Eight Latin Poems

Trustees of Boston University

Eight Latin PoemsAuthor(s): Peter JaySource: Arion, New Series, Vol. 1, No. 3 (1973/1974), pp. 496-504Published by: Trustees of Boston UniversityStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20163338 .

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EIGHT LATIN POEMS

Translated by Peter Jay

CYNTHIA: THE DREAM

I saw you, my love, in a dream?shipwrecked, splashing with tired arms through the Ionian sea,

confessing each deception of me; you could not

lift your head of brine-soaked hair, as you bobbed

loose?like Helle who was softly swept overseas

on the golden ram's back?on those dark waves.

How scared I was that the sea might assume your name, and sailors weep as they sailed your waters!

How I prayed to Neptune?to Castor and brother? and to you?now goddess?Leucotho?!

But you barely raised your fingertips from the waves,

calling my name as if about to die. . .

(Had Glaucus then chanced to catch a glimpse of your

eyes

you'd have become an Ionian nymph, with jealous Nereids grumbling to your face,

Nesae? the fair, dark Cymotho?. )

Then I saw a dolphin swim to help you?I thought the one who'd saved the poet Arion?

but as I struggled to fling myself down to you from the cliff, terror dispelled my vision.

Propertius, 2.26a



Peter Jay 497

DEATH AND LOVE

Still you pursue your enquiries, mortals, into

death's uncertain hour, what path it will take;

you scan astrological charts?which star is good and which bad for man ( even in clear skies! ).

Our forces can chase Parthians inland, or Britons

overseas?but the journey's a blind risk.

When Mars confuses ranks and the issue, you moan

again that the warstorm threatens your being? or you fear domestic arson, or the collapse

of your house?perhaps that you'll be poisoned. . .

Only the lover knows when and how death will come; he need fear neither north wind's blast nor war's.

Though he sits with an oar among the Stygian reeds

gazing at Charon's boat, its gloomy sails?

if only his love's voice whispering calls him back

he shall return by the path fate has barred.

Propertius, 2.27



498 EIGHT LATIN POEMS

CYNTHIA: A MALEDICTION

Stay unknown?or let other men write about you?

men who'd throw seed on dead ground can praise you. The black funeral day (believe me) will crush you, with

all your endowments?on a single bed.

Travellers will slight your bones en passant, never

saying "This heap of dust was a brilliant girl."

Propertius, 2.11



Peter Jay 499

DIFFUGERE NIVES

The snows are routed; now the grass returns

to fields, leaves to the trees; Earth's order turns successively, and rivers

decrescendo to streams.

The Grace with twins and Nymphs now ventures out

naked to lead her choir.

Do not expect eternal orders, the year warns, and the dayrobbing hour.

Frost coaxed to thaw; spring trampled underfoot

by summer-r-which is interred

When appled autumn spills its fruit; until

winter returns, inert.

Swift moons succeed, repair the failing skies.

We fall?and when we follow

Father Aeneas, Tullus the Rich and Ancus, resemble dust and shadow.

Who knows if the gods will add tomorrow's time

to what this day is ours?

All things you grant your own dear soul escape the grasping hands of heirs.

Once you are dead and Minos has decreed

his everlasting orders, Neither your breeding, eloquence nor grace

can bring you back, Torquatus. Diana will not let Hipporytus

the prude escape her darkness,

No, nor can Theseus smash the chains of Lethe to save his loved Perithous.

Horace, Odes 4.7




THE IMPOTENT LOVER'S PLEA

Filthy, the quick thrill of a fuck

getting it done with makes me sick.

Let's not like rutting animals shove

blindly, headlong at it; love

grows feeble then, the spark will die.

No, endlessly at leisure lie

so, close together?and we'll kiss no weariness, no shame in this?

it pleases, has, will always?never

stops pleasing?starts afresh forever.

Petronius, Fr. 54



Peter Jay 501

STANZAS FROM STATTUS

Overthrown by the sun, tyrannic winter has retreated to the poles,

earth and sea smile, now the north

wind has resolved to westerlies.

All the trees now are fringed with the spring's annual greenery, birds renew

their mutterings, testing songs

planned in the silence of winter.

My patch of land, the hearth-fire burning,

ceiling smoky from too many lamps, these and the young wine I draw

from the jar keep me contented.

No thousands of woolly sheep bleating, no cows mooing to their sweet bulls?

but the dumb field answering its master, whenever he sings.

from Silvae 4.5




Amnis ibat inter ama ualle fusus fr?gida, luce ridens calculorum, flore pictus herbido.

caerulas superne laurus et uirecta myrtea leniter motabat aura blandiente sibilo.

subter autem molle gramen flore adulto creuerat:

et croco solum rubebat et lucebat liliis

et nemus fragrabat omne uiolarum suspiritu. inter ista dona ueris gemmeasque gratias omnium regina odorum uel colorum Lucifer

auriflora praeminebat, flamma Diones, rosa,

roscidum nemus rigebat inter uda gramina: fonte crebro murmurabant hinc et inde riuuli, antra muscus et uirentes intus hederae uinxerant,

qua fluenta labibunda guttis ibant lucidis.

has per umbras omnis ales plus canora quam putes cantibus uernis strepebat et susurris dulcibus; hic loquentis murmur amnis concinebat frondibus,

quis melos uocalis aurae musa zephyri mouerat.

sic euntem per uirecta pulcra odora et m?sica

ales amnis aura hicus flos et umbra iuuerat.

THE RIVER

Bordered with flowers and grass the river flowed

broad through the corn fields

in the cool valley

twinkling as light caught the pebbles, breezes above gently motioning

sea-green laurels, green myrtles

rustling them with a caress.

Fullblown flowers



Peter Jay 503

in the soft grass beneath

and the ground aglow with crocus

sparkling with lilies, the violet's exhalation

permeating the grove.

Among these gifts

spring's jewelled favours?excelled

the queen of odours

morning-star of colours

the golden-flowing flame of Dione: the rose.

A clump of dew-touched trees

stiff in the damp grass and the streams murmuring this way and that

lavishly, from the spring and the caves inside

bound with moss and green ivy wherever the stream slid through

in a scintillation of spray. And in these shadows every bird

struck up a song of spring, sweet and uncanny

their melody like a whisper. And the river's murmur

in harmony with the leaves, the west wind adding its music

the vocal chant of the breeze.

So bird river wind

sacred wood flower and shade

gladden the heart of the man

passing through the beautiful greenery odour and the music.

Tiberianus




ANIMULA VAGULA BLANDULA

Vagabond delicate soul,

body's guest and companion, what place must you enter now

numbed, colourless and naked?

not, in your old way, joking?

Hadrian



Eight Latin Poems

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