Chapter XIII: Part 13

The modern Latin poets of Italy frequently apostrophize their favourite villas, in imitation of the address to Sirmio. Flaminius, in a poem, _Ad Agellum suum_, has described his attachment to his farm and home, and the first lines of it rival the tender and pleasing invocation of Catullus. Some of the subsequent lines are written in close imitation of the Roman poet—

—— “Jam libebit in cubiculo
Molles inire somnulos.
Gaudete, fontes rivulique limpidi.”

As also the whole of his address to the same villa, commencing—

“Umbræ frigidulæ, arborum susurri.”

One of the most pleasing features in the works of the modern Latin poets of Italy, is the descriptions of their villas, their regret at leaving them, or their invitations to friends to come and witness their happiness. Hence Fracastoro’s villa, in the vicinity of Verona, Ambra, and _Pulcherrima Mergellina_, are now almost esteemed classic spots, like Tusculum or Tibur.

The invocation to the peninsula of Sirmio was evidently written soon after the return of Catullus from Bithynia; and his next poem worth noticing is a similar address to his villa near Tibur. The thought, however, in this poem, is very forced and poor. Catullus having been invited by his friend Sextius, according to a common custom at Rome, to be one of a party assembled at his house for the purpose of hearing an oration composed by their host, had contracted such a cold from its frigidity, that he was obliged to leave Rome, and retire to this seat, in order to recover from its effects. For his speedy restoration to health, he now gives thanks to his salubrious villa. This residence was situated on the confines of the ancient Latian and Sabine territories, and the villas there, as we learn from this ode, were sometimes called Tiburtine, from the town of Tibur, and sometimes Sabine, from the district where they lay; but the former appellation, it seems, was greatly preferred by Catullus. As long as the odes of Horace survive, the

“Domus Albuneæ resonantis,
Et præceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis,”

will be remembered as forming one of the most delightful retreats in Italy, and one which was so agreeable to its poet, that he wished that of all others it might be the shelter and refuge of his old age. From the present aspect of Tivoli, the charm of the villas at the ancient Tibur may be still appreciated. “We ascended,” says Eustace, “the high hill on which Tivoli stands, passing through groves of olives, till we reached the summit. This town, the Tibur of the ancients, stands in a delightful situation, sheltered by Monte Catillo, and a semicircular range of Sabine mountains, and commanding, on the other side, an extensive view over the Campagna, bounded by the sea, Rome, Mount Soracte, and the pyramidal hills of Monticelli and Monte Rotondo, the ancient Eretum. But the pride and ornament of Tivoli are still, as anciently, the falls and the windings of the Anio, now Teverone. This river having meandered from its source through the vales of Sabina, glides gently through Tivoli, till, coming to the brink of a rock, it precipitates itself in one mass down the steep, and then boiling for an instant in its narrow channel, rushes headlong through a chasm in the rock into the caverns below.* * * To enjoy the scenery to advantage, the traveller must cross the bridge, and follow the road which runs at the foot of the classic Monte Catillo, and winds along the banks of the Anio. As he advances he will have on his left the steep banks covered with trees, shrubs, and gardens, and on his right the bold but varying swells of the hills shaded with groves of olives. These sunny declivities were anciently interspersed with splendid villas, the favourite abodes of the most luxurious and refined Romans. They are now replaced by two solitary convents, but their site, often conjectural or traditionary, is sometimes marked by scanty vestiges of ruins, and now and then by the more probable resemblance of a name(488).” Eustace does not particularly mention the farm or villa of Catullus. In the travels, however, which pass under the name of M. Blainville, written in the beginning of last century, we are informed, that a monastery of the religious order of Mount Olivet was then established on the spot where formerly stood the Tiburtine villa of Catullus(489). M. de Castellan fixes on the same spot, on account of its situation between the Sabine and Tiburtine territory. “D’ailleurs,” continues he, “il n’est pas d’endroit plus retiré, mieux garanti des vents, que cet angle rentrant de la vallée, entouré de tous côtes par de hautes montagnes; ce qui est encore un des caracteres du local choisi par notre poëte, qui pretendoit y être à l’abri de tout autre vent que de celui qui l’expose à la vengeance de sa maitresse(490).” It would appear from Forsyth’s Travels, that a spot is still fixed on as the site of the residence of Catullus. “The villa of Catullus,” he says, “is easily ascertained by his own minute description of the place, by excavated marbles, and by the popular name of Truglia.” This spot, which is close to the church of St Angelo in Piavola, is on the opposite side of the Anio from Tibur, about a mile north from that town, and on the north side of Monte Catillo, or what might be called the back of that hill, in reference to the situation of Tibur. The Anio divides the ancient Latian from the Sabine territory, and the villa of Catullus was on the Sabine side of the river, but was called Tiburtine from the vicinity of Tibur(491).

The Romans, and particularly the Roman poets, as if the rustic spirit of their Italian ancestry was not altogether banished by the buildings of Rome, appear to have had a genuine and exquisite relish for the delights of the country. This feeling was not inspired by fondness for field-sports, since, although habituated to violent exercises, the chase never was a favourite amusement among the Romans, and they preferred seeing wild animals baited in the amphitheatre, to hunting them down in their native forests. The country then was not relished as we are apt to enjoy it, for the sake of exercise or rural pastimes, but solely for its amenity and repose, and the mental tranquillity which it diffused. With them it seems to have been truely,

“The relish for the calm delight
Of verdant vales and fountains bright;
Trees that nod on sloping hills,
And caves that echo tinkling rills.”.

Love of the country among the Romans thus became conjoined with the idea of a life of pastoral tranquillity and retirement,—a life of friendship, liberty, and repose,—free from labour and care, and all turbulent passions. Scenes of this kind delight and interest us supremely, whether they be painted as what is desired or what is enjoyed. We feel how natural it is for a mind with a certain disposition to relaxation and indolence, when fatigued with the bustle of life, to long for security and quiet, and for those sequestered scenes in which they can be most exquisitely enjoyed. There is much less of this in the writings of the Greeks, who were originally a sea-faring and piratical, and not, like the Italians, a pastoral people. It is thus that, even in their highest state of refinement, the manners and feelings of nations bear some affinity to their original rudeness, though that rudeness itself has been imperceptibly converted into a source of elegance and ornament.

34. _Seculare carmen ad Dianam_. This is the first strictly lyric production of Catullus which occurs, and there are only three other poems of a similar class. In Greece, the public games afforded a noble occasion for the display of lyric poetry, and the sensibility of the Greeks fitted them to follow its highest flights. But it was not so among the Romans. They had no solemn festivals of assembled states: Their active and ambitious life deadened them to the emotions which lyric poetry should excite; and the gods, whose praises form the noblest themes of the Æolian lyre, were with them rather the creatures of state policy, than of feeling or imagination.

45. _De Acme et Septimio_. Here our poet details the mutual blandishments and amorous expressions of Acme and Septimius, with the approbation bestowed on them by Cupid. This amatory effusion has been freely translated by Cowley:—

“Whilst on Septimius’ panting breast.
Meaning nothing less than rest,” &c.

49. _Ad M. Tullium_. In this poem, which is addressed to Cicero as the most eloquent of the Romans, Catullus modestly returns the orator thanks for some service he had rendered him.

51. _Ad Lesbiam_. This is the translation of the celebrated ode of Sappho, which has been preserved to us by Longinus, Φαινεται μοι κηνος, &c. The fourth stanza of the original Greek has not been translated, but in its place a verse is inserted in all the editions of Catullus, containing a moral reflection, which one would hardly have expected from this dissolute poet:

“Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est:
Otio exultas, nimiumque gestis;
Otium reges prius et beatas
Perdidit urbes.”

This stanza is so foreign from the spirit of high excitation in which the preceding part of the ode is written, that Maffei suspected it had belonged to some other poem of Catullus; and Handius, in his _Observationes Criticæ_, conjectures that the fourth stanza, which Catullus translated from the original Greek, having been lost, and a chasm being thus left, some idle librarian or scholiast of the middle ages had interpolated these four lines of misplaced morality, that no gap might appear in his manuscript(492). It is not impossible, however, that this verse may have been intended to express the answer of the poet’s mistress.

Many amatory poets have tried to imitate this celebrated ode; but most of them have failed of success. Boileau has also attempted this far-famed fragment; but although he has produced an elegant enough poem, he has not expressed the vehement passion of the Greek original so happily as Catullus. How different are the rapidity and emotion of the following stanza,

“Lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
Flamma dimanat, sonitu suopte
Tintinant aures—gemina teguntur
Lumina nocte,”

from the languor of the corresponding lines of the French poet!

“Une nuage confus se repand sur ma vue,
Je n’entend plus, je tombe en de douces langueurs,
Et passe, sans haleine, interdite, perdue;
Un frisson me saisit—je tremble, je me meurs.”

These lines give us little idea of that furious passion of which Longinus says the Greek ode expresses all the symptoms. Racine has been much more happy than Boileau in his imitation of Sappho. Phædra, in the celebrated French tragedy which bears the name of that victim of love, thus paints the effects of the passion with which she was struck at her first view of Hippolytus:—

“Athènes me montra mon superbe ennemi:
Je le vis, je rougis, je palis à sa vue—
Un trouble s’eleva dans mon ame éperdue,
Mes yeux ne voyoient plus, je ne pouvois parler;
Je sentis tout mon cœur et transir et brûler(493).”

On this passage Voltaire remarks, “Peut on mieux imiter Sappho? Ces vers, quoique imites, coulent de source; chaque mot trouble les ames sensibles, et les penetre; ce n’est point une amplification: c’est le chef d’œuvre de la nature et de l’art(494).” A translation by De Lille, which has a very close resemblance to that of Boileau, is inserted in the delightful chapter of the _Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis_, which treats of Lesbos and Sappho. Philips, it is well known, attempted a version of the lyric stanzas of Sappho, which was first printed with vast commendation in the 229th Number of the Spectator, where Addison has also remarked, “that several of our countrymen, and Dryden in particular, seem very often to have copied after this ode of Sappho, in their dramatic writings, and in their poems upon love.”

58. _Ad Cœlium de Lesbia_. In this ode, addressed to one of her former admirers, Catullus gives an account, both tender and pathetic, of the debaucheries and degraded condition of Lesbia, to his passion for whom, he had attributed such powerful effects in the above imitation of Sappho.

61. _In Nuptias Juliæ et Manlii_. We come now to the three celebrated epithalamiums of Catullus. The first is in honour of the nuptials of Julia and Manlius, who is generally supposed to have been Aulus Manlius Torquatus, an intimate friend of the poet, and a descendant of one of the most noble patrician families in Rome. This poem has been entitled an Epithalamium in most of the ancient editions, but Muretus contends that this is an improper appellation, and that it should be inscribed _Carmen Nuptiale_. “An epithalamium,” he says, “was supposed to be sung by the virgins when the bride had retired to the nuptial chamber, whereas in this poem an earlier part of the ceremony is celebrated and described.” This earlier part, indeed, occupies the greater portion of the poem, but towards the conclusion the bride is represented as placed in the chamber of her husband, which may justify its ordinary title:

“Jam licet venias, Marite;
Uxor in thalamo est tibi,” &c.

In this bridal song the poet first addresses Hymen; and as the bride was now about to proceed from her paternal mansion to the house of her husband, invokes his aid in raising the nuptial hymn. He then describes the bride:—

“Floridis velut enitens
Myrtus Asià ramulis;
Quos Hamadryades Deæ
Ludicrum sibi roscido
Nutriunt humore.”

A similar image is frequent with other poets, and has been adopted by Pontanus(495) and Naugerius(496).

The praises of Hymen follow next:—

“Nil potest sine te Venus,
Fama quod bona comprobet,
Commodi capere: at potest
Te volente. Quis huic Deo
Compararier ausit?

Nulla quit sine te domus
Liberos dare, nec parens
Stirpe jungier: at potest
Te volente. Quis huic Deo
Compararier ausit?”

Claudian, in his epithalamium on the nuptials of Palladius and Celerina, and the German poet Lotichius, extol Hymen in terms similar to those employed in the first of the above stanzas: and the advantages he confers, alluded to in the second, have been beautifully touched on by Milton, as also by Pope, in his chorus of youths and virgins, forming part of the Duke of Buckingham’s intended tragedy—_Brutus_:

“But Hymen’s kinder flames unite,
And burn for ever one,
Chaste as cold Cynthia’s virgin light,
Productive as the sun.

“O source of every social tye,
United wish and mutual joy,
What various joys on one attend!
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend.”

Catullus now proceeds to describe the ceremonies with which the bride was conveyed to the house of her husband, and was there received. He feigns that he beholds the nuptial pomp and retinue approaching, and encourages the bride to come forth, by an elegant compliment to her beauty; as also, by reminding her of the fair fame and character of her intended husband. As she approaches, he intimates the freedom of the ancient Fescennine verses, which were first sung at marriage festivals.

The bride being at length conducted to her new habitation, the poet addresses the bridegroom, and shuts up the married pair: But before concluding, in reference to Torquatus, one of the husband’s names, he alludes, with exquisite delicacy and tenderness, to the most-wished-for consequence of this happy union:—

“Torquatus, volo, parvulus
Matris e gremio suæ
Porrigens teneras manus,
Dulce rideat ad patrem,
Semihiante labello.”

The above verse has been thus imitated in an Epithalamium on the marriage of Lord Spencer, by Sir William Jones, who pronounces it a picture worthy the pencil of Domenichino:

“And soon to be completely blest,
Soon may a young Torquatus rise,
Who, hanging on his mother’s breast,
To his known sire shall turn his eyes,
Outstretch his infant arms a while,
Half ope his little lips and smile.”

And thus by Leonard, in his pastoral romance of _Alexis_, where, however, he has omitted the _semihiante labello_, the finest feature in the picture:—

“Quel tableau! quand un jeune enfant,
Penché sur le sein de sa mère,
Avec un sourire innocent
Etendra ses mains vers son père.”

This nuptial hymn has been the model of many epithalamiums, particularly that of Jason and Creusa, sung by the chorus in Seneca’s _Medea_, and of Honorius and Maria, in Claudian. The modern Latin poets, particularly Justus Lipsius, have exercised themselves a great deal in this style of composition; and most of them with evident imitation of the work of Catullus. It has also been highly applauded by the commentators; and more than one critic has declared that it must have been written by the hands of Venus and the Graces—“Veneris et Gratiarum manibus scriptum esse.” I wish, however, they had excepted from their unqualified panegyrics the coarse imitation of the Fescennine poems, which leaves on our minds a stronger impression of the prevalence and extent of Roman vices, than any other passage in the Latin classics. Martial, and Catullus himself elsewhere, have branded their enemies; and Juvenal, in bursts of satiric indignation, has reproached his countrymen with the most shocking crimes. But here, in a complimentary poem to a patron and intimate friend, these are jocularly alluded to as the venial indulgences of his earliest youth.

62. _Carmen Nuptiale_. Some parts of this epithalamium have been taken from Theocritus, particularly from his eighteenth Idyl, where the Lacedæmonian maids, companions of Helen, sing before the bridal-chamber of Menelaus(497). This second nuptial hymn of Catullus may be regarded as a continuation of the above poem, being also in honour of the marriage of Manlius and Julia. The stanzas of the former were supposed to be sung or recited in the person of the poet, who only exhorted the chorus of youths and virgins to commence the nuptial strain. But here these bands contend, in alternate verses; the maids descanting on the beauty and advantages of a single life, and the lads on those of marriage.

The young men, companions of the bridegroom, are supposed to have left him at the rising of the evening star of love:—

—— “Vesper Olympo
Expectata diu vix tandem lumina tollit.
* * * * *
Hespere, qui cœlo lucet jucundior ignis?”

These lines appear to have been imitated by Spenser in his Epithalamium—

“Ah! when will this long weary day have done!
Long though it be, at last I see it gloom,
And the bright evening star, with golden crest,
Appear out of the east;
Fair child of beauty, glorious lamp of love,
How cheerfully thou lookest from above!”

The maids who had accompanied the bride to her husband’s house, approached the youths who had just left the bridegroom, and they commence a very elegant contention concerning the merits of the star, which the chorus of virgins is pleased to characterize as a cruel planet. They are silenced, however, by the youths hinting that they are not such enemies to Hesper as they pretend to be. Then the maids, draw a beautiful, and, with Catullus, a favourite comparison between an unblemished virgin, and a delicate flower in a garden:

“Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis,
Ignotus pecori, nullo convulsus aratro,
Quem mulcent auræ, firmat sol, educat imber;
Multi illum pueri, multæ optavere puellæ.
Idem cum tenui carptus defloruit ungui,
Nulli illum pueri, nullæ optavere puellæ.
Sic virgo dum intacta manet, tum cara suis; sed
Cum castum amisit, polluto corpore, florem,
Nec pueris jucunda manet, nec cara puellis.”

To the sentiment delineated by this image, the youths reply by one scarcely less beautiful, emblematical of the happiness of the married state; and as this was a theme in which the maidens were probably not unwilling to be overcome, they unite in the last stanza with the chorus of young men, in recommending to the bride to act the part of a submissive spouse.

Few passages in Latin poetry have been more frequently imitated, and none more deservedly, than the above-quoted verses of Catullus, who certainly excels almost all other writers, in the beauty and propriety of his similes. The greatest poets have not disdained to transplant this exquisite flower of song. Perhaps the most successful imitation is one by the Prince of the romantic bards of Italy, in the first canto of his _Orlando_, and which it may be amusing to compare with the original:

“La Verginella è simile alla rosa,
Che in bel giardin su la nativa spina,
Mentre sola, e sicura si riposa,
Nè gregge, nè pastor se le avvicina;
L’aura soave, e l’alba rugiadosa,
L’acqua, la terra al suo favor s’inchina:
Giovini vaghi, e donne innamorate,
Amano averne e seni, e tempie ornate.

Ma non si tosto dal materno stelo
Rimossa viene, e dal suo ceppo verde;
Che quanto avea dagli uomini, e dal cielo,
Favor, grazia, e bellezza tutto perde.
La vergine, che il fior, di che più zelo,
Che de begli occhi, e della vita, aver dè,
Lascia altrui corre, il pregio, ch’avea dinanti,
Perde nel cor de tutti gli altri amanti.”

The reader may perhaps like to see how this theme has been managed by an old _French_ poet nearly contemporary with Ariosto:

“La jeune vierge est semblable à la rose,
Au beau jardin, sur l’épine native,
Tandis que sûre et seulette repose,
Sans que troupeau ni berger y arrive;
L’air doux l’échauffe, et l’Aurore l’arrose,
La terre, l’eau par sa faveur l’avive;
Mais jeunes gens et dames amoureuses,
De la cueillir ont les mains envieuses;
La terre et l’air, qui la soulaient nourrir,
La quittent lors et la laissent flétrir(498).”

It is evident that Ariosto has suggested several things to the French poet, as he has also done to the imitators in our own language, in which the simile has been frequently attempted, but not with much success. Ben Jonson has translated it miserably, substituting doggerel verse for the sweet flow of the Latin poetry, and verbal antithesis and conceit for that beautiful simplicity of idea which forms the chief charm of the original:

“Look how a flower that close in closes grows,
Hid from rude cattle, bruised by no plows,” &c.

One of the best of the numerous English imitations is that in the _Lay of Iolante_, introduced in Bland’s _Four Slaves of Cythera_:

“A tender maid is like a flow’ret sweet,
Within the covert of a garden born;
Nor flock nor hind disturb the calm retreat,
But on the parent stalk it blooms untorn,
Refresh’d by vernal rains and gentle heat,
The balm of evening, and the dews of morn:
Youths and enamoured maidens vie to wear
This flower—their bosoms grace, or twined around their hair.

“No sooner gathered from the vernal bough,
Where fresh and blooming to the sight it grew.
Than all who marked its opening beauty blow,
Forsake the tainted sweet, and faded hue.
And she who yields, forgetful of her vow,
To one but newly loved, another’s due,
Shall live, though high for heavenly beauty prized,
By youths unhonoured, and by maids despised.”

One of the lines in the passage of Catullus,

“Multi illum pueri—multæ optavere puellæ,”

and its converse,

“Nulli illum pueri—nullæ optavere puellæ,”

have been copied by Ovid in his _Metamorphoses_(499), and applied to Narcissus,

“Multi illum pueri, multæ cupiere puellæ.
Sed fuit in tenerâ tam dura superbia formâ,
Nulli illum juvenes, nullæ tetigere puellæ.”

The origin of the line,

“Nec pueris jucunda manet, nec cara puellis,”

may be traced to a fragment of the Greek poet Mimnermus:

“Ἀλλ’ ἐχθρος μεν παισιν, ατιμαστος δε γυναιξιν.”

63. _De Ati_.—The story of Atis is one of the most mysterious of the mythological emblems. The fable was explained by Porphyry; and the Emperor Julian afterwards invented and published an allegory of this mystic tale. According to them, the voluntary emasculation of Atis was typical of the revolution of the sun between the tropics, or the separation of the human soul from vice and error. In the literal acceptation in which it is presented by Catullus, the fable seems an unpromising and rather a peculiar subject for poetry: indeed, there is no example of a similar event being celebrated in verse, except the various poems on the fate of Abelard. It is likewise the only specimen we have in Latin of the Galliambic measure; so called, because sung by Galli, the effeminate votaries of Cybele. The Romans, being a more sober and severe people than the Greeks, gave less encouragement than they to the celebration of the rites of Bacchus, and have poured forth but few dithyrambic lines. The genius of their language and of their usual style of poetry, as well as their own practical and imitative character, were unfavourable to the composition of such bold, figurative, and discursive strains. They have left no verses which can be strictly called dithyrambic, except, perhaps, the nineteenth ode of the second book of Horace, and a chorus in the _Œdipus_ of Seneca. If not perfectly dithyrambic, the numbers of the _Atis_ of Catullus are, however, strongly expressive of distraction and enthusiasm. The violent bursts of passion are admirably aided by the irresistible torrent of words, and by the cadence of a measure powerfully denoting mental agony and remorse. In this production, now unexampled in every sense of the word, Catullus is no longer the light agreeable poet, who counted the kisses of his mistress, and called on the Cupids to lament her sparrow. His ideas are full of fire, and his language of wildness: He pours forth his thoughts with an energy, rapidity, and enthusiasm, so different from his usual tone, and, indeed, from that of all Latin poets, that this production has been supposed to be a translation from some ancient Greek dithyrambic, of which it breathes all the passion and poetic phrensy. The employment of long compound epithets, which constantly recur in the _Atis_,—

“Ubi cerva sylvicultrix, ubi aper nemorivagus,” ——

is also a strong mark of imitation of the Greek dithyrambics; it being supposed, that such sonorous and new-invented words were most befitting intoxication or religious enthusiasm(500). Anacreon, in his thirteenth ode, alludes to the lamentations and transports of Atis, as to a well-known poetical tradition:

“Ὁι μεν καλην Κυβηβην
Τον ἡμιθηλυν Ἀττιν
Ἐν ὀυρεσιν βοωντα,
Λεγουσιν έκμανηναι.”

Atis, it appears from the poem of Catullus, was a beautiful youth, probably of Greece, who, forsaking his home and parents, sailed with a few companions to Phrygia, and, having landed, hurried to the grove consecrated to the great goddess Cybele,—

“Adiitque opaca sylvis redimita loca Deæ,”

There, struck with superstitious phrensy, he qualified himself for the service of that divinity; and, snatching the musical instruments used in her worship, he exhorted his companions, who had followed his example, to ascend to the temple of Cybele. At this part of the poem, we follow the new votary of the Phrygian goddess through all his wild traversing of woods and mountains, till at length, having reached the temple, Atis and his companions drop asleep, exhausted by fatigue and mental distraction. Being tranquillized in some measure by a night’s repose, Atis becomes sensible of the misery of his situation; and, struck with horror at his rash deed, he returns to the sea-shore. There he casts his eyes, bathed in tears, over the ocean homeward; and comparing his former happiness with his present wretched condition, he pours forth a complaint unrivalled in energy and pathos. Gibbon talks of the different emotions produced by the transition of Atis from the wildest enthusiasm to sober pathetic complaint for his irretrievable loss(501); but, in fact, his complaint is not soberly pathetic—to which the Galliambic measure would be little suited: it is, on the contrary, the most impassioned expression of mental agony and bitter regret in the wide compass of Roman literature:

“Abero foro, palæstrâ, stadio et gymnasiis?
Miser, ah miser! querendum est etiam atque etiam, anime:
Ego puber, ego adolescens, ego ephebus, ego puer;
Ego gymnasii fui flos, ego eram decus olei;
Mihi januæ frequentes, mihi limina tepida,
Mihi floridis corollis redimita domus erat,
Linquendum ubi esset, orto mihi Sole, cubiculum.
Egone Deûm ministra et Cybeles famula ferar?
Ego Mænas, ego mei pars, ego vir sterilis ero?
Ego viridis algida Idæ nive amicta loca colam?
Ego vitam agam sub altis Phrygiæ columinibus,
Ubi cerva sylvicultrix, ubi aper nemorivagus?
Jam jam dolet quod egi, jam jamque pœnitet.”

One is vexed, that the conclusion of this splendid production should be so puerile. Cybele, dreading the defection and escape of her newly acquired votary, lets loose a lion, which drives him back to her groves,—

“Ubi semper omne vitæ spatium famula fuit.”

Muretus attempted a Latin Galliambic Address to Bacchus in imitation of the measure employed in the _Atis_ of Catullus, and he has strenuously tried to make his poem resemble its model by an affected use of uncouth compound epithets. Pigna, an Italian poet, has adopted similar numbers in a Latin poem, on the metamorphosis of the water nymph, Pitys, who was changed into a fir-tree, for having fled from the embraces of Boreas. In many of the lines he has closely followed Catullus; but it seems scarcely possible that any modern poet could excite in his mind the enthusiasm essential for the production of such works. Catullus probably believed as little in Atis and Cybele as Muretus, but he lived among men who did; and though his opinions might not be influenced, his imagination was tinged with the colours of the age.

_Atis_ is the name of one of the tragic operas of Quinault, which, I believe, was the most popular of his pieces except _Armide_; but it has little reference to the classic story of the votary of Cybele. The French Atis is a vehement and powerful lover, who elopes with the nymph Sangaride on the wings of the Zephyrs, which had been placed by Cybele, who was herself enamoured of the youth, at the disposal of Atis. It seems a poor production in itself, (how different from the operas of Metastasio!) but it was embellished by splendid scenery, and the music of Lulli, adapted to the chorus of Phrygians, and Zephyrs, and Dreams, and Streams, and Corybantes.

64. _Epithalamium Pelei et Thetidis_.—This is the longest and most elaborate of the productions of Catullus. It displays much accurate description, as well as pathetic and impassioned incident. Catullus was a Greek scholar, and all his commentators seem determined that his best poems should be considered as of Greek invention. I do not believe, however, that the whole of this epithalamium was taken from any one poet of Greece, as the _Coma Berenices_ was from Callimachus; but the author undoubtedly borrowed a great deal from various writers of that country. Hesiod wrote an Epithalamium, Ἐις Πηλεα και Θετιν(502), some fragments of which have been cited by Tzetzes, in his _prolegomena_ to Lycophron’s _Cassandra_; and judging from these, it appears to have suggested several lines of the epithalamium of Catullus. The adornment, however, and propriety of its language, and the usual practice of Catullus in other productions, render it probable, that he has chiefly selected his beauties from the Alexandrian poets. Valckenar, in his edition of Theocritus, (1779,) has shown, that the Idyls of Theocritus, particularly the _Adoniazusi_, have been of much service to our Latin poet; and a late German commentator has pointed out more than twenty passages, in which he has not merely imitated, but actually translated, Apollonius Rhodius(503).

The proper subject of this epithalamium is the festivals held in Thessaly in honour of the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis; but it is chiefly occupied with a long episode, containing the story of Ariadne. It commences with the sailing of the ship Argo on the celebrated expedition to which that vessel has given name. The Nereids were so much struck with the unusual spectacle, that they all emerged from the deep; and Thetis, one of their number, fell in love with Peleus, who had accompanied the expedition, and who was instantly seized with a reciprocal passion. Little is said as to the manner in which the courtship was conducted, and the poet hastens to the preparations for the nuptials. On this joyful occasion, all the inhabitants of Thessaly flock to its capital, Pharsalia. Every thing in the royal palace is on a magnificent scale; but the poet chiefly describes the _stragula_, or coverlet, of the nuptial couch, on which was depicted the concluding part of the story of Theseus and Ariadne. Ariadne is represented as standing on the beach, where she had been abandoned, while asleep, by Theseus, and gazing in fixed despair at the departing sail of her false lover. Never was there a finer picture drawn of complete mental desolation. She was incapable of exhibiting violent signs of grief: She neither beats her bosom, nor bursts into tears; but the diadem which had compressed her locks—the light mantle which had floated around her form—the veil which had covered her bosom—all neglected, and fallen at her feet, were the sport of the waves which dashed the strand, while she herself, regardless and stupified with horror at her frightful situation, stood like the motionless statue of a Bacchante,—

“Saxea ut effigies Bacchantis prospicit Evoe;
Non flavo retinens subtilem vertice mitram,
Non contecta levi velatum pectus amictu,
Non tereti strophio luctantes vincta papillas;
Omnia quæ toto delapsa e corpore passim
Ipsius ante pedes fluctus salis alludebant.”

The above passage is thus imitated by the author of the elegant poem _Ciris_, which has been attributed to Virgil, and is not unworthy of his genius:

“Infelix virgo tota bacchatur in urbe:
Non styrace Idæo fragrantes picta capillos,
Cognita non teneris pedibus Sicyonia servans,
Non niveo retinens baccata monilia collo.”—v. 167.

Catullus, leaving Ariadne in the attitude above described, recapitulates the incidents, by which she had been placed in this agonizing situation. He relates, in some excellent lines, the magnanimous enterprize of Theseus—his voyage, and arrival in Crete: He gives us a picture of the youthful innocence of Ariadne, reared in the bosom of her mother, like a myrtle springing up on the solitary banks of the Euphrates, or a flower whose blossom is brought forth by the breath of spring. The combat of Theseus with the Minotaur is but shortly and coldly described. It is obvious that the poet merely intended to raise our idea of the valour of Theseus, so far as to bestow interest and dignity on the passion of Ariadne, and to excuse her for sacrificing to its gratification all feelings of domestic duty and affection. Having yielded and accompanied her lover, she was deserted by him, in that forlorn situation, her deep sense of which had changed her to the likeness of a Bacchante sculptured in stone. Her first feelings of horror and astonishment had deprived her of the power of utterance; but she at length bursts into exclamations against the perfidy of men, and their breach of vows, which

—— “Cuncta aerii discerpunt irrita venti.
Jam jam nulla viro juranti femina credat,
Nulla viri speret sermones esse fideles:
Qui, dum aliquid cupiens animus prægestit apisci,
Nil metuunt jurare, nihil promittere parcunt.
Sed simul ac cupidæ mentis satiata libido est,
Dicta nihil metuêre, nihil perjuria curant.”

This passage has been obviously imitated by Ariosto, in his _Orlando_—

“Donne, alcuna di voi mai più non sia
Che a parole d’amante abbia a dar fede.
L’amante per aver quel che desia,
Senza curar che Dio tutto ode e vede,
Avviluppa promesse, e giuramenti,
Che tutti spargon poi per l’aria i venti.”

After indulging in such general reflections, Ariadne complains of the cruelty and ingratitude of Theseus in particular, whom she thus apostrophizes—

“Quænam te genuit solâ sub rupe leæna?
Quod mare conceptum spumantibus exspuit undis?
Quæ Syrtis, quæ Scylla, vorax quæ vasta Charybdis?”

These lines seem to have been suggested by the address of Patroclus to Achilles, near the commencement of the sixteenth book of the Iliad—

“—— Ὀυκ αρα σοι γε πατηρ ἠν ἱπποτα Πηλευς,
Ὀυδε Θετις μητηρ· γλαυκη δε σε τικτε Θαλασσα,
Πετραι δ’ ἠλιβατοι, ὁτι τοι νεος ἐστιν απηνης.”

Catullus, having put the expression of this idea in the mouth of a princess abandoned by her lover, it became a sort of _Formula_ for deserted heroines among subsequent poets. Thus Ovid, in the eighth book of his _Metamorphoses_—

“Non genitrix Europa tibi est, sed inhospita Syrtis,
Armeniæ tigres, austroque agitata Charybdis;”

and thus Virgil makes Dido address Æneas—

“Nec tibi Diva parens, generis nec Dardanus auctor,
Perfide, sed duris genuit te cautibus horrens
Caucasus, Hyrcanæque admôrunt ubera tigres.”

Tasso, who was a great imitator of the Latin poets, attributes, from the lips of Armida, a similar genealogy to Rinaldo—

“Nè te Sofia produsse, e non sei nato
Dell’ Azzio sangue tu. Te l’onda insana
Del mar produsse, e ’l Caucaso gelato,
E le mamme allattar de tigre Ircana.”

Boileau had happily enough parodied those rodomontades in the earlier editions of the _Lutrin_; but the passage has been omitted in all those subsequent to that of 1683—

“Non, ton père à Paris ne fut point boulanger,
Et tu n’es point du sang de Gervais, l’horloger;
Ta mère ne fut point la maîtresse d’une coche:
Caucase dans ses flancs te forma d’une roche,
Une tigresse affreuse en quelque antre ecarté,
Te fit sucer son lait avec sa cruauté.”

I do not think the circumstances in which Armida pours forth her reproaches are judiciously selected. The Ariadne of Catullus vents her complaints when her betrayer is beyond reach of hearing, and Dido, though in his presence, before he had taken his departure: But Armida runs after, and overtakes Rinaldo, in which there is something degrading. She expresses, however, more tenderness and amorous devotedness amid her revilings, than any of her predecessors—

“Struggi la fede nostra; anch’io t’affretto;
Che dico nostra? Ah non più mia: fedele
Sono a te solo, idolo mio crudele!”

When she has ended her complaints of the cruelty and ingratitude of Theseus, Ariadne expresses a very natural wish, that the ship Argo had never reached her native shores—

“Jupiter Omnipotens, utinam ne tempore primo
Gnosia Cecropiæ tetigissent littora puppes.”

Thus, apparently, imitated by Virgil—

“Felix, heu nimium felix! si littora tantum
Nunquam Dardaniæ tetigissent nostra carinæ.”

But both these passages, it is probable, were originally drawn from the beginning of the Medea of Euripides—

“Ἐιθ’ οφελ’ Αργους μη διαπτασθαι σκαφος
Κολχων ες αιαν κυανεας συμπληγαδας.”

Catullus proceeds with a much closer imitation of Euripides—

“Nunc quo me referam? quali spe perdita nitar?
An patris auxilium sperem, quemne ipsa reliqui?”

which is almost translated from the Medea—

“Νυν ποι τραπωμαι; ποτερα προς πατρος δομους
Ὁυς σοι προδουσα και πατραν αφικομην.”

The grief and repentance of Ariadne are at length followed by a sense of personal danger and hardship; and her pathetic soliloquy terminates with execrations on the author of her misfortunes, to which—

“Annuit invicto cœlestûm numine rector;
Quo tunc et tellus, atque horrida contremuerunt
Æquora, concussitque micantia sidera mundus,”

an image probably derived from the celebrated description in the Iliad—Ἠ και κυανεησιν, &c. This promise of Jupiter was speedily accomplished, in the well-known and miserable fate of Ægeus, the father of Theseus.

We are naturally led to compare with Catullus, the efforts of his own countrymen, particularly those of Ovid and Virgil, in portraying the agonies of deserted nymphs and princesses. Both these poets have borrowed largely from their predecessor. Ovid has treated the subject of Ariadne not less than four times. In the epistle of Ariadne to Theseus, he has painted, like Catullus, her disordered person—her sense of desertion, and remembrance of the benefits she had conferred on Theseus: But the epistle is a cold production, chiefly because her grief is not immediately presented before us; and she merely tells that she had wept, and sighed, and raved. The minute detail, too, into which she enters, is inconsistent with her vehement passion. She recollects too well each heap of sand which retarded her steps, and the thorns on the summit of the mountain. Returning from her wanderings, she addresses her couch, of which she asks advice, till she becomes overpowered by apprehension for the wild beasts and marine monsters, of which she presents her false lover with a faithful catalogue. The simple ideas of Catullus are frequently converted into conceits, and his natural bursts of passion, into quibbles and artificial points. In the eighth book of the _Metamorphoses_, the melancholy part of Ariadne’s story is only recalled, in order to introduce the transformation of her crown into a star. In the third book of the _Fasti_, she deplores the double desertion of Theseus and Bacchus. It is in the first book of the _Art of Love_, that Ovid approaches nearest to Catullus, particularly in the sudden contrast between the solitude and melancholy of Ariadne, and the revelry of the Bacchanalians. Some of Virgil’s imitations of Catullus have been already pointed out: But part of the complaint of Dido is addressed to her betrayer, and contains a bitterness of sarcasm, and eloquence of reproof, which neither Catullus nor Ovid could reach.

The desertion of Olimpia by Bireno, related in the tenth canto of the _Orlando Furioso_, has, in its incidents at least, a strong resemblance to the poem of Catullus. Bireno, Duke of Zealand, while on a voyage from Holland to his own country, touches on Frisia; and, being smit with love for Olimpia, daughter of the king, carries her off with him; but, in the farther progress of the voyage, he lands on a desert island, and, while Olimpia is asleep, he leaves her, and sets sail in the darkness of night. Olimpia awakes, and, finding herself alone, hurries to the beach, and then ascends a rock, whence she descries, by light of the moon, the departing sail of her lover. Here, and afterwards while in her tent, she pours forth her plaints against the treachery of Bireno. In the details of this story, Ariosto has chiefly copied from Ovid; but he has also availed himself of several passages in Catullus. As Ariosto, in his story of Olimpia, principally chose Ovid for his model, so Tasso, in that of Armida, seems chiefly to have kept his eye on Virgil and Catullus. But Armida is not like Ariadne, an injured and innocent maid, nor a stately queen, like Dido; but a voluptuous and artful magician,

—— “Che nella doglia amara
Gia tutte non obblia l’arte e le frodi.”

It has been mentioned, that the desertion of Ariadne was represented on one compartment of the coverlet of the nuptial couch of Peleus—on another division of it the story of Bacchus and Ariadne was exhibited. The introduction of Bacchus and his train closes the episode with an animated picture, and forms a pleasing contrast to the melancholy scenes that precede it. At the same time, the poet, delicately breaking off without even hinting at the fair one’s ready acceptance of her new lover, leaves the pity we feel for her abandonment unweakened on the mind.

65. _Ad Ortalum_. This is the first of the elegies of Catullus, and indeed the earliest of any length or celebrity which had hitherto appeared in the Latin language. Elegies were originally written by the Greeks in alternate hexameter and pentameter lines, “versibus impariter junctis.” This measure, which was at first appropriated to deplore misfortunes, particularly the loss of friends, was soon employed to complain of unsuccessful love, and, by a very easy transition, to describe the delights of gratified passion:

—— “Querimonia primùm,
Post etiam inclusa est voti sententia compos.”

Matters were in this state in the age of Mimnermus, who was contemporary with Solon, and was the most celebrated elegiac poet of the Greeks. Hence, from his time every poem in that measure, whatever was the subject, came to be denominated elegy. The mixed species of verse, however, was always considered essential, so that the complaint of Bion on the death of Adonis, or that of Moschus on the loss of Bion, is hardly accounted such, being written in a different sort of measure. In the strict acceptation of the term, scarcely any Greek elegy has descended to us entire, except perhaps a few lines by Callimachus on the death of Heraclitus.

This elegy of Catullus may be considered as a sort of introduction to that which follows it. Hortalus, to whom it is addressed, had requested him to translate from Callimachus the poem _De Coma Berenices_. He apologizes for the delay which had taken place in complying with the wishes of his friend, on account of the grief he had experienced from the premature death of his brother, for whom he bursts forth into this pathetic lamentation:—

“Nunquam ego te, vitâ frater amabilior,
Aspiciam posthac; at certe semper amabo,
Semper mœsta tuâ carmina morte canam;
Qualia sub densis ramorum concinit umbris
Daulias, absumpti fata gemens Ityli.”

This simile is taken from the 19th book of the Odyssey—

“Ὡς δ’ ὁτε Πανδαρεου κουρη, χλωρηις αηδων,
Καλον αειδησιν, έαρος νεον ἰσταμενοιο,
Δενδρεων ἐν πεταλοισιν καθεζομενη πυκινοισιν
Παιδ’ ολοφυρομενη Ιτυλον φιλον,”

and it appears in turn to have been the foundation of Virgil’s celebrated comparison:—

“Qualis populeâ mœrens Philomela sub umbrâ
Amissos queritur fœtus,” &c.

This simile has been beautifully varied and adorned by Moschus(504) and Quintus Calaber(505), among the Greeks; and among the modern Italians by Petrarch, in his exquisite sonnet on the death of Laura:—

“Qual Rossignuol che si soave piagne,” &c.

and by Naugerius, in his ode _Ad Auroram_,

“Nunc ab umbroso simul esculeto,
Daulias late queritur: querelas
Consonum circa nemus, et jocosa reddit imago.”

66. _De Coma Berenices_, is the poem alluded to in the former elegy: it is translated from a production of Callimachus, of which only two distichs remain, one preserved by Theon, a scholiast, on Aratus, and the other in the _Scholia_ on Apollonius Rhodius(506).

Callimachus was esteemed by all antiquity as the finest elegiac poet of Greece, or at least as next in merit to Mimnermus. He belonged to the poetic school which flourished at Alexandria from the time of Ptolemy Philadelphus to that of Ptolemy Physcon, and which still sheds a lustre over the dynasty of the Lagides, in spite of the crimes and personal deformities with which their names have been sarcastically associated.

After the partition of the Greek empire among the successors of Alexander, the city to which he had given name became the capital of the literary world; and arts and learning long continued to be protected even by the most degenerate of the Ptolemies. But the school which subsisted at Alexandria was of a very different taste and description from that which had flourished at Athens in the age of Pericles. In Egypt the Greeks became a more learned, and perhaps a more philosophical people, than they had been in the days of their ancient glory at home; but they were no longer a nation, and with their freedom their whole strength of feeling, and peculiar tone of mind, were lost. Servitude and royal munificence, with the consequent spirit of flattery which crept in, and even the enormous library of Alexandria, were injurious to the elastic and native spring of poetic fancy. The Egyptian court was crowded with men of erudition, instead of such men of genius as had thronged the theatre and _Agora_ of Athens. The courtly _literati_, the academicians, and the librarians of Alexandria, were distinguished as critics, grammarians, geographers, or geometricians. With them poetry became a matter of study, not of original genius or invention, and consequently never reached its highest flights. Though not without amenity and grace, they wanted that boldness, sublimity, and poetic enthusiasm by which the bards of the Greek republics were inspired. When, like Apollonius Rhodius, they attempted poetry of the highest class, they rose not above an elegant mediocrity; or when they attained perfection, as in the instance of Theocritus, it was in the inferior and more delicate branches of the art. Accordingly, these erudite and ornate poets chiefly selected as the subjects of their muse didactic topics of astronomy and physics, or obscure traditions derived from ancient fable. Lycophron immersed himself in such a sea of fabulous learning, that he became nearly unintelligible, and all of them were marked with the blemishes of affectation and obscurity, into which learned poets are most apt to fall. Among the pleiad of Alexandrian poets, none had so many of the faults and beauties of the school to which he belonged as Callimachus. He was conspicuous for his profound knowledge of the ancient traditions of Greece, for his poetic art and elegant versification, but he was also noted for deficiency of invention and original genius:—

“Battiades semper toto cantabitur orbe,
Quamvis ingenio non valet, arte valet(507).”

The poem of Catullus has some faults, which may be fairly attributed to his pedantic model—a certain obscurity in point of diction, and that ostentatious display of erudition, which characterized the works of the Alexandrian poets. The Greek original, however, being lost, except two distichs, it is impossible to institute an accurate comparison; but the Latin appears to be considerably more diffuse than the Greek. One distich, which is still extant in the _Scholia_ on Apollonius, has been expanded by Catullus into three lines; and the following preserved by Theon has been dilated into four:—

“Ἡ δε Κονων μ’ ἐβλεψεν εν ῆερι τον Βερενικης
Βοστρυχον, ὁν κεινη πασιν ἐθηκε Θεοις(508)”

“Idem me ille Conon cœlesti lumine vidit
E Bereniceo vertice cæsariem,
Fulgentem clare; quam multis illa Deorum,
Lævia protendens brachia, pollicita est.”

Here the three words τον Βερενικης βοστρυχον have been extended into “E Bereniceo vertice cæsariem fulgentem,” and the single word ἐθηκε has formed a whole Latin line,

“Lævia protendens brachia, pollicita est(509).”

The Latin poem, like its Greek original, is in elegiac verse, and is supposed to be spoken by the constellation called _Coma Berenices_. It relates how Berenice, the queen and sister of Ptolemy, (Euergetes,) vowed the consecration of her locks to the immortals, provided her husband was restored to her, safe and successful, from a military expedition on which he had proceeded against the Assyrians. The king having returned according to her wish, and her shorn locks having disappeared, it is supposed by one of those fictions which poetry alone can admit, that Zephyrus, the son of Aurora, and brother of Memnon, had carried them up to heaven, and thrown them into the lap of Venus, by whom they were set in the sky, and were soon afterwards discovered among the constellations by Conon, a court astronomer. In order to relish this poem, or to enter into its spirit, we must read it imbued as it were with the belief and manners of the ancient Egyptians. The locks of Berenice might be allowed to speak and desire, because they had been converted into stars, which, by an ancient philosophic system, were supposed to be possessed of animation and intelligence. Similar honours had been conferred on the crown of Ariadne and the ship of Isis, and the belief in such transformations was at least of that popular or traditionary nature which fitted them for the purposes of poetry. The race, too, of the Egyptian Ptolemies, traced their lineage to Jupiter, which would doubtless facilitate the reception of the locks of Berenice among the heavenly orbs. Adulation, however, it must be confessed, could not be carried higher; the beautiful locks of Berenice, though metamorphosed into stars, are represented as regretting their former happy situation, and prefer adorning the brow of Berenice, to blazing by night in the front of heaven, under the steps of immortals, or reposing by day in the bosom of Tethys:—

“Non his tam lætor rebus, quam me abfore semper,
Abfore me a dominæ vertice discrucior.”

But though the poem of Callimachus may have been seriously written, and gravely read by the court of Ptolemy, the lines of Catullus often approach to something like pleasantry or _persiflage_:

“Invita, O Regina, tuo de vertice cessi ...
Sed qui se ferro postulet esse parem?
Ille quoque eversus mons est, quem maximum in oris
Progenies Phthiæ clara supervehitur;
Quum Medi properare novum mare, quumque juventus
Per medium classi barbara navit Athon.
Quid facient crines, quum ferro talia cedant?”

These lines seem intended is a sort of mock-heroic, and remind us strongly of the _Rape of the Lock_:

“Steel could the labours of the gods destroy,
And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy;
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
What wonder, then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel
The conquering force of unresisted steel?”

The _Coma Earini_ of Statius(510), is a poem of the same description as the _Coma Berenices_. It is written in a style of sufficiently elegant versification; but what in Callimachus is a courtly, though perhaps rather extravagant compliment, is in Statius a servile and disgusting adulation of the loathsome monster, whose vices he so disgracefully flattered. Antonio Sebastiani, a Latin poet of modern Italy, has imitated Catullus, by celebrating the locks of a princess of San-Severino. The beauty and virtues of his heroine had excited the admiration of earth, and the love of the gods, but with these the jealousy of the goddesses. By their influence, a malady evoked from Styx threatens the life of the princess, and occasions the loss of her hair. The gods, indignant at this base conspiracy, commission Iris to convey the fallen locks to the sky, and to restore to the princess, along with health, her former freshness and beauty.

68. _Ad Manlium_. The principal subject of this elegy, is the story of Laodamia: The best parts, however, are those lines in which the poet laments his brother, which are truly elegiac—