CATULLUS AT HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE.

'ER

many a sea, o'er many a stranger land, I bring this tribute to thy lonely tomb, My brother! and beside the narrow room, That holds thy silent ashes weeping stand. Vainly I call to thee. Who can command An answer forth from Orcus' dreary gloom? Oh, brother, brother, life lost all its bloom, When thou wert snatch'd from me with pitiless hand! A day will come, when we shall meet once more! Meanwhile, these gifts, which to the honour'd grave Of those they loved in life our sires of yore With pious hand and reverential gave, Accept! Gifts moisten'd with a brother's tears!

And now, farewell, and rest thee from all fears!

TO CORNELIUS.

F secret e'er be lodged by friend with friend,
Each bound to each by proved fidelity,

Thy trust I'll keep as sacred to the end,
So think you have Harpocrates in me.

TO SILO.

OU, Silo, rude and surly? Zounds!
Deliver back my fifty pounds,
And then you may, for aught I care,
Be rude and surly-if you dare!
But, pray, while pimping is your trade,
Remember, sir, for what you're paid,
And keep, whate'er may lurk beneath,
A civil tongue within your teeth!

ON MAMURRA.

AMURRA, he toils till at each pore he oozes,
The heights of Pimplea to scale;

But over the cliffs he is chuck'd by the Muses
With pitchforks back into the vale.

TO COMINIUS.

F on your hoary age, Cominius, foul

With every filthy vice that tongue can name, The public voice might speak its doom, a howl Of universal horror would proclaim—

"Give to the vultures his malignant tongue, Tear out his eyes, and toss them to the crows, His entrails next to carrion dogs be flung,

And let the wolves of what is left dispose!"

ON MAMURRA.

AMURRA rich is said to be,
In his estate at Formiæ,

And rightly too, since it can boast
Of everything one wishes most;

In parks, and ponds, and pasture grounds,
And well-till'd acres, it abounds;

In fish and fowl withal, both tame

And wild, and every sort of
game.
But how about their owner, pray?
Is he the wealthy man they say?
Not he! For in a week, 'tis clear,
He spends the income of a year.
Call his estate, then, princely, grand,
So he but starve amid the land,
And let its wealth exceed all thought,
So he, its beggar'd lord, have nought!

TO CINNA.

HEN Pompey was Rome's consul first, 'Twas with but two adulterers cursed. When next he did the office fill,

These two remain'd to cuckold still; But they had managed so to teach, That myriads more had sprung from each : So fast it breeds and breeds again, The taste for wives of other men.