—C. Pliny. Epist. v, 16
I have the saddest news to tell you. Our friend Fundanus has lost his youngest daughter. I never saw a girl more cheerful, more lovable, more worthy of long life—nay, of immortality. She had not yet completed her fourteenth year, and she had already the prudence of an old woman, the gravity of a matron, and still, with all maidenly modesty, the sweetness of a girl. How she would cling to her father's neck! how affectionately and discreetly she would greet us, her father's friends! how she loved her nurses, her attendants, her teachers,—everyone according to his service. How earnestly, how intelligently, she used to read! How modest was she and restrained in her sports! And with what self-restraint, what patience—nay, what courage—she bore her last illness! She obeyed the physicians, encouraged her father and sister, and, when all strength of body had left her, kept herself alive by the vigor of her mind. This vigor lasted to the very end, and was not broken by the length of her illness or by the fear of death; so leaving, alas! to us yet more and weightier reasons for our grief and our regret. Oh the sadness, the bitterness of that death! Oh the cruelty of the time when we lost her, worse even than the loss itself! She had been betrothed to a noble youth; the marriage day had been fixed, and we had been invited. How great a joy changed into how great a sorrow! I cannot express in words how it went to my heart when I heard Fundanus himself (this is one of the grievous experiences of sorrow) giving orders that what he had meant to lay out on dresses, and pearls, and jewels, should be spent on incense, unguents, and spices.
—Tr. Alfred J. Church
Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,
Et quantumst hominum venustiorum.
Passer mortuus est meae puellae,
Passer, deliciae meae puellae,
Quem plus illa oculis suis amabat:
Nam mellitus erat suamque norat
Ipsa tam bene quam puella matrem,
Nec sese a gremio illius movebat,
Sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
Ad solam dominam usque pipiabat.
Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
Illuc unde negant redire quemquam.
At vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis:
Tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.
O factum male! io miselle passer!
Tua nunc opera meae puellae
Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.
—Catullus
TRANSLATION
Each Love, each Venus, mourn with me!
Mourn, every son of gallantry!
The sparrow, my own nymph's delight,
The joy and apple of her sight;
The honey-bird, the darling dies,
To Lesbia dearer than her eyes,
As the fair one knew her mother,
So he knew her from another.
With his gentle lady wrestling,
In her snowy bosom nestling;
With a flutter and a bound,
Quiv'ring round her and around;
Chirping, twitt'ring, ever near,
Notes meant only for her ear.
Now he skims the shadowy way,
Whence none return to cheerful day.
Beshrew the shades! that thus devour
All that's pretty in an hour.
The pretty sparrow thus is dead;
The tiny fugitive is fled.
Deed of spite! poor bird!—ah! see,
For thy dear sake, alas! for me!—
My nymph with brimful eyes appears,
Red from the flushing of her tears.
—Elton
|
The following tribute to Cicero was written by Catullus, the Roman lyric poet (87-54 b.c.)
Disertissime Romuli nepotum,
Quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli,
Quot que post aliis erunt in annis,
Gratius tibi maximas Catullus
Agit, pessimus omnium poeta,
Tanto pessimus omnium poeta
Quanto tu optimus omnium patronum.
TRANSLATION
Tully, most eloquent, most sage
Of all the Roman race,
That deck the past or present age,
Or future days may grace.
Oh! may Catullus thus declare
An overflowing heart;
And, though the worst of poets, dare
A grateful lay impart!
'Twill teach thee how thou hast surpast
All others in thy line;
For, far as he in his is last,
Art thou the first in thine.
—Charles Lamb
|