THE PINNACE

HIS pinnace, friends, which here you see,
Avers erewhile she used to be

TH

Unmatched for speed, and could outstrip Triumphantly the fastest ship

That ever swam, or breasted gale,
Alike with either oar or sail.

And this, she says, her haughty boast,

The stormy Adriatic coast,

The Cyclad islands, Rhodes the grand,

Rude Thrace, the wild Propontic strand,
Will never venture to gainsay;

Nor yet the Euxine's cruel bay,
Where in her early days she stood,
This bark to be, a shaggy wood;
For from her vocal locks full oft,
Where o'er Cytorus far aloft
The fitful mountain-breezes blow,
She piped and whistled loud or low.

To thee, Amastris, on thy rocks,

To thee, Cytorus, clad with box,

Has long been known, my bark avers,
This little history of hers.

In her first youth, she doth protest,
She stood upon your topmost crest,
First in your waters dipped her oars,
First bore her master from your shores
Anon unscathed o'er many a deep,
In sunshine and in storm to sweep;
Whether the breezes, as she flew,
From larboard or from starboard blew,
Or with a wake of foam behind,
She scudded full before the wind.

Nor to the gods of ocean e'er

For her was offered vow or prayer,
Though from yon farthest ocean drear
She came to this calm crystal mere.

But these are things of days gone past.
Now, anchored here in peace at last,

To grow to hoary age, lies she,
And dedicates herself to thee,
Who hast alway her guardian been,
Twin Castor, and thy brother twin!

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

IT

AN INVITATION TO DINNER

F THE gods will, Fabullus mine,

With me right heartily you'll dine.

Bring but good cheer-that chance is thine
Some days hereafter;

Mind, a fair girl too, wit, and wine,
And merry laughter.

Bring these-you'll feast on kingly fare;
But bring them-for my purse - I swear
The spiders have been weaving there;
But thee I'll favor

With a pure love, or what's more rare,
More sweet of savor,

An unguent I'll before you lay
The Loves and Graces t'other day
Gave to my girl-smell it- you'll pray
The gods, Fabullus,

To make you turn all nose straightway.
Yours aye, CATULLUS.

Translation of James Cranstoun.

A BROTHER'S GRAVE

ROTHER! o'er many lands and oceans borne,

B I reach thy grave, death's last sad rite 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 layAll soaked with tears for thee, thee loved so wellWhat gifts our fathers gave the honored clay Of valued friends; take them, my grief they tell: And now, forever hail! forever fare thee well! Translation of James Cranstoun.

FAREWELL TO HIS FELLOW-OFFICERS

HE milder breath of Spring is nigh;

THE

The stormy equinoctial sky

To Zephyr's gentle breezes yields.
Behind me soon the Phrygian fields,
Nicæa's sun-beat realm, shall lie.
To Asia's famous towns we'll hie.
My heart, that craves to wander free,
Throbs even now expectantly.

With zeal my joyous feet are strong;
Farewell, dear comrades, loved so long!
Afar together did we roam;

Now ways diverse shall lead us home.

Translation of W. C. Lawton.

VERSES FROM AN EPITHALAMIUM

AND

ND now, ye gates, your wings unfold!
The virgin draweth nigh. Behold
The torches, how upon the air

They shake abroad their gleaming hair!
Come, bride, come forth! no more delay!
The day is hurrying fast away!

But lost in shame and maiden fears,
She stirs not,-weeping, as she hears
The friends that to her tears reply,-
«Thou must advance, the hour is nigh!
Come, bride, come forth! no more delay!
The day is hurrying fast away!"

Dry up thy tears! For well I trow,
No woman lovelier than thou,

Aurunculeia, shall behold
The day all panoplied in gold,
And rosy light uplift his head
Above the shimmering ocean's bed!

As in some rich man's garden-plot,
With flowers of every hue inwrought,
Stands peerless forth with drooping brow
The hyacinth, so standest thou!

Come, bride, come forth! no more delay!
The day is hurrying fast away!

Soon my eyes shall see, mayhap,
Young Torquatus on the lap
Of his mother, as he stands
Stretching out his tiny hands,
And his little lips the while
Half-open on his father smile.

And oh! may he in all be like
Manlius his sire, and strike
Strangers, when the boy they meet,
As his father's counterfeit,

And his face the index be

Of his mother's chastity!

Him, too, such fair fame adorn,

Son of such a mother born,

That the praise of both entwined

Call Telemachus to mind,

With her who nursed him on her knee,
Unparagoned Penelope!

Now, virgins, let us shut the door!

Enough we've toyed, enough and more!

But fare ye well, ye loving pair,

We leave ye to each other's care;

And blithely let your hours be sped

In joys of youth and lustyhed!

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

NOTE.-The remaining poems of our selection are all associated with the famous passion for Lesbia.

A thousand add to these, anon
A hundred more, then hurry one
Kiss after kiss without cessation,.
Until we lose all calculation;
So envy shall not mar our blisses
By numbering up our tale of kisses.

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

ELEGY ON LESBIA'S SPARROW

L

OVES and Graces, mourn with me,

Mourn, fair youths, where'er ye be!
Dead my Lesbia's sparrow is,

Sparrow that was all her bliss,
Than her very eyes more dear;
For he made her dainty cheer;
Knew her well, as any maid
Knows her mother; never strayed
From her bosom, but would go
Hopping round her to and fro,
And to her, and her alone,
Chirruped with such pretty tone.
Now he treads that gloomy track
Whence none ever may come back.
Out upon you, and your power,
Which all fairest things devour,
Orcus's gloomy shades, that e'er
Ye took my bird that was so fair!
Ah, the pity of it! Thou

Poor bird, thy doing 'tis, that now

My loved one's eyes are swollen and red,

With weeping for her darling dead.

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

NEV

"FICKLE AND CHANGEABLE EVER »

EVER 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.

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.