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The difficulties of translating Catullus can scarcely be too highly stated. Pezay was not far from the truth when he said, une traduction de Catulle et de Tibulle en vers, est l'ouvrage de la vie entière." But then the man with the requisite amount of power and leisure should not, and probably never would devote them to such a task. The present translator would have shrunk from the attempt to reproduce Catullus in English verse, but for his long and loving admiration of the poet, and the wish to make him better known among those who are shut out from familiarity with him, either through ignorance of Latin or the acknowledged difficulty of the originals. As a contribution towards this end, the present volume is presented with all humility. The words of Denham in the preface to his translation of the second book of the Eneid, comprise all which the translator would wish to say as to the execution of his labour of love :"When my expressions are not so full as his, either our language or my art were defective (but I rather suspect myself); but where mine are fuller than his, they are but the impressions which the often reading of him hath left upon my thoughts; so that if they are not his own conceptions, they are at least the results of them."

31, ONSLOW SQUARE,

April 22, 1861.

POEMS OF CATULLUS.

TO CORNELIUS NEPOS.

Y little volume is complete,

1.

And with the pumice made as neat
As tome need wish to be;

And now, what patron shall I choose
For these gay sallies of my muse?
Cornelius, whom but thee!

For though they are but trifles, thou
Some value didst to them allow,

And that from thee is fame,

Who dared in thy three volumes' space,

Alone of all Italians, trace

Our history and name.

Great Jove, what lore, what labour there!

Then take this little book, whate'er

Of good or bad it store;

And grant, oh guardian Muse, that it

May keep the flavour of its wit

A century or more!

S

PARROW, my dear lady's joy,
Who with thee delights to toy,
Thee within her breast to fold,
And her fair forefinger hold
Out for thee to bite its tip,
Whensoe'er with wanton quip
She makes sport of my desire,
So to soothe, methinks, the fire
That, with thrill of pleasing pain,
Courses through her every vein,
Might'st thou be by me caress'd,
So to still my heart's unrest,
Thee I'd then as fondly hail,
As the maiden in the tale
Hail'd that apple, all of gold,
From her bosom long so cold
Which unloosed the virgin zone,
Making her love's thraldom own!

ELEGY ON LESBIA'S SPARROW.

3.

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 stray'd From her lap, but still would go Hopping round her to and fro, And to her, and her alone, Chirrup'd with such pretty tone. Now he treads that gloomy track, Whence none ever may come back. Out upon you, and your pow'r, Which all fairest things devour, Orcus' gloomy shades, that e'er Ye should take my bird so fair! Oh, poor bird! Oh, dismal shades! Yours the blame is, that my maid's Eyes, dear eyes! are swol'n and red, Weeping for her darling dead.