by Catullus
Maidens. Hesperus, what more cruel fire than thine moves in the sky? for thou canst endure to tear the daughter from her mother’s embrace, from her mother’s embrace to tear the close-clinging daughter, and give the chaste maiden to the burning youth. What more cruel than this do enemies when a city falls? Hymen, O Hymenaeus, Hymen, hither, O Hymenaeus!
Youths. Hesperus, what more welcome fire than thine shines in the sky? for thou with thy flame confirmest the contracted espousals, which husbands and parents have promised beforehand, but unite not till thy flame has arisen. What is given by the gods more desirable than the fortunate hour? Hymen, O Hymenaeus, Hymen, hither, O Hymenaeus!
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Maidens. Hesperus, friends, has taken away one of us.
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Youths. For at thy coming the guard is always awake. By night thieves hide themselves, whom thou, Hesperus, often overtakest as thou returnest, Hesperus the same but with changed name Eous. [Hymen, O Hymenaeus, Hymen, hither, O Hymenaeus!]
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But girls love to chide thee with feigned complaint. What then, if they chide him whom they desire in their secret heart? Hymen, O Hymenaeus, Hymen, hither, O Hymenaeus!
Maidens. As a flower springs up secretly in a fenced garden, unknown to the cattle, torn up by no plough, which the winds caress, the sun strengthens, the shower draws forth, many boys, many girls, desire it; when the same flower fades, nipped by a sharp nail, no boys, no girls desire it: so a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own; when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls. Hymen, O Hymenaeus, Hymen, hither, O Hymenaeus!
Youths. As an unwedded vine which grows up in a bare field never raises itself aloft, never brings forth a mellow grape, but bending its tender form with downward weight, even now touches the root with topmost shoot; no farmers, no oxen tend it: but if it chance to be joined in marriage to the elm, many farmers, many oxen tend it: so a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she aging untended; but when in ripe season she is matched in equal wedlock, she is more dear to her husband and less distasteful to her father. [Hymen, O Hymenaeus, Hymen, hither, O Hymenaeus!]
And you, maiden, strive not with such a husband; it is not right to strive with him to whom your father himself gave you, your father himself with your mother, whom you must obey. Your maidenhead is not all your own; partly it belongs to your parents, a third part is given to your father, a third part to your mother, only a third is yours; do not contend with two, who have given their rights to their son-in-law together with the dowry. Hymen, O Hymenaeus, Hymen, hither, O Hymenaeus!
LXIII
BORNE in his swift bark over deep seas, Attis, when eagerly with speedy foot he reached the Phrygian woodland, and entered the goddess’s abodes, shadowy, forest-crowned; there, goaded by raging madness, bewildered in mind, he cast down from him with sharp flint-stone the burden of his members. So when she felt her limbs to have lost their manhood, still with fresh blood dabbling the face of the ground, swiftly with snowy hands she seized the light timbrel, timbrel, trumpet of Cybele, thy mysteries, Mother, and shaking with soft fingers the hollow oxhide thus began she to sing to her companions tremulously: “Come away, ye Gallae, go to the mountain forests of Cybele together, together go, wandering herd of the lady of Dindymus, who swiftly seeking alien homes as exiles, followed my rule as I led you in my train, endured the fast-flowing brine and the savage seas, and unmanned your bodies from utter abhorrence of love, cheer ye your Lady’s heart with swift wanderings. Let dull delay depart from your mind; go together, follow to the Phrygian house of Cybele, to the Phrygian forests of the goddess, where the noise of cymbals sounds, where timbrels re-echo, where the Phrygian flute-player blows a deep note on his curved reed, where the Maenads ivy-crowned toss their heads violently, where with shrill yells they shake the holy emblems, where that wandering company of the goddess is wont to rove, whither for us ’tis meet to hasten with rapid dances.”
So soon as Attis, woman yet no true one, chanted thus to her companions, the revellers suddenly with quivering tongues yell aloud, the light timbrel rings again, clash again the hollow cymbals, swiftly to green Ida goes the rout with hurrying foot. Then too frenzied, panting, uncertain, wanders, gasping for breath, attended by the timbrel, Attis, through the dark forests their leader, as a heifer unbroken starting aside from the burden of the yoke. Fast follow the Gallae their swift-footed leader. So when they gained the house of Cybele, faint and weary, after much toil they take their rest without bread; heavy sleep covers their eyes with drooping weariness, the delirious madness of their mind departs in soft slumber. But when the sun with the flashing eyes of his golden face lightened the clear heaven, the firm lands, the wild sea, and chased away the shades of night with eager tramping steeds refreshed, then Sleep fled from wakened Attis and quickly was gone; him the goddess Pasithea received in her fluttering bosom. So after soft slumber, freed from violent madness, as soon as Attis himself in his heart reviewed his own deed, and saw with clear mind what he had lost and where he was, with surging mind again he sped back to the waves. There, looking out upon the waste seas with streaming eyes, thus did she piteously address her country with tearful voice:
“O my country that gavest me life! O my country that barest me! leaving whom, ah wretch! as runaway servants leave their masters, I have borne my foot to the forests of Ida, to live among snows and frozen lairs of wild beasts, and visit in my frenzy all their lurking-dens, — where then or in what region do I think thy place to be, O my country? Mine eyeballs unbidden long to turn their gaze to thee, while for a short space my mind is free from wild frenzy. I, shall I from my own home be borne far away into these forests? from my country, my possessions, my friends, my parents, shall I be absent? absent from the market, the wrestling-place, the racecourse, the playground? unhappy, ah unhappy heart, again, again must thou complain. For what form of human figure is there which I had not? I, to be a woman — I who was a stripling, I a youth, I a boy, I was the flower of the playground, I was once the glory of the palaestra: mine were the crowded doorways, mine the warm thresholds, mine the flowery garlands to deck my house when I was to leave my chamber at sunrise. I, shall I now be called — what? a handmaid of the gods, a ministress of Cybele? I a Maenad, I part of myself a barren man shall I be? I, shall I dwell in icy snow-clad regions of verdant Ida, I pass my life under the high summits of Phrygia, with the hind that haunts the woodland, with the boar that ranges the forest? now, now I rue my deed, now, now I would it were undone.”
From his rosy lips as these words issued forth, bringing a new message to both ears of the gods, then Cybele, loosening the fastened yoke from her lions, and goading that foe of the herd who drew on the left, thus speaks: “Come now,” she says, “come, go fiercely let madness hunt him hence, bid him hence by stroke of madness hie him to the forests again, him who would be too free, and run away from my sovereignty. Come, lash back with tail, endure thy own scourging, make all around resound with bellowing roar, shake fiercely on brawny neck thy ruddy mane.” Thus says wrathful Cybele, and with her hand unbinds the yoke. The monster stirs his courage and rouses him to fury of heart; he speeds away, he roars, with ranging foot he breaks the brushwood. But when he came to the watery stretches of the white-gleaming shore, and saw tender Attis by the smooth spaces of the sea, he rushes at him — madly flies Attis to the wild woodland. There always for all his lifetime was he a handmaid.
Goddess, great goddess, Cybele, goddess, lady of Dindymus, far from my house be all thy fury, O my queen; others drive thou in frenzy, others drive thou to madness.
LXIV
PINE-TREES of old, born on the top of Pelion, are said to have swum through the clear waters of Neptune to the waves of Phasis and the realms of Aeetes, when the chosen youths, the flower of Argive strength, desiring to bear away from the Colchians the golden fleece, dared to course over the salt seas with swift ship, sweeping the blue expanse with fir-wood b
lades, for whom the goddess who holds the fortresses of city-tops made with her own hands the car flitting with light breeze, and bound the piny structure of the bowed, keel. That ship first hanselled with, voyage Amphitrite untried before.
So when she ploughed with her beak the windy expanse, and the wave churned by the oars grew white with foam-flakes, forth looked from the foaming surge of the sea the Nereids of the deep wondering at the strange thing. On that day, if on any other, mortals saw with their eyes the sea-Nymphs standing forth from the hoary tide, with bodies naked as far as the paps. Then is Peleus, said to have caught fire with love of Thetis, then did Thetis not disdain mortal espousals, then did the Father himself know in his heart that Peleus must be joined to Thetis. O ye, in happiest time of ages born, hail, heroes, sprang from gods! hail, kindly offspring of good mothers, hail again! you often in my song, you will I address. And specially thee, greatly blessed by fortunate marriage torches, mainstay of Thessaly, Peleus, to whom Jupiter himself, the king of the gods himself granted his own Love.
Thee did fairest Thetis clasp, daughter of Nereus? to thee did Tethys grant to wed her granddaughter, and Oceanus, who circles all the world with sea?
Now when that longed-for day in time fulfilled had come for them, all Thessaly in full assembly crowds the house, the palace is thronged with a joyful company. They bring gifts in their hands, they display joy in their looks. Cieros is deserted; they leave Phthiotic Tempe and the houses of Crannon and the walls of Larissa; at Pharsalus they meet, and flock to the houses of Pharsalus. None now tills the lands; the necks of the steers grow soft; no more is the ground of the vineyard cleared with curved rakes; no more does the primers’ hook thin the shade of the tree; no more does the ox tear up the soil with downward share; rough rust creeps over the deserted ploughs.
But Peleus’ own abodes, so far as inward stretched the wealthy palace, with glittering gold and silver shine. White gleams the ivory of the thrones, bright are the cups on the table; the whole house is gay and gorgeous with royal treasure. But see, the royal marriage bed is being set for the goddess in the midst of the palace, smoothly fashioned of Indian tusk, covered with purple tinged with the rosy stain of the shell.
This coverlet, broidered with shapes of ancient men, with wondrous art sets forth the worthy deeds of heroes. For there, looking forth from the wave-sounding shore of Dia, Ariadna sees Theseus, as he sails away with swift fleet, Ariadna bearing wild madness in her heart. Not yet can she believe she beholds what yet she does behold; since now, now first wakened from treacherous sleep she sees herself, poor wretch, deserted on the lonely sand. Meanwhile the youth flies and strikes the waters with his oars, leaving unfulfilled his empty pledges to the gusty storm; at whom afar from the weedy beach with streaming eyes the daughter of Minos, like a marble figure of a bacchanal, looks forth, alas! looks forth tempest-tost with great tides of passion. Nor does she still keep the delicate headband on her golden head, nor has her breast veiled by the covering of her light raiment, nor her milk-white bosom bound with the smooth girdle; all these, as they slipt off around her whole body, before her very feet the salt waves lapped. She for her headgear then, she for her floating raiment then, cared not, but on thee, Theseus, with all her thoughts, with all her soul, with all her mind (lost, ah lost!) was hanging, unhappy maid! whom with unceasing floods of grief Erycina maddened, sowing thorny cares in her breast, even from that hour, what time bold Theseus setting forth from the winding shores of Piraeus reached the Gortynian palace of the lawless king.
For they tell how of old, driven by a cruel pestilence to pay a penalty for the slaughter of Androgeos, Cecropia was wont to give as a feast to the Minotaur chosen youths, and with them the flower of unwedded maids. Now when his narrow walls were troubled by these evils, Theseus himself for his dear Athens chose to offer his own body, rather than that such deaths, living deaths, of Cecropia should be borne to Crete. Thus then, speeding his course with light bark and gentle gales, he comes to lordly Minos and his haughty halls. Him when the damsel beheld with eager eye, the princess, whom her chaste couch breathing sweet odours still nursed in her mother’s soft embrace, like myrtles which spring by the streams of Eurotas, or the flowers of varied hue which the breath of spring draws forth, she turned not her burning eyes away from him, till she had caught fire in all her heart deep within, and glowed all flame in her inmost marrow. Ah! thou that stirrest cruel madness with ruthless heart, divine boy, who minglest joys of men with cares, and thou, who reignest over Golgi and leafy Idalium, on what billows did ye toss the burning heart of the maiden, often sighing for the golden-headed stranger! what fears did she endure with fainting heart! how often did she then grow paler than the gleam of gold, when Theseus, eager to contend with the savage monster, was setting forth to win either death or the meed of valour! Yet not unsweet were the gifts, though vainly promised to the gods, which she offered with silent lip. For as a tree which waves its boughs on Taurus’ top, an oak or a cone-bearing pine with sweating bark, when a vehement storm twists the grain with its blast, and tears it up; — afar, wrenched up by the roots it lies prone, breaking away all that meets its fall — so did Theseus overcome and lay low the bulk of the monster, vainly tossing his horns to the empty winds. Thence he retraced his way, unharmed and with much glory, guiding his devious footsteps by the fine clew, lest as he came forth from the mazy windings of the labyrinth the inextricable entanglement of the building should bewilder him.
But why should I leave the first subject of my song and tell of more; how the daughter, flying from her father’s face, the embrace of her sister, then of her mother last, who lamented, lost in grief for her daughter — how she chose before all these the sweet love of Theseus; or how the ship was borne to the foaming shores of Dia; or how when her eyes were bound with soft sleep her spouse left her, departing with forgetful mind? Often in the madness of her burning heart they say that she uttered piercing cries from her inmost breast; and now would she sadly climb the rugged mountains, thence to strain her eyes over the waste of ocean-tide; now run out to meet the waters of the rippling brine, lifting the soft vesture of her bared knee. And thus said she mournfully in her last laments, uttering chilly sobs with tearful face:
“Thus then, having borne me afar from my father’s home, thus hast thou left me, faithless, faithless Theseus, on the lonely shore? thus departing, unmindful of the will of the gods, forgetful, ah! dost thou carry to thy home the curse of perjury? could nothing bend the purpose of thy cruel mind? was no mercy present in thy soul, to bid thy ruthless heart incline to pity for me? Not such were the promises thou gavest me once with winning voice, not this didst thou bid me hope, ah me! no, but a joyful wedlock, but a desired espousal; all which the winds of heaven now blow abroad in vain. Henceforth let no woman believe a man’s oath, let none believe that a man’s speeches can be trustworthy. They, while their mind desires something and longs eagerly to gain it, nothing fear to swear, nothing spare to promise; but as soon as the lust of their greedy mind is satisfied, they fear not then their words, they heed not their perjuries. I — thou knowest it — when thou wert tossing in the very whirl of death, saved thee, and set my heart rather to let my brother go than to fail thee, now faithless found, in thy utmost need. And for this I shall be given to beasts and birds to tear as a prey; my corpse shall have no sepulture, shall be sprinkled with no earth. What lioness bore thee under a desert rock? what sea conceived thee and vomited thee forth from its foaming waves? what Syrtis, what ravening Scylla, what waste Charybdis bore thee, who for sweet life returnest such meed as this? If thou hadst no mind to wed with me for dread of the harsh bidding of thy stern father, yet thou couldst have led me into thy dwellings to serve thee as a slave with labour of love, laving thy white feet with liquid water, or with purple coverlet spreading thy bed.
“But why should I, distracted with woe, cry in vain to the senseless airs — the airs that are endowed with no feeling, and can neither hear nor return the messages of my voice? He meanwhile is now tossin
g almost in mid-sea, and no human being is seen on the waste and weedy shore. Thus fortune too, full of spite, in this my supreme hour has cruelly grudged all ears to my complaints. Almighty Jupiter, I would the Attic ships had never touched Gnosian shores, nor ever the faithless voyager, bearing the dreadful tribute to the savage bull, had fastened his cable in Crete, nor that this evil man, hiding cruel designs under a fair outside, had reposed in our dwellings as a guest! For whither shall I return, lost, ah, lost? on what hope do I lean? shall I seek the mountains of Sidon? how broad the flood, how savage the tract of sea which divides them from me! Shall I hope for the aid of my father? — whom I deserted of my own will, to follow a lover dabbled with my brother’s blood! Or shall I console myself with the faithful love of my spouse, who is flying from me, bending his tough oars in the wave? and here too is naught but the shore, with never a house, a desert island; no way to depart opens for me; about me are the waters of the sea; no means of flight, no hope; all is dumb, all is desolate; all shows me the face of death. Yet my eyes shall not grow faint in death, nor shall the sense fail from my wearied body, before I demand from the gods just vengeance for my betrayal, and call upon the faith of the heavenly ones in my last hour.
“Therefore, O ye that visit the deeds of men with vengeful pains, ye Eumenides, whose foreheads bound with snaky hair announce the wrath which breathes from your breast, hither, hither haste, hear my complaints which I (ah, unhappy!) bring forth from my inmost heart perforce, helpless, burning, blinded with raging frenzy. For since my woes come truthfully from the depths of my heart, suffer not ye my grief to come to nothing: but even as Theseus had the heart to leave me desolate, with such a heart, ye goddesses, may he bring ruin upon himself and his own!”
