“If pleasure can to man have come
From his good deeds already done,
From sacred faith, from plight maintained,
From compact never yet profaned;
All these remain in store for thee
And fruits of thy lost love shall be.
Catullus, for long years to come
Thy breast shall be their only home!”
* * * *
O gods, if ye can pity me
Or mortal agony can see,
If only once I have been pure,
Tear out this cursed plague impure,
Which creeping through my frame at rest
Has chased all gladness from my breast.
* * * *
Just gods! for sake of my own weal
I pray you that this wound may heal!
The Fisherman’s Dream.
Where the light clouds o’er Etna’s summit sleep
And the dread winged Harpies vigil keep,
Dark as the polished stone the blue wave falls,
Weaving a canopy o’er Neptune’s halls.
Over his work the tired fisher nods
And in his dreams beholds the ancient gods.
Whilst gentle sleep his wearied senses numbs,
Swift in his trance fair Aphrodite comes;
Light falls her footstep on the billowy wave,
Softly she smiles upon her willing slave;
Blue as the ether in the heights above,
Radiant her eyes, all beaming o’er with love;
Pink as the coral in the ocean foam,
Parted, her lips invite him to her home;
And like the algae in the deep sea trove
Wavy her tresses in the zephyrs move;
Whilst her soft whispers all his fears allay,
Thus love’s fair goddess beckons him away.
“Come with me, fisher, leave thy dreary toil,
Fly from thy cares to Candia’s blessed soil;
’Neath Ida’s mount far from the sun’s fierce rays,
In a cool grot we’ll pass the sweltering days,
And when the moon shines on the silver sea,
Drawn by my doves thou’lt float along with me;
Hid in my cave shalt taste all love’s delights,
Whilst joyous days succeed the tranquil nights.”
Ah! shun her glances, danger lurketh there:
Thus did her charms full often slaves ensnare.
So young Adonis, who ne’er loved before,
Fleeing her wiles, fell to the tusked boar,
And Mars, the vengeful, direful, God of War,
By Vulcan’s net trapped, all Olympus saw!
Rather let Juno, who befriends pure loves,
Drive from thy side the siren and her doves.
Think of thy home in Baïa’s beauteous bay,
Where sits thy wife, thy children joyous play,
And of the taper by the Virgin’s shrine
Lit as a safeguard for their weal and thine.
Frightened he wakes, he starts, he rubs his eyes,
Chased by the light the feckless phantom flies:
Vanished the temptress, all his senses seem
Once more his own; but Santos! what a dream!
Ashbrook, 1885.