Catullus 68

Original Latin

Quod mihi fortuna casuque oppressus acerbo

conscriptum hoc lacrimis mittis epistolium,

naufragum ut eiectum spumantibus aequoris undis

sublevem et a mortis limine restituam,

quem neque sancta Venus molli requiescere somno

desertum in lecto caelibe perpetitur,

nec veterum dulci scriptorum carmine Musae

oblectant, cum mens anxia pervigilat:

id gratum est mihi, me quoniam tibi dicis amicum,

muneraque et Musarum hinc petis et Veneris.

sed tibi ne mea sint ignota incommoda, Mani,

neu me odisse putes hospitis officium,

accipe, quis merser fortunae fluctibus ipse,

ne amplius a misero dona beata petas.

tempore quo primum vestis mihi tradita pura est,

iucundum cum aetas florida ver ageret,

multa satis lusi: non est dea nescia nostri,

quae dulcem curis miscet amaritiem.

sed totum hoc studium luctu fraterna mihi mors

abstulit. o misero frater adempte mihi,

tu mea tu moriens fregisti commoda, frater,

tecum una tota est nostra sepulta domus,

omnia tecum una perierunt gaudia nostra,

quae tuus in vita dulcis alebat amor.

cuius ego interitu tota de mente fugavi

haec studia atque omnes delicias animi.

quare, quod scribis Veronae turpe Catullo

esse, quod hic quisquis de meliore nota

frigida deserto tepefactet membra cubili,

id, Mani, non est turpe, magis miserum est.

ignosces igitur si, quae mihi luctus ademit,

haec tibi non tribuo munera, cum nequeo.

nam, quod scriptorum non magna est copia apud me,

hoc fit, quod Romae vivimus: illa domus,

illa mihi sedes, illic mea carpitur aetas;

huc una ex multis capsula me sequitur.

quod cum ita sit, nolim statuas nos mente maligna

id facere aut animo non satis ingenuo,

quod tibi non utriusque petenti copia posta est:

ultro ego deferrem, copia siqua foret.

Non possum reticere, deae, qua me Allius in re

iuuerit aut quantis iuverit officiis,

ne fugiens saeclis obliviscentibus aetas

illius hoc caeca nocte tegat studium:

sed dicam vobis, vos porro dicite multis

milibus et facite haec carta loquatur anus.

* * * * * * * *

notescatque magis mortuus atque magis,

nec tenuem texens sublimis aranea telam

in deserto Alli nomine opus faciat.

nam, mihi quam dederit duplex Amathusia curam,

scitis, et in quo me torruerit genere,

cum tantum arderem quantum Trinacria rupes

lymphaque in Oetaeis Malia Thermopylis,

maesta neque assiduo tabescere lumina fletu

cessarent. tristique imbre madere genae.

qualis in aerii perlucens vertice montis

riuus muscoso prosilit e lapide,

qui cum de prona praeceps est valle volutus,

per medium densi transit iter populi,

dulce viatori lasso in sudore levamen,

cum gravis exustos aestus hiulcat agros:

hic, velut in nigro iactatis turbine nautis

lenius aspirans aura secunda venit

iam prece Pollucis, iam Castoris implorata,

tale fuit nobis Allius auxilium.

is clausum lato patefecit limite campum,

isque domum nobis isque dedit dominae,

ad quam communes exerceremus amores.

quo mea se molli candida diva pede

intulit et trito fulgentem in limine plantam

innixa arguta constituit solea,

coniugis ut quondam flagrans advenit amore

Protesilaeam Laodamia domum

inceptam frustra, nondum cum sanguine sacro

hostia caelestis pacificasset eros.

nil mihi tam valde placeat, Ramnusia virgo,

quod temere invitis suscipiatur eris.

quam ieiuna pium desiderat ara cruorem,

docta est amisso Laudamia viro,

coniugis ante coacta novi dimittere collum,

quam veniens una atque altera rursus hiems

noctibus in longis avidum saturasset amorem,

posset ut abrupto vivere coniugio,

quod scibant Parcae non longo tempore abesse,

si miles muros isset ad Iliacos.

nam tum Helenae raptu primores Argiuorum

coeperat ad sese Troia ciere viros,

Troia (nefas!) commune sepulcrum Asiae Europaeque,

Troia virum et virtutum omnium acerba cinis,

quaene etiam nostro letum miserabile fratri

attulit. ei misero frater adempte mihi

ei misero fratri iucundum lumen ademptum,

tecum una tota est nostra sepulta domus,

omnia tecum una perierunt gaudia nostra,

quae tuus in vita dulcis alebat amor.

quem nunc tam longe non inter nota sepulcra

nec prope cognatos compositum cineres,

sed Troia obscena, Troia infelice sepultum

detinet extremo terra aliena solo.

ad quam tum properans fertur undique pubes

Graecae penetralis deseruisse focos,

ne Paris abducta gavisus libera moecha

otia pacato degeret in thalamo.

quo tibi tum casu, pulcerrima Laudamia,

ereptum est vita dulcius atque anima

coniugium: tanto te absorbens vertice amoris

aestus in abruptum detulerat barathrum,

quale ferunt Grai Pheneum prope Cylleneum

siccare emulsa pingue palude solum,

quod quondam caesis montis fodisse medullis

audit falsiparens Amphitryoniades,

tempore quo certa Stymphalia monstra sagitta

perculit imperio deterioris eri,

pluribus ut caeli tereretur ianua divis,

Hebe nec longa virginitate foret.

sed tuus altus amor barathro fuit altior illo,

qui tamen indomitam ferre iugum docuit.

nam nec tam carum confecto aetate parenti

una caput seri nata nepotis alit,

qui cum divitiis vix tandem iuventus avitis

nomen testatas intulit in tabulas,

impia derisi gentilis gaudia tollens,

suscitat a cano volturium capiti:

nec tantum niveo gavisa est ulla columbo

compar, quae multo dicitur improbius

oscula mordenti semper decerpere rostro,

quam quae praecipve multivola est mulier.

sed tu horum magnos vicisti sola furores,

ut semel es flavo conciliata viro.

aut nihil aut paulum cui tum concedere digna

lux mea se nostrum contulit in gremium,

quam circumcursans hinc illinc saepe Cupido

fulgebat crocina candidus in tunica.

quae tamen etsi uno non est contenta Catullo,

rara verecundae furta feremus erae

ne nimium simus stultorum more molesti.

saepe etiam Iuno, maxima caelicolum,

coniugis in culpa flagrantem concoquit iram,

noscens omnivoli plurima furta Iovis.

atqui nec divis homines componier aequum est,

* * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * *

ingratum tremuli tolle parentis onus.

nec tamen illa mihi dextra deducta paterna

fragrantem Assyrio venit odore domum,

sed furtiva dedit mira munuscula nocte,

ipsius ex ipso dempta viri gremio.

quare illud satis est, si nobis is datur unis

quem lapide illa dies candidiore notat.

hoc tibi, quod potui, confectum carmine munus

pro multis, Alli, redditur officiis,

ne vestrum scabra tangat rubigine nomen

haec atque illa dies atque alia atque alia.

huc addent divi quam plurima, quae Themis olim

antiquis solita est munera ferre piis.

sitis felices et tu simul et tua vita,

et domus in qua lusimus et domina,

et qui principio nobis terram dedit aufert,

a quo sunt primo omnia nata bona,

et longe ante omnes mihi quae me carior ipso est,

lux mea, qua viva vivere dulce mihi est.

My Translation

You send me this letter, 

crushed by bitter fate and circumstance, 

staining the pages with tears–

you plead that I lift you like 

a shipwrecked man is lifted from the 

depths of the foaming sea, and 

save you from death’s doorstep. 

You send me this letter, 

you who holy Venus does not let rest gently 

on an empty bed, and you whose anxious mind

the Muses do not delight

with their sweet songs of ancient poets–

I am grateful that you call me your friend, 

and ask me to deliver the gifts of the gods. 

But I must confess, as is my duty as a friend to you, Manius, 

that I have sunk into waves of misfortune.

Wretched me may not have  the pleasing gifts you seek. 

For, from the time when I first received the white toga, 

and my youth was blooming, 

I played enough–

the goddess was watching, and 

she always entangles sweet gifts with bitter worries. 

I lost everything when my brother died. 

O Brother, stolen from miserable me, 

your death stole all my happiness! 

In your grave our whole house is buried –

with your death, all the joy 

that your sweet love nourished 

perished!

Since he died, I have expelled all 

pursuits and pleasures from my mind. 

You write that it is shameful for Catullus to live in Verona, 

for here someone famous can only warm his frigid limbs

under abandoned blankets. 

But it is not shameful, Manius–

it is miserable. 

Forgive me if I cannot give to you what grief has stolen from me. 

As for the books you request, I do not have many here with me. 

After all, I live in Rome –

in that city, my home, my place, my life 

remains; only one small suitcase followed me here. 

Please, do not think I act maliciously or resent you–

I simply cannot supply those things you ask for. 

If I could, I would give them to you without delay.

 Catullus 68b: In Commemoration

I can no longer be silent, gods, 

about all the help and kindness Allius has given me–

I cannot let time, racing to forgetfulness, 

bury his services in the 

blind, dark night. 

I shall tell you, so you tell many thousands, 

and this page may speak even when it is ancient. 

Let this man be famous everywhere, 

and only more so despite his death. 

Let no agile spider 

weave its thin web, undisturbed, 

upon Allius’s work. 

You know that the goddess of Amathus 

gave me twin troubles, and 

I fell, scorching as fiercely as 

Sicilian rocks or Oeta’s hot springs. 

My eyes kept wasting away, destroyed 

with constant weeping, and my cheeks 

stayed soaked with bitter rain. 

Then, like a clear stream springing 

from mossy stone rushes through a sloping valley and, 

cutting its way through the crowded fields, 

brings sweet comfort to the weary traveler 

when the fierce heat splits dry fields, 

or like a blessed wind

saves the sailor tossing in the black storm, 

now praying to Pollux and Castor– 

just like these saviors, Allius brought help to me. 

He opened wide expanses closed to me and

gave me and my mistress a home where 

we could consummate our love. 

Across that home’s worn threshold, 

she came, shining, like Laodamia, 

who once loved Protesilaus before 

the gods thirsted for his blood. 

Laodamia, learning from the loss of her husband, 

released his neck before 

they could enjoy the long winter–

the Fate knew he would die soon after he 

waged war on Troy’s walls.

O Troy, grave of Asia and Europe, 

O Troy, bitter ash filled with men and bravery–

you, too, stole away my brother–

with you, all the joy of life disappeared. 

You, foreign land, hold my brother

so deep underground– 

far from familiar tombs and the ashes of relatives.

He is buried in horrid Troy!

He lies beside the conscripted Greeks, who 

hurry from every part of their land,

leaving their lovers, so that Paris may please himself, 

unconcerned, with his stolen adulteress. 

By cruel fate, 

a marriage dearer to her than life or breath, 

was stolen from 

beautiful Laodamia. 

A surge of love so powerful has swallowed you, 

Laodamia, and dragged you into that sheer abyss–

just like the chasm beneath Cyllene, near Peneus,

which the Greeks say swallowed

the marshy plane when 

Hercules, that divinely fathered son, 

once dared to dig. 

He split apart the mountain’s core 

and struck down the Stymphalian monsters 

with sure arrows, not effective 

if he were a lesser master. 

He split apart the mountain’s core 

so that the gods would frequent 

heaven’s doorstep, and Hebe 

would lose her purity. 

But somehow, your deep love –

love that taught you, wild girl, to 

bear the marriage yoke – 

was deeper than this gulf. 

Not even a young grandson is dearer

to a father worn with age, 

who at last has a worthy heir to his ancestral wealth–

entering his name into the tablets 

tears away the greedy hope of lazy kin. 

Not even a snow-white dove is dearer 

to the young maiden, 

who always steals kisses from the bird’s eager beak. 

Not anyone is dearer to anyone than 

your husband is dear to you!

And my own sunshine– 

she, too, as beautiful as Laodamia, 

was just as beloved by my embrace.

Around her playful Cupid runs, 

shining in his saffron cloak. 

Although she is not content with just one Catullus, 

we endure the rare, furtive 

faults of a “modest” mistress—

we would be fools not to, for even Juno,

greatest of the gods, 

often swallows her blazing anger when confronted 

with her husband’s infidelity, 

although she knew well the constant desires of 

passionate Jupiter. 

But we shouldn’t compare men to gods– 

we men bear the thankless burden of concerned fathers. 

Yet she came to me not led by her 

father’s hand– she came to me,

alone, 

in a house smelling of Syrian incense.

She brought me secret gifts, stolen from the 

lap of her very husband, on this 

stolen night. 

And this, this is enough – if this day alone is all she gives me, 

she has made this day brilliant. 

This song is my gift to you, Allius, 

in return for all your kindness. 

With it, neither this day nor any other 

will be the day your name is stained with rough rust. 

And gods, please add many gifts as well, 

just like Themis once bestowed blessings 

on the faithless in those ancient days. 

Allius, be prosperous –

for you gifted the house where we once played,

 and you gifted her, 

dearer to me than all others, 

dearer to me than myself. 

You gifted my light, whose life makes 

mine worth living.