The poem is Catullus's Carmen CI--it is written out in full at the bottom. A literal translation (by me) follows.
Disclaimer: All things Sherlockian belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The poem belongs to Gaius Valerius Catullus.
Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus
advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias
ut te postremo donarem munere mortis
He'd travelled from London to Newhaven, across the Channel, through France and Belgium, all the way to Switzerland—good Lord, he'd been to Switzerland—and now, Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., had returned to London to stand in this lonely, mournful graveyard in the unseasonably chill mist of a May afternoon. With supreme effort, he forced himself to ignore the pain in his old war wound, focusing instead upon the pastor's intoning the words of the funeral service. Never mind the damp, no matter how much it caused his bones to twinge. It was the least he could, and the last he could do, for Sherlock Holmes. At last came the final "amen," and the crowd of mourners began to dissipate as the empty casket was lowered into the ground, whispering their equally empty condolences to the veteran as one by one they passed his statue-like form. Soon, only the doctor remained at the graveside.
et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem.
"I'm sorry, Holmes," he whispered, trying to somehow alleviate the burden upon his soul—the sorrow, the anger, but most of all, the guilt, the gnawing, irrational guilt which insisted this was all somehow his fault. His fault for leaving Holmes, perhaps, but even more so his fault for some inexplicable reason not even he could ever claim to comprehend. "I'm so very sorry."
But even as he spoke, he knew the words meant nothing. His friend could not respond, and no measure of grief could undo the past.
Quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum.
Heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi!
It wasn't fair, the doctor reflected, any of it. That he who had chronicled so much of Holmes' life should have been absent at his death. That his gallant desire to save a life should have instead brought about the end to one. That Holmes, always so cold and reserved, should have been the one to have a chance to say good-bye. Tears stung at the back of Watson's eyes, and he had no desire to stop them.
Nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum
tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias,
And so this was left: to stand beside an empty grave. Watson tried to convince himself it was for Holmes. He knew it wasn't true. He couldn't even claim "Bury the dead," for Holmes' bones, it appeared, were lost forever.
No, this was for the living. Some tried to believe it brought about "closure." Such a thought made the doctor scoff: what kind of closure was left that death itself had not brought already? Rather, the burial was carried out, Watson was sure, simply to maintain tradition—to follow the precepts of their fathers, and their fathers' fathers, and all the ancient men before them. An Englishman received an English burial; whether it meant anything to the dead was immaterial.
accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu,
Tears were flowing down the doctor's face in earnest now, tracing paths upon his cheeks before trickling off his chin and onto the ground, each one bringing with it a piece of his shattered soul. Watson still had no will to dry them. Instead, he continued to stand at the graveside, still but for his trembling shoulders, as he wept until the tears would come no more.
atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.
"Good-bye, old fellow," he whispered at last. And slowly, he turned around and walked away.
Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus
advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias
ut te postremo donarem munere mortis
et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem.
Quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum.
Heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi!
Nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum
tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias,
accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu,
atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.
-
Having been carried through many lands and over many seas,
I come, brother, toward these sad funerary rites
That I might present you with the final gift of death
And uselessly address the silent ashes.
Because fortune stole you yourself from me,
Alas, unfortunate brother unfairly having been snatched away from me!
Now, meanwhile, nevertheless, accept these things
Which have been handed down in the ancient custom of our fathers
In a sad gift toward the funerary rites,
Very wet with brotherly tears,
And, into eternity, brother, hello and yet good-bye.
