRVATION DliPARTMENI' IHBHOGRAFHIC MtCKOFORM TARC UT Master Negative # Original Mnlerial as Filmed - lixisling Bibliographic Record \ 87C34 Selections. Cnp# o ^ iy ^ m ^ 4 > 1 ' Ts : * Catullus, C. Valerius. Selections from Catullus, tr. into English verse, with an introduction on the theory of translation, hy Mary Stewart. Boston, K. 0. Badger; [etc., etc., ''1915] 6 p. 1., 9-71 p. 19^"". $W^ Another cop^' in Sj^ecial Collections (Gonzalez Lodge; 1915. I. Stewart, Mary, tr. 15-6783 Library of Congress Copyriglit A 397291 Restrictions on Use: THCHNICAL microform" DATA FILM SIZE:__3 5%,r^^-^^ RFDUCTION RATIO: //x IMAGE PLACEMENT: I A (lg) 113 III) ^_ ~ DATE FILMED:_ y/.^T^^ INITIALS _ _C ^ ^ FILMED I3Y: RESEARCH pOmLiCATI ON S. INC WOOD liRiDnrCrT c Association for Information and Image Management 1100 Wayne Avenue, Suite 1100 Silver Spring. Maryland 20910 301/587-8202 Centimeter in iiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiimiiiiiiiM liiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiili 8 9 liiiiliiiil 10 iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiii 11 J 12 13 14 15 mm Jmjlmjhml^^ rir T T T T TTT Inches 1.0 1^5 |28 »- ^ «.uk. 1.4 ||2.5 22 I.I 2.0 1.8 1.6 1.25 MflNUFfiCTURED TO fillM STflNDRRDS BY fiPPLIED IMAGE. INC. T -^ .S-.,-^; , i Columbia Q:!niucr53^ttp int!)rCitpofilctn]?ark THE LIBRARIES likJ SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS i SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS Translated into English verse with an Introduction on the theory of Translation BY MARY STEWART jARTTttVeRTr/Tll BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER THB COPP CLARK CO., LIMITBD. TORONTO Copyright, 1915, by Mary Stewart All Rights Raservtd To MY Sister L/. S. B. 'i'- 1 1 cT N>«* *-^ A — > T?^ < Tarn QoRHAM Press, Boston, U. S. A. Oh, Sister of mine, so beloved. Oh, dear heart of my heart, can it be You are dead, you are gone. And the world still goes on In darkness unending for mef They buried the gold of the sunshine With the gold of your beautiful hair. And the blue of the skies With the blue of your eyes. Ah, nothing is left that was fair I And you — is it well with you. Sister, You who so loved the breeze and the light. And the laughter and love And the glad life above, Down there all alone in the nightf Ah, God, is there never an answer? Cant she hear, though in anguish I cryf Little soul, fair and white. Lost and lone in the night — Dear God, can such loveliness diet Then glad like a flower in the spring time. With the gold of the sun in her hair. And the blue of the skies In her wonderful eyes. Is she waiting for me somewhere? I CONTENTS Page An Experiment in Translation 9 Selections from Catullus I 29 // 30 III 31 V 32 yil 33 rill 34 IX 35 Xlll 36 xiy 37 XXVI 38 XXVll 39 XXX 40 XXXI 41 XX XIV 42 XXXV 44 XXXVlll 46 XLlll 47 XLVl 48 XLVlll 49 L 50 LI 51 t: CONTENTS LII ^^°= LXF ^^ LXFIII A f * LXX 55 LXXll 5 LXXlll ^ LXX VI ^ Lxxxvn and Lxxv ft! LXX XVI 7 xcii ^* xcvi y^ xcix f ci ::::::::;: S cu f evil ; ^ cix ^° 71 CATULLUS CATULLUS An Experiment in Translation IN offering new translations of the classics the translator anticipates the critics Why-did- you-do-it? by hastening to explain himself. Hence the prologue. In fact, no one can play much with translating without pretty seri- ously asking himself why he does it, and thereupon finding himself hopelessly tangled in a mesh of questions about the place of translations and the art of translating. There can no longer be any question about the place of translations in modern literature. All an- cient literature and all modern, in any tongue save English, are accessible to the great mass of people only in translation. We may talk as we please about the beauty of the original and the impossibility of adequate translation, but the fact remains that for most of us it is translation or nothing. Nor is this altogether regrettable. Even if it were possible for all of us to learn Latin and Greek well enough to read the great epics, it would scarcely be worth while for all of us to do it. Though the scholar has his place, and a very necessary one, no language 10 CATULLUS can ever mean to us what our own language does, not even a modern, living tongue; and, if this is true of a living tongue, what is to be said of a dead one? Even the scholar who knows his Greek so well that he reads Homer instead of translating^ him, and has an ear so atuned to the sonorous phrase that he enjoys its music, must still read the stirring epic as an English man, not a«. a Greek; as a modern, not as an ancient. And however rich his knowledge of etymology, it cannot fuse with life the dead word of a dead people. Language is a living, growing thing, quivering, glowing, moving, connected by a thousand-thousand invisible capil- laries with the life of today. For the English per- son the English language has a subtlety of meaning and a richness of connotation that no other tongue can possibly have. It is bound up with his exper- ience, not only racial but personal. The power of a word is measured by myriad influences, drawn from every experience with which it may be as- sociated in the mind of the individual. And the beauty of literature is so dependent on this unex- pressed meaning of word and phrase we dare to say no original in a dead tongue could give to an English ear the aesthetic pleasure of a good translation. A good translation— "Aye there's the rub." Mathew Arnold in his scholarly essay, "On Trans- lating Homer," has set up a standard of translation CATULLUS II which, according to Mr. Calvin Winter (In The Bookman for March and April, 1911), has been guilty of fastening a lot of bad translations. Mr. Arnold says that the first requisite of a good transla- tion is faithfulness to the original. With this we heartily ajrree. It is when he defines his criterion for faithfulness that we must differ from him. There has been current for a long time the idea that a good translation is one which would aflFect the English reader as the Greek or Latin original af- fected a Greek or a Roman. As Mr. Arnold points out, this is an impossible standard, because nobody knows just how the original affected the ancients. However, we feel that the test Mr. Arnold him- self imposes is scarcely less possible. To his mind the taste of the scholar is the test — the good trans- lation the one that affects this Greek or Latin scholar as the original does. The man who knows his Greek is the judge. Mr. Winter points out the fallacy of this criterion as follows: **It is difficult to imagine any method for getting away more com- pletely from the original spirit of the Iliad than to so translate as to have it ^\\t to the average modern reader the same impression that it makes upon the typical middle-aged professor of dead languages." These standards, he farther adds, **are precisely those which tend to develop a school of glorified cribs. . . . The translations that live, the transla- 12 CATULLUS tions that we like to think of as a part of English literature, are of a different sort. They are from the pen of writers who have made their names glorious for something besides the echoing of other men's thoughts, and who have insisted, even in their translations, on remaining original. . . . Transla- tions have a vitality and a vogue in direct ratio to the writer's spirit of independence." This judg- ment of Mr. Winter is substantiated by some of the best translations in English. They have been made by men who were literary artists as well as scholars. Let us discuss for a moment what we mean by a good translation. Obviously the first aim of the translator is to make a faithful translation. On this point there is practically a general agreement. A faithful translation is one that is true to the idea and spirit of the original rather than to the word and letter. The method of the translator will vary according to the subject matter and the purpose for which the translation is intended. There are two kinds of literature: (a) the literature of informa- tion and (b) the literature of beauty. Plainly, in the translation of the first class the ideal is one of accuracy and clearness. This, of course, is com- paratively easy, presupposing, on the part of the translator, merely a knowledge of the foreign lan- guage (and, we may add incidentally, of his own), and a thorough understanding of the subject matter CATULLUS J3 in hand. The translation of the second class— pure literature-involves an additional quality which, for want of a better term, we may call literary sensi- t'llity. The translator must make not merely a transcript of the idea but a species of belles lettres a sort of new creative thing in itself. The function of pure literature is to please and interest no less by Its form than by its content. Hence a good trans- lation of a masterpiece must be in itself a kind of masterpiece. "As it takes a thief to catch a thief, so it takes a poet to catch a poet." We approach any translation from three points of view-first, the purely scholariy view point whose Ideal ,s accuracy and thoroughness. This seeks a pretty literal translation, one that will keep the facts as straight as possible, and it is the primary essential of all good translation. Second, the schol- arly-literary view point, which aims not only at an accurate transcript of ideas but at an appreciation of them in relation to their own setting. This means keeping the "flavor" of the original, trans- lating one-self, so to speak, into the past rather than the original into the present. This too, is an essential quality of a good translation. And third the purely literary view point, which would make of the original a "new original," a bit of real litera- ture which, while true to its source, is equally true to Its end; that is, faithful to the original and xi>. M H CATULLUS nificant to the reader. This last viewpoint involves and implies the other two. The fierds of scholar- ship may often go no farther than accurate trans- lation and appreciative interpretation, but without the literary "touch," they will fall short of true translation. For herein lies the life-giving property that must animate the solid framework of scholarly information, and color and illuminate the grace and form of scholarly appreciation. This is the trans- lator's contribution to literature. The scholar's work merely goes to pile the shelves of fact, to heap up the raw material out of which real litera- ture is made. What arc the ear marks of a good translation? (i) It must be interesting to the generation for which it is written, must speak straight from ihe heart, direct and spo.itaneous, in the idiomatic Eng- lish of the day, bearing no halting syntactical hy- brids; (2) it must be true to the original in fact and in spirit, carrying the same dignity, nobility, iiracc, or whimsicality that the original bore. And for this end a literal translation is often tlie last thing wanted, either of word or of form. For ex- ample — well-bred Romans might have listened with equanimity to certain words that shock a well-bred American. To translate literally the word that was in the original would be to translate the shock which was not in the original ; and this would be CATULLUS 15 faithless. Again certain figures, aIli:sions, and the like, full of significance to the people for whom they were written may tall quite empty on a modern ear. It is for the translator, then, to f^nd for these adequate substitutes jr paraphrases as far as po^ sible. For example, Catullus LII reads literally— "What reason is there, Catullus, why you should delay dying; vile Nonius is in the curule chair, Vatinius swears by the consulate, whv then, Catul- lus, do you delay dy'ic^gr In translation, a mean- ingless and offensive lot of words truly, but in the original, pointed, trenchent, clever. Catullus used the specific names Nonius and Vatinius because to the ears of his generation concrete examples of de- bauchery and bribery illustrated in the names of prominent citizens urre far more vi-orous than ab- stract terms. But these names mean nothing to us. The abstract qualities say far more. So we have translated the lines as tollows— true to the spirit, we maintain, and certainly clearer to the reader. ff'hy ivait for death, Catullus, why not be done with life? Corruption in the Curule chair, and in The Senate strife. Venality is honored, and bribery is rife, IVhy wait fot death, Catullus, why not be done with life? i6 CATULLUS On the other hand, to have substituted modern names for Nonius and Vatinius would have been going too far, would have destroyed the flavor, and produced a paraphrase not a translation. The translator's task is indeed a difficult one, one calling for versatile abilities. He must find the phrase that will contain the spirit as well as tran- scribe the fact. He must be en rapport not only with the language itself but with the milieu of that language, must be a part of its vitality, so to speak, and understand and know its contemporaneous sig- nificance. One generation does not fully under- stand the literature of another of the same tongue without more or less copious annotations, which are in themselves a kind of translation. We can't read Chaucer without a glossary, nor Shakespere without notes. How then shall one nation comprehend an- other without annotations, or one age grasp an- other without such illumination. A good translation is a kind of condensed and concatenated annotation. After all, we keep on translating whether we know It or not, all the time. There isn't much new knowl- edge; there's just a lot of fresh thinking about old subjects. And each generation keeps on translating the thoughts of the last into its own vernacular. Hence arises the need of new translations of old classics. Virgil translated for the seventeenth cen- tury might not be just Virgil to the twentieth, and CATULLUS 17 we see Homer with glasses colored by a somewhat different experience from that of Pope. It is not strange, therefore, if we should want to make our own translations. Catullus has something different for us from what he has had for any other people at any other time, and so we want to interpret him in our own way! That people keep on translating Catullus is rea- son enough why they should. He has something for them or they wouldn't take the trouble. That a writer does live is reason enough for his immor- tality. It is to be expected that he have a sort of vogue, a rise and wane of popularity. Ages are dif- ferent, and one age's vogue is another's aversion. Next to Horace, Catullus seems to us the most modem of the ancients—that is, if there is any most. They are all contemporaries when we get acquainted with them. It is amazing to find out how modem all these writers are, which is just another way of saying how ancient human nature is. "As it was in the beginning, is today official sinning," chants Mr. Kipling, "and shall be for- evermore." It is this continuity of human nature that gives us a friendly feeling for the classics. All the big feelings are the same, and the little ones aren't so surprisingly different; rather they are sur- prisingly alike. Common follies strike quicker sym- pathies than common virtues; congenial foibles and i8 CATULLUS superficial graces offer a readier intimacy than fun- damental principles. We can weep with anybody. Grief is universally the same; but we laugh only with those who understand. It i> just here that Catullus i> so "modern." He saw the grace in things, in manners, customs, fashion^, politics and society. In short, for all the intimacies of daily liv- mg he had a quick eye and a felicitous phrase. Not only did he feel the passion and pathos of life, but he was keenly sensitive to all the nuances of light and graceful feeling, and it is in delicate apprecia- tion of the hner sentiments that Catullus excels. His incite is less profound than that of [lorace but it is more subtle. Keenly alive, quiveringly sensi- tive to all that touches a human being in emotional experience, he had pre-eminently what Hums would have called sensibility. And he is like Burns, too, has more in common with him than with any other lyric poet, unless it be Shelley. In life he was cir- cumstanced more like Shelley, a gentleman in birth and breeding, well educated and wealthy, in spite of the "cobwebs'' in his purse, the reMilt rather of extravagance than poverty. In temperament he was more like Burns, wild and turbulent in passion, fierce in love and relentless in hate. And when he took to satire and invective he out-Burnsed Burns. At times he was so coarse, brutal, and indecent it is hard to believe he could ever be gentle, graceful, CATULLUS ,5 and noble. However, «e must remember the age aUowed e.ces,es of speech we would not tolerate. Bv natu e he was mtense, yet simple and ingenuous- by- educafon. refined, sensitive, and evquisitl Lo"' «as at once wuh hun a mighty passion and a deli- graces-and d,sgraces-ot living in a half playful tone l.te was to him always a tremendous emotl,;! ■i"'o et od,, he sang, and this was the index of his emperament. There was nothing lukewarm abou h.m He loved h,s friends and hated his enemies- J"5ed w,th the „,ad rush of a mountain torrent and sorrowed « ,th the weight of a deep sea dirge. Pe" Imps^no^one can write lyric poetry who does not live clZ *""V ■'"""■" "f "-^ ''^^ -f C. Valerius Catullus. He was born at Verona, or near there about B. C. 84 and died at Rome thirtv years la e ' 1 l.e ates of his birth and death are variously give"' but the d.vergence is not wide. B. C. 87-84 for the birth, B. C. 57-54 for the death. He was con- temporary with Cicero and Lucretius l-bere is reliable evidence that he was of good famdy, s.nce his father was .he friend and host of Caesar; that he had wealth, for he owned a yacht and two or three country estates, a villa at Sirmio and another on the edge of the Sabine hills At an early age he went to Rome where he mingled with 20 CATULLUS the gay and extravagant society of the period. Here he found many friends, notably Cornelius Nepos to whom he presented his volume of lyrics in the graceful little dedicatory poem, Cicero, Fabullus and Veranius, and chiefest in his own eyes and closest to his heart, Licinius Calvus, a young poet like himself, to whom he adressed some of his most charming verses. (XIV^ LIII, XCVI). When he was about twenty-six years of age, he went to Bithynia on the staff of C. Memmius who was propraetor of the province. It was on taking leave of this province that, stirred by the wander- lust of youth and spring, he wrote the exquisite little lyric numbered XLV I. And the greeting to "fair Sirmio" celebrated his return home in lines no less beautiful. Sensitive to every shade of emotion as he was, it is not strange that he should have written feelingly of both extremes. Those who best know Wanderlust best know Heimweh. It was likely too, on his journey to Bithynia, that he visited the tomb of his brother in the Troad, that brother so deeply loved and so tenderly mourn- ed in many of his verses and chiefly in the Apos- trophe at his grave (CI). In all elegiac literature is there nobler affection or deeper grief told so briefly and so simply as in these lines? Perhaps the most conspicuous and indubitable fact of the life of this poet was his love for a certain CATULLUS 2, Roman lady whom he calls Lesbia and who, the C "andt' "" '''"^^ ''' "^''^ ^^ Q- ^-^11- Cher Wh "'': '! '^' "^^^"'^"^ ^- ^^«^-^ Pul- her Whoever the lady actually was is of rather little moment as far as the poetry is concerned Sufficient to say she inspired Catullus with an over^ mastenng passion which fluctuated between heights of bljss and depths of woe, finally culminating in complete despair when he was convinced of h r faithlessness. It is not because Catullus loved Lesbia that we are interested in her, but because this experienl Uught h.m to write love lyrics of surpassing beaut" ,Z. T\ T " ^"''' ^*^"' "'■"'^^"'J evidence," that scholarly temptation to unrighteousness, it s an,az,ng how men otherwise honest will turn th«r .maginations loose on "internal evidence" and deduce therefrom the most egregious lies in the taken, in the mam, for evidence internal; i. e an evidence of the internal life of the writer and not as a witness of his outward acts and relationships. That a poet writes one or more love lyrics to fifty dif- least that he has as many mistresses, nor even that all or any of such lyrics were written to particular, women. Nor does it necessarily imply that he was fickle or constant. All that it actually pn,ves. with- 22 CATULLUS out indubitable circumstantial evidence, is that he knew much of love in many phases, its joys, its jeal- ousies, its pains, its pettinesses, etc. And it is fair to suppose that he learned it from more or less actual experience. However, just what experiences, or when, or where, is a pretty bold assumption without a deal of corroborating evidence. A particular poem may have been prompted by the caprices of a friend, by a passing observation, by a hint trom a book, a play, a thousand and one thinj^s besides a specific experience of jealous love or wounded vanity. And many poems have no doubt been inspired by the very lack of the passion they describe, which, denied, finds solace in imagination. The satisfied lover needs no poem of ecstacy; his beloved is his poem. The despairing lover needs no verse of woe; his broken heart is his cry. It would not do to push this theory to its ultimate logic, but there is some- thing in it. However, we merely want to emphasize the absurdity of attempting to fix a specific ex- perience to an expressed sentiment, while granting that one who writes profoundly of an emotion has known it from experience, which is exactly what we mean by "interned evidence." But that a par- ticular flesh-and-blood Phyllis jilted the poet on the particular morning in May on which he sings is fa^ fetched. There is a deal too much of this kind of evidence in the biographies of Catullus; more than I CATULLUS 23 the facts allow. About a hundred and twenty lyncs are extant (many of then, ver,- short) that, with good au- thontj can be assigned to Catullus. They touch all kmds of subjects, whimsical, delicate, tender p.^s,onate. One of the most graceful, for example' ■s wntten on the death of his sweetheart's pet bird- another to a friend who has sent him a book of bad' ^er^c. 1 hoc ,. a tender and touching lament at he tomb of h,s dead brother; a bitmg lampoon on he bad nianners of a social parasite who stole a nap- kin at a dmner; and dozens of love lyrics, ecstactic ardent, brunming with joy, weighted with grief, or i.Khtly and gracefully «himsical. 1 hese lyrics run the whole gamut of erotic experience. It is this range of feeling that gives Catullus im- mortaltt>. He is not great in the sense that Virgil or Horace is. Ho |.,cks the lofty idealism of the one. the broa.l philosophy of the other. But if he is not huma.dy great he is greati, human. You read V .rgil with reverence and inspiration; Horace, with r<-.sh and delight; Catullus with joy and tears. Like |{,„„s. he touches the hearts of men, and the hun.an heart does not change very much. Two thousand years ago this young Ron,an, hot blooded, tender hearte.l, sensitive souled, poured out his life -n song. Simple they were, these songs, ingenuous and sincere. Today we read them with emotion, 24 CATULLUS for wc understand the feeling, though we cannot sing the songs. There is a felicity in song-making God-given. Most of us write with ink; Catullus dipped his pen in fire and dew — and sometimes venom. Burns knew the art, and so did Heine. There's a man of Catullus' stripe— Heine. Song- makers — those three — and they sent the singing word down the ages to set men's heart strings throb- bing in accord. And so we con Catullus' Latin lyrics. They have something for us still, a melody and a theme tran- scending language, or rather, belonging to all langu- age. That is why we tr>' to translate them, to trans- fer the idea and the tone to a medium that will reach the modern car, preserving the flavor of the original as far as po^sible, changing word, phrase, and figure to fit today's way of expressing itself when touched by the same world-old passion. This we do not claim to have succeeded in doing, but it is what we have tried to do. It may be thought over-bold to translate ad claras Asiae volemus urbes (XLVI) into: Dmcn flames crimson, luring eastward, Asia's mi^ic blooms unfold, Golden cities nod and beckon, Who can tell what joys they holdf However, in our opinion, this Is just what trans- f CATULLUS 25 lation requires. For while the original has „0 such ■•nages. .t has a tone, flavor, or whatever you may call .t. that suggests them, and the translation must meet this in some way. Translations are often failures because they sound ke r3n,n.t.ons To translate the word and not he thought .s false; to catch the thought and miss the sp,nt .s no less false; and to make labored what was spontaneous is falsest of i.]\. Therefore the translation must have a kind of spontaniety of 'ts own. an English originality, as it were. Thus we have used rhyme where the Latin does not be- cause m English the lyric quality of verse largely such liberties of interpretation. Another generation will no douK- essay its own translation. We have written as we have read. The University of Montana, Missoula, January, igje SELECTIONS FROM CATULLUS K> CATULLUS To whom shall I offer this book, young and spright- Neat, polished, wide-margined, and finished po- litely? *^ To you, my Cornelius, whose learning pedantic Has dared to set forth in three volumes gigantic 1 he history of ages— ye gods, what a labor!— And still to enjoy the small wit of a neighbor. A man who can be light and learned at once, sir. By hfes subtle logic is far from a dunce, sir. So take my small book-if it meet with your favor. 1 he passing of years cannot dull its sweet savor 39 30 CATULLUS U Sweet bird, my Lady's dear delight, Her breast thy refuge fair; Ah, could'st thou know thy happiness To be so sheltered there! She gives her dainty finger tip To thy sharp little bill In sportive play — a ruse, I trow. Her longing love to still. Ah, would that I, like her, might give Such solace to my grief, Might cool my absent heart's fierce fire In such a sweet relief. CATULLUS III 31 Let Venus bow her head in grief, And tears drown Cupid's eyes in sorrow, And men of feeling everywhere Forget to smile — until tomorrow. My lady's little bird lies dead. The bird that was my lady's prize And dearer than her eyes — alas, Those pretty, tender, tear-dimmed eyes! It knew its mistress quite as well As she her mother; near her breast It fluttered ever, chirping soft And in her bosom found its rest. Now does it seek the darksome way, Whence none return nor message bring Accursed be, ye deadly shades, That vanquish every lovely thing! Ah, cruel deed! poor little bird A-flutter in your gloomy skies! From her youVe snatched her pretty pet; From me, the brightness of her eyes. 32 CATULLUS Come, let us live and love, my dear, A fig for all the pratings drear Of sour old sages, worldly wise. Aye, suns may set again to rise; But as for us, when once our sun His little course of light has run. An endless night we'll sleep away. Then kiss me, sweet, while kiss we may, A thousand kisses, hundreds then. And straightway we'll begin again — Another thousand, hundreds more, And still a thousand as before. Till hundred thousands we shall kiss. And lose all count in drunken bliss, Lest green-eyed envy, in dull spite, Should steal away our deep delight. i J CATULLUS VII You ask me, love, how many kisses Shall surfeit me with burning blisses. As many as the grains of sand That burn on Airic's spicy strand Between Jove's shrine of mystic gloom And ancient Battus' sacred tomb, Or as the countless stars that light Sweet secret loves in moonless night. So many kisses, not one less. Might soothe Catullus' mad distress. And let no curious gossip cloy With evil tongue our perfect joy. 33 34 CATULLUS VIII Catullus, cease to play the fool, Consider what is past as past, Bright days have shown for you, 'tis true; Such days, you know, can never last. Bright days have shown — ah, that was when You danced attendance to the maid. More truly loved by you, of course, Than e're was loved a heartless jade. And then how many happy days Were passed in loving by you both ; You, loyal, eager, ardent, keen, The maiden, also, nothing loth. But now the maid no longer cares; Then, what do you care? Never sigh. Nor follow after when she flees. Be obdurate and say good by. But as for you, reluctant girl. Alone you'll sit and grieve all day ; For who will love you, call you fair, When your Catullus stays away? I, CATULLUS IX Veranus, best of all my friends, Had I ten thousand others, You're coming home, to your own hearth, Your mother and dear brothers. You're coming home— oh, happy thought! I'll see you safe and hear you Tell happy tales of far-oflF lands. The while we're gathered near you. Your arms about my neck, I'll press On lips and eyes fond kisses — Oh, happy men o'er all the earthy Who knows such joy as this is? 35 36 CATULLUS XIII Come dine with me, Fabullus, do. You shall dine well, I promise you, If Fates are kind, and if you bring Along with you the needful thing — A dinner bountiful and fine, A pretty girl, new salt, old wine, And topping all a hearty laugh, Mirth, jest, and wit and friendly chalt — If these you bring, old friend, I swear. That you shall dine on royal fare. Catullus' purse is full — but hold! Of musty cobwebs — now don't scold; For in his turn, he'll offer you A pure delight both rare and new, An unguent, perfume — what you will — No name its qualities can fill. More fragrant, elegant, more sweet, Than ever you have chanced to meet. A balm in which the gods might lave, Which Venus to my mistress gave. You'll say, when once you've smelled the stuff, I haven't praised it half enough. And pray the gods, without repose, To make you nothing else but nose. Note.— Unguents and perfumes, together with gar- lands, were valued by the ancient Romans at their feasts quite as highly as the viands. I CATULLUS XIV 37 Did I not love you more than my own eyes, Sweet Calvus, for this gift I'd hate you quite, With all of old Vatinius' spleen and spite. What have I done or said, in any wise, That you should kill me off with this vile verse? And may misfortune hit the miscreant hard Who sent to you the book of such a bard ; Unless, as I suspect, 'twas Sulla's curse — A pedant, he, and critic who might send A book like this and call it witty stuff. Then I don't care, it can't be bad enough ; It serves you right for having such a friend. Great gods! the wretched and accursed smutch! And you must send the thing to me straightway, That I be bored to death the live long day, On Saturnalia too — this is too much! Don't think, my witty friend, I'm done with you; At dawn straight to the book stalls shall I fly, And gather all the vile stuff I can buy, Suffenus, Caecii, the whole rank crew, And pay you back in kind, with interest too. Meanwhile, farewell— yc would-be bards depart To that dark place from which ye drew your art. And take your darling books along with you ! Ill 38 CATULLUS XXVI Due on my fair estate there falls Not north wind, south wind, east nor west; But there falls due ten thousand pounds, — All winds at once — oh shrivelling pest! I CATULLUS XXVII 39 Come boy, and pour for me a cup Of old Falernian. Fill it up With wine, strong, sparkling, bright, and clear; Our host decrees no water here. Let dullards drink the Nymph's pale brew. The sluggish thin their blood with dew. For such pale stuff we have no use; For us the purple grape's rich juice. Begone, ye chillinjr water sprite; Here burning Bacchus rules tonight! m 40 I CATULLUS XXX Art thou, Alfcnus, false, forgetful, too, To friend and comrade faithless, insincere? Can hearts grow cold to what was once held dear. And memory fail, that once was kind and true? To bind me to thy soul, with promise sweet, And then betray me when by ills beset — And dost thou dare, false-hearted, to forget The very gods are wroth at such deceit? Thou, thou, in my deep need, couldst yet deceive, Thou who didst bid me trust thee to the end, Didst pledge thy faith to be my constant friend ! Alas, whom shall men trust, in whom believe? By soft persuasion didst thou win my love. And pledge by every vow that men can swear, Then tossed thy words into the empty air, A sport for wanton winds and clouds above. Hast thou forgotten faith and loyalty And friendship that doth love and moum thee yet? The gods arc mindful most when men forget — Take heed lest they, at last, remember thee. CATULLUS XXXI 41 Fair Sirmio, thou art the very eye Of all the verdant isles that blooming lie 'Neath Neptune's sway, in limpid lake asleep. Or raise rough crags against the surging deep. How gladly do I visit thee again. And leave behind the drear Bithynian plain And Thynia, where I've toiled the long year through. Far from the fairest spot 'neath heaven's blue. Oh, what is sweeter than, when toil is past. To come back home, the mind care-free at last, The foreign labors done, the rest well-earned, To seek the welcome couch for which we've yearned ? This, this, alone rewards us for dull toil. Hail, lovely Sirmio! dear native soil. Rejoice; thy lord's returned — Ye Lydian lake Give answer, bid your rippling waves awake To laughter; ye light winds waft joy along. And let the whole house ring with mirth and song! 42 CATULLUS CATULLUS 43 XXXIV Goddess of the crescent moon, Guardian of youth's radiant noon, Hail to thee, Diana! Maidens pure as lilies white, Youths as spotless as the light, Ivet us sing Diana! Daughter of Latona's love, Whiter than fair Venus' dove. Better loved by mortals ; Chaste child of Satumian Jove, Cradled in an Olive grove Near the Delian portals. Bom to be untouched and free. Mistress of the wild-wood tree. Goddess of the mountains. Spirit, too, of light and shade, Sunny slope and dusky glade. Sprite of laughing fountains. Tenderer tasks are also thine, Goddess of the hill and pine. Sweeter than all others: Thou, with gentle look and mild, Smilcst on the new-bom child, Patron of young mothers. By thy shining lunar light, Thou dost mark the season's flight For the farmer's pleasure; Sendest, too, the quickening rain, Fruitful vine, and golden grain. Bountiful in measure. Goddess of all kindliness, By whatever name addressed, Hail to thee, Diana! Guard and save our ancient race, By the favor of thy grace, While we sing Diana. 44 CATULLUS XXXV Fly little note, without delay, Find out Caecilius and say To this sweet poet, blithe and jray, Catullus asks that he, straightway, His swift course to Verona take. Though he must leave fair Como's lake And, too, (a task, perchance, more hard To ask of this erotic bard) A maiden fairer than the skies Beneath whose smiles Lake Como lies, A maiden whose white arms will press About his neck with soft caress, And seek to hold him when he tries To go — who'll plead with lips and eyes. And this I greatly fear, in sooth, If rumor hath told me the truth. They say her love for him hath sprung From hearing his sweet verses sung; That since Caecilius first came. With his sweet songs and set aflame Her tender heart, her soul hath known No thought but him and him alone. Methinks, my friend, a maid so rare Must needs thy tender heart ensnare. A girl whose taste can so esteem Thy masterpiece hath caught, I ween, CATULLUS A bit of Sappho's grace and fire And nobly kindled thy desire. Nor should I wonder, rather blame, If thou wert cold to such a flame. Yet, if a poet can be wise, Caecilius, flee those pleading eyes, And hither come, post haste, to me, For I've a new philosophy, Compact of wisdom, wit, and sense, 'Gainst every ill a sure defense. A mutual friend hath thought it out And brought it here to talk about. We wait thy coming eagerly. To share this gift divine with thee. Twill charm thy mind with surer art Than yonder maiden charmed thy heart. And should 'st thou fail us — wo? betide! But hold! why should Catullus chide? I'd pardon much to such a maid, And much to thee by her delayed. 45 46 CATULLUS XXXVIII I'm sick in body, mind, and heart, More wretched hourly do I grow; And not a line from you, my friend, A bit of sympathy to show. Not one poor, flimsy, little line — A simple, easy thing to do — A little line to say you care, What wonder if I'm grieved with you? And thus my love is slighted ? Ah, When such a little thing would please — One little, kindly line of love. Though sadder than Simonides. Note. — Simonides was an elegiac poet of Ccos, a master of pathos. CATULLUS XLIII Pshaw, little girl, you're much too small, You've scarcely any nose at all. Your feet are shapeless, fingers, too, Your eyes a dull and faded blue. With lips as parched as last year's peas, And silly tongue, untaught to please. They say that Formian calls you fair, And that they praise you everywhere. A dull and senseless age — ah me. If they could Lesbia's beauty sec! 47 CATULLUS XLVI Spring again is in the breezes I Soft and warm and sweet they blow; Hushed the equinoctial fury, Lulled by Zephyr singing low. And she calls to you, Catullus, Hasten, bid your comrades rise, Phrygian fields can charm no longer, Nicaea wearies heart and eyes. Dawn flames crimson, luring Eastward, Asia's magic blooms unfold, Golden cities nod and beckon, Who can tell what joys they hold? Wealth and life and love — and something Still unknown and far more sweet; Dreams outstrip the feet in spring time, Youth gives wings to eager feet. Say farewell to all your comrades. Each must wander as he may. Spring is here, and youth must follow Life and love its own sweet way. i CATULLUS XLVIir Sweet Lesbia, let my kisses fall On thy sweet eyes, nor say me nay, Not though I kiss ten thousand times. No niggard favor do I pray. Ten thousand times ten thousand times Were all too few — ah, love, be kind ! Let kisses fall with lavish waste. Like blood red leaves in autumn wind. 49 50 CATULLUS L 'Twas yesterday, Licinius mine, While idling at our nuts and wine, As gay young bloods think proper, In sportive vein we teased the Muse To scribble verses so profuse. My faith, we scarce could stop her. And when at last I left the place, So fired with your rare wit and grace — Or wine, you say — ^you dare it? — I tossed upon my bed all night, Impatient for the morning light And you — by Jove, I swear it, *Twas you I longed again to see. To hear the clever repartee. The thrust and answer ready. I rose, my brain half dead for rest. And scrawled these rhymes that might attest My hand, at least, was steady. Then speed the hour, sweet friend of mine, When we shall meet at nuts and wine, With wit and jest distracting. And if you scorn a love like this, Then, oh, beware of Nemesis, A lady most exacting. CATULLUS LI Then like a god he seems to mr, Aye, greater than the gods is he Whom they permit to sit near thee. With senses clear. To hear thy rippling laugh and note Thy sparkling eyes and shining throat. Thy throbbing breast— ah, joys remote And all too dear! When I behold thee, Lesbia dear. My voice grows dumb, a chillmg fear Benumbs my tongue; I cannot hear. So sad my plight. My failing limbs soft fires suffuse And through my flesh so subtly ooze. My very eyes their vision lose In sudden night An icy sweat overspreads my frame. Fierce trembling seizes me like flame, Ah, cruel Venus, thine the blame! In vain I cry That thou avert my certain doom. Breath fails; the light is lost in gloom, Like grass that torrid winds consume, I droop and die. 51 52 CATULLUS Note.— The last stanza usually appended to this poem is so obviously a misfit that it has been omitted in the translation. It is incredible that so finished and fault- less a writer as Catullus shows himself in other poems, should have so stupidly blundered in this. It is doubly incredible if we accept this as a translation of the well known Sapphic ode in the same strain. The first three stanzas of the two poems are almost identical. It is hardly probable, then, that Catullus would so flagrantly have departed from the original in the fourth. There- fore, we have taken the liberty to adapt for the last stanza the general sense of Sappho's verses. It is far more probable that the original fourth stanza of Catullus was lost than that he made such a blunder in taste and feeling. CATULLUS LII 53 V Why wait for death, Catullus, why not be done with life? Corruption in the Curulc chair, and in the Senate strife. Venality is honored, and bribery is rife. Why wait for death Catullus, why not be done with life? 54 CATULLUS LXV Worn out with sorrow that finds no relief, And crushed beneath a load of endless care, Hortalus, friend, I ask thee to forbear; I cannot woo the Muses in my grici. And fain I'd send thee joyous songs and bright, And fain remember happy things once more; Thou knowest, how late, a flood from Lethe's shore O'erwhelmed my brother in its chilling night. My brother, best beloved, than life more dear, Tom from my sight, entombed in foreign land. Oh shall I never see thee, touch thy hand, And never hear thee speak, nor feel thee near? Yet always shall I love thee, always sing Songs saddened by thy death, of minor note, Such songs as Philomel pours from her throat. Bewailing Itys dead by Daulian spring. And so, Hortalus, unto thee I send These sweeter strains by sweeter singer wrought, Lest thou shouldst think Catullus loved thee not, And with a brother I should lose a friend. Note. — Unable, because of the grief caused by his brother's deathj to send some promised verses to his friend Hortensius Ortalus, Catullus sends this epistle accompanied by tome translations from Callimaoiut. i CATULLUS LXVIII A 0*erwhelmed by cruel misfortune, Oppressed by chilling fears, From out the depths, thou sendest me This letter writ in tears. The dark night brings no respite, Since thou art left forlorn To toss upon thy lonely couch Until the darker morn. The old familiar poets, That once brought thee delight. No longer soothe thy weary mind. That watches out the night. And thou dost ask of friendship What love nor verse can give — Hope in thy bitter loneliness. The why and how to live. Dear friend, how fain I'd aid thee. And send thee sweet relief; Yet thou must know that I, as thou, Am plunged in blackest grief. Could one bright ray still reach me, Twould be that thou didst send. In thy dark hour, this tender plea To me, thy heart's best friend. 55 56 CATULLUS Oh, seek not with the hopeless To find sweet hope, nor ask That joy shall spring from misery — That were too grim a task. Time was when youth's glad spring time Led me with flowery feet To drink where Song's clear fountains spring, And taste Love's bitter-sweet. Now all delight has perished, Lost in the awful night That rose from Orcus* gloom and tore My brother from my sight. Oh, brother so beloved. All joy with thee has fled. And all our house, its very heart And soul, with thee lie dead. All things thy fond love fostered When we walked side by side — The verse I loved, the joys I sought — With thee, dear one, have died. Dear friend, the joy thou cravest, I cannot offer thee; Thou wilt forgive — how can I send What grief has reft of mc? / CATULLUS 57 And say not, at Verona, I languish dull and cold. What solace for my weary heart Could all the city hold? My books and all my treasures, At Rome are left behind; That neither joy nor book I send, Pray think me not unkind. A book of verse I'd send thee To speed one leaden hour, As all thy bitter oain I'd cure, If it were in my power. Dost think, friend, I had waited Until thy plea was read? Sooth, long ago, to ease thy grief, My love unasked had sped. Note.— According to the most reasonable evidence this letter was written to Manliiis, who was staying at or near Verona, Catulhis' paternal home, whither the young poet himself had retired in grief at the death of his brother. Manlius has written to Catullus in deep distress, the cause of which is not known, but conjectured to be grief at the death of his young wife. He has asked that Catullus send him books or poems of his own makmg to beguile his grief. 58 CATULLUS LXX My mistress says she'd wed with mc If Jove himself had sought her; She says — but write what woman says In winds and running water. CATULLUS 59 LXXII Ah, Lesbia, thou wert wont to say Catullus' love alone held thee, And should Jove's self thy beauty lure, Before his favor mine should be. I loved thee then beyond the love Of man for maid ; I held thee fair Not only with a lover's hope, But with a father's tender care. But now I know thee as thou art; And though thy loveliness still charms. Thy faithlessness makes thee despised, And keeps thee from these longing arms. And dost thou ask how this can be? Such wrongs beget such deep distress. That though compelled to love thee more, I'm also forced to like thee less. 6o CATULLUS LXXIII Then cease to strive to win esteem, Or think another fair; The whole world's thankless, selfish, mean, There's none who truly care. Good deeds but weary, nay, far more, They even oft offend ; No enemy so bitter quite, As he who was a friend. CATULLUS 6i LXXVI If man finds solace to his woe. When fell misfortune strikes him low. In consciousness of rectitude And loyal, honest attitude Toward god and man, Catullus, thou Might ease thy anguished heart-ache now. Might hope some joys for thee remain, Dispite thy baffled love's cruel pain. In kindness wast thou ever slow. Or didst thou ever fail to show Devotion to her least caprice? Thy love didst mightily increase. Till every thought that thou didst own Was lost in her and her alone. What was it thou didst do or say That caused her love to turn away? Ah, surely, all that man could do Thou didst— Ah well, if this be true. Why suflfer more this sharp regret, The gods have willed it so — and yet, Ah, love, I cannot let thee go! Thou knowest I have loved thee so. And thou art all my life to me, I know no life apart from thee. Jove's self could not forget to sigh If he had ever loved as I. 6a CATULLUS What can't be done, I still must do- Forget, if I would live life through. Then, if there be a god above Who pities unrequited love, Thou god, if thou canst feel or care For mortal anguish — hear my prayer! If ever I have done a deed That ministered to mortal need, Behold my utter wretchedness. And lift from me this black distress. This cursed love creeps through my frame, Consuming with its deadly flame My heart's last joy; my soul lies dead, And I, a shade, move in its stead. No more I ask what once I yearned — That my love love me in return, Nor yet a thing that could not be — That she be worthy now of me. I only ask, great gods above. Ye free me from this deadly love! CATULLUS LXXXVII AND LXXV 63 No woman, Lesbia, can say she's been so loved as thou. Nor can she claim so true a heart as mine has been, I vow. Yet, by thy perfidy, my love, my mind is brought so low My heart so in devot'on lost, alas, I only know I could not like thee once again should'st thou full spotless be; Yet, dear, do what thou wilt, and I must still keep loving thee. NoTE.---These verses are usually edited as two frag- ments. However, some commentators put them togeth- er and they read much better so. 64 CATULLUS LXXXVI Now, Quintia is handsome to many a vulgar eye, Tall, straight, she is, and fair and round — but handsome, I'll deny. No charm has she, nor piquancy, and not a grain of grace, In all her large and buxom frame, nor in her stolid face. Let men of taste behold my love, my Lesbia, and see What beauty is in form and face in dame of high degree. What grace of motion, poise of head, what glances, piercing sweet; From shining hair, she's perfect all, to shapely little feet. It puzzles me, I must confess, how others dare appear. Whatever beauty they may boast, when Lesbia is near. For such her perfect loveliness, c*cn Venus must admit The sex can claim no single charm but she has stolen it I i CATULLUS XCII Fair Lesbia, when I am not by, Abuses me most sadly; Whereat I smile, by this I know The lady loves me madly. How do I know? Ah well, perchance. It's lover's intuition — Don't I berate her just as hard, Yet love her to perdition? 65 66 CATULLUS XCVI If into the silent tomb can steal Some tenderness, some thought devine, If aught from this jfte the dead can feel, Then, Calvus, be this solace thine. When we mourn old friends with longing heart; For dear dead loves in anguish cry, Oh, there, do they feci the hot tears start. Touched by a love that cannot die? If this be, Calvus, thy sweet girl wife, There in the tomb shall less grief know ' For her spring time lost, her broken life. Than joy in thy love that loved her so. rtn^^r^'S'"*"'.^^^''"?' ^ P°^^' "^^^ 0"<^ of Catullus* closest friends and one in whom he found the ha op est companionship. They often wrote verses together in friendly nvaliy. The sprightly little satire. XIV was addressed to this same Calvus in return for his pr'es^m of a badly written book that had fallen into his^hands Ihe tender verses above were written by Catullus in s^pathy and consolation for the untimdy death ot Calvus young wife, Quintilia. CATULLUS XCIX Once while you played, my pretty miss, 1 snatched from you a honeyed kiss— Oh, nectar is not sweeter! Yet short my bliss, and swift I paid; The haughty, saucy little maid Was wroth I so should treat her. An hour or more on bended knee I prayed that she would pardon me— For how could one resist heri» With angry little finger tips She rubbed and scoured her coral lips Lamenting that I'd kissed her. The while she tortured my desire With blood red mouth and eyes afire— What though the minx seemed artless? bhe knew she had me on the rack What could I do?— Alas, alack. That girls should be so heartless! If stolen kisses, nectar sweet. Be turned to gall, in sure defeat, By torture such as this is; Such brief bliss I would flin forego, And swear by all the gods I know To never more steal kisses. 67 68 CATULLUS CI Across wide lands, across a wider sfa, To this sad service, Brother, am I bourn To pay thee death's last tribute and to mourn By thy dead dust that cannot answer me. This, this alone is left— ah, can it be Thy living self blind chance from me has torn, That cruel death has left me thus forlorn. And thou so loved, dear Brother, lost to me? Still, must I bring, as men have done for years, These last despairing rites, this solemn vow, Here offered with a love too deep to tell, And consecrated with a brother's tears. Accept them. Brother all is done— and now Forever hail, forever fare thee well. CATULLUS CII If ever friend has trusted friend Whose faith is tried and true, Discretion proved, allegiance firm, Cornelius, it is you. My tongue is bound, as by an oath, A secret to defend; The very god of Silence I, When once I've pledged a friend. 69 70 CATULLUS CVII If ever answer came to ceaseless prayer, When hope was dead and longing well-nigh spent, Oh, doubly dear the gifts the gods then lent To heal the heart consumed with anxious care. So Lesbia have you been restored to mc, Who longed, yet dared not hope such grace as this. You came, at your sweet will— oh wonderous bliss! You came, my golden love, wide-arn ed and free. Ah, fair white day with happiness leplete. Bright day that brought my dear love back again, What greater joy can come to mortal men. What gift life hold that could be half so sweet? CATULLUS 71 CIX Oh Lesbia, my life, vou promised me, This love of ours should be forever true, Forever true and happy—can there be Such perfect joy bestowed on mortal two? Yet grant, great gods, she promised from her soul. And spoke with all the ardor of her heart. That I may keep her mine while season's roll. And all life perish, e'er we two should part! SSjiSIJiS^^.?'^^ "-'bRar.es 1010675086 s CO to ^ o >-4 H- V ^ U K Uj (V, o «J X c/n V ,#- f» yT-' ' 'i^S-i .■"^'"' i«* Jf-%5" '•Jfs--. i« *■■ St^-i-