AD SEIPSUM.
Foolish Catullus—trifling ever—
Dismiss so fruitless an endeavour;
Let by-gone days be days by-gone,
Though fine enough some days have shone,—
When if she but held up her finger
Whom you so loved—and still you linger,
Nor dare to part with—you observant,
Were at her beck her humble servant;
Follow'd her here and there: and did
Such things! which she would not forbid—
Love's follies, without stint or doubt:
Oh! then your days shone finely out.
But now 'tis quite another thing,—
She likes not your philandering:
And you yourself! But be it over—
Act not again the silly lover—
But let her go—be hard as stone;
So let her go—and go alone.
Adieu, sweet lady! 'Tis in vain!
Catullus is himself again—
Will neither love, want, nor require,
But gives you up as you desire.
Wretch! you will grieve for this full sore,
When lovers come to you no more.
For think you, false one, to what pass,
Your wretched days will come? Alas!
No beauty yours—not one to say
How beautiful she looks to-day!
Whom will you have to love—to hear
Yourself called by his name, his dear?
Whom will you have to kiss,—be kiss'd
And bind your names, in true-love twist?
Whose lips to bite so?—yes—to bite.}
—Catullus, spare thy love or spite:}
Be firm as rock—or conquered quite.}
Curate.—I protest against this as a translation. He has indeed, as he professed, brought his puppet Catullus upon the stage, and, like Shakspeare's bad actor, has put more words in his mouth than the author bargained for. The very last words are quite contradicted by the text. Catullus does not hint at the possibility of being conquered, of giving in.
Gratian.—Oh! that, is always implied in these cases. Besides Catullus evidently doubts, or he would not have so enforced the caution; "At tu, Catulle"—the translation may be a little free, but still admissible.
Aquilius.—My friend the Curate has committed the fault himself, if it be one: his "O Catullus, keep to this!" so evidently means, If you do not, it is all over with you.
Gratian.—Give me the book.—Oh!—I see we have next that very elegant and very affectionate welcome home to his friend Verannius, on his return from Spain, whither he had gone with Caius Piso. There is much heart in it, and true joy and gratulation. This is the sort of welcome that throws a sunshine upon the path of the days of human life. There is no trouble when friend greets friend. Have you translated this?
Aquilius.—I fear your commendation will resemble too rich a frame to a poor picture, and make all more dingy by the glow of the genuine gold.
But here I venture to offer, my translation:—the warmth of the original—the tenderness, is not perhaps in it:
AD VERANNIUM.
Sweet friend, Verannius, welcome home at last!
Had I a thousand friends, all were surpass'd
By my Verannius! Art thou home return'd,
To thine own household gods, and hearts that yearn'd
To greet thee—brothers happy in one mind,
And thy dear mother, too,—all fond, all kind?
O happy, happy news! and now again
To see thee safe! and hear thee talk of Spain—
Its history, places, people, and array,
Telling of all in thy old pleasant way!
And shall I hold thee in a friend's embrace,
Gaze on thy mouth, and in thine eyes, and trace
The features of the well-remember'd face!
Oh, if one happiest man on earth there be,
Amongst the happy, I, dear friend, am he!