Dweller on Helicon, son
of the muse of the stars’ slow
turning through the night sky, god
who hastens the tender bride
to her bridegroom, we sing your name:
O Hymen Hymenaee, Hymenaee.
Cover your head with a garland
of fragrant red marjoram flowers,
put on your flame-colored mantle,
come happily, wearing yellow
slippers on your snowy feet!
Walking on this festive morning,
chanting the poems of marriage
in a sweetly tremulant voice,
pound the earth under your feet,
whirl the pine torch in your hand,
for today _______ marries
_______, who is a lovely
as Venus was at Idalia
when Paris chose her among the goddesses;
they go with good auspices,
as dear as the Asian myrtle is
to the nymphs of the forest
who love their flowery playthings,
brilliant with sprigs of white blossoms,
and feed them on dewdrops.
Come to us quickly, marriage-god.
Set about leaving your shelter,
your cave on the mountain cooled
by clear water from the stream
of the nymph Aganippe.
Call to their home these new lovers,
eager to be with each other,
fasten their hearts with affection
as trailing ivy will fasten close
around the trunk of an oak.
And you too, young men and women,
for whom a day just like this one
approaches, cry out in measure,
sing out the god’s name: O Hymen
Hymenaee, Hymenaee,
so he will come all the faster,
summoned by your songs
to his duties, this herald
of the Venus of days, this god who
seals passionate desire.
What god more lovingly called on
by those whose love is requited?
Whom shall men worship more in all
heaven? O Hymen Hymenaee,
Hymen Hymenaee.
Worried fathers invoke you;
for your sake, young girls loosen
the binding that gather their dresses;
the nervous young bridegrooms
jump at the sound of your music!
You give the budding girl over
to the hands of her husband,
you give the boy to his wife,
and pluck them both from their mother’s
bosoms. O Hymen Hymenaee,
Hymen Hymenaee.
Without you Venus is for hours,
she is not the one of long years,
of excellent accomplishment, yet
when you are willing, she abides.
What god compares to this one?
No house may have heirs without you
nor aged parents have children
to lean on; yet they may have them
and more, when you are willing.
What god compares to this one?
Land that gave you no worship
would not have young to tend it, to honor
the earth against her despoilers.
When you are willing, we have them.
What god compares to this one?
Roman tradition calls now for a few
bawdy verses. We’re not implying
that in the case of you two
it would be in any way appropriate.
O Hymen Hymenaee.
But it sometimes happens that the young
have their flings, catastrophic passions,
those relationships that practically kill you,
that you tell yourself you learned from.
O Hymen Hymenaee.
In old Rome a couple of pretty kids
used to toss walnuts to the crowd
for the bride and the bridegroom.
I think the nuts must have symbolized
old boyfriends and girlfriends.
We’re not saying you two went cruising,
picked people up on vacation, but
throw out some walnuts anyways;
that frantic life, even if it was
kind of fun, is done with.
O Hymen Hymenaee.
But now we’re finished delaying;
here you are at the alter.
May Venus assist you, since it’s plain
that you wish for,
this love with its freshness.
Anyone who wants to count the thousands
of joy before you, the days of delight,
may tally the glittering stars
or go counting sands in the desert.
O Hymen Hymenaee.
Play as you’re pleased to. Be children
together and grownups. And show us
some children eventually, as alive
as you two are on this festive day
and at least as good-looking.
So, god of marriage, we’ve brought them
this far, and the rest of the song
is their singing. Be good to each other,
you two, and get to work on the singing,
on the labor of loving.
O Hymen, Hymanaee, Hymenaee
--Catullus
