Fluctus ut in medio coepit quum albescere ponto Longius, ex altoque sinum trahit; utque volutus Ad terras immane sonat per saxa, neque ipso Monte minor procumbit; at ima exaestuat unda Verticibus, nigramque alte subiectat arenam. He used to say, "The Horatian alcaic is, perhaps, the stateliest metre except the Virgilian hexameter at its best." I take my samples in chance order. I suppose I knew my Catullus fairly well before, but I am sure that, in a deeper sense, I learnt to know "the tenderest of Roman poets" for the first time that day when he read to me in that voice of his, with half-sad _Heiterkeit_, and with that refinement of pronunciation which seemed--I am sure was--the right thing absolutely, those well-known poems about his lady-love's pet sparrow (translated roughly here in case a reader should chance not to know Latin): Passer, deliciae meae puellae, Quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere, Cui primum digitum dare appetenti Et acris solet incitare morsus, Cum desiderio meo nitenti Carum nescio quid libet iocari. Credo ut, cum gravis acquiescet ardor, Tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem Et tristis animi levare curas! Sparrow, pet of my lady-love, with you she will play; she will hold you in her bosom and give you her finger-tips to peck at, and tease to quicken your sharp bite, when my shining heart's desire is in the humour for some darling jest. Doubtless, when the fever of passion dies away she seeks to find some little solace[56] for her pain. Oh, if I could only play with you as she does, and so relieve the gloomy sorrow of my soul! And then the tear-moving sequel in the minor: Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque, Et quantum est hominum venustiorum. Passer mortuus est meae puellae, Passer, deliciae meae puellae, Quem plus illa oculis suis amabat; Nam mellitus erat suamque norat Ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem, Nec sese a gremio illius movebat, Sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc Ad solam dominam usque pipillabat. Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum Illuc, unde negant redire quemquam. At vobis male sit, malae tenebrae Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis: Tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis. Vae factum male! Vae miselle passer! Tua nunc opera meae puellae Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.