Delphi Complete Works of Theocritus (Illustrated) E-Book

Theocritus

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Ancient Classics
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 996

Beschreibung

The inventor of the bucolic genre, Theocritus of Syracuse was a learned poet, who refashioned traditional literary forms in original and highly polished verse on a small scale. Theocritus is best known for poems set in pastoral landscapes, consisting of dialogues and song-contests, combining lyric tone with epic meter. Delphi’s Ancient Classics series provides eReaders with the wisdom of the Classical world, with both English translations and the original Greek texts. This comprehensive eBook presents Theocritus’ complete extant works, with relevant illustrations, informative introductions and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Theocritus’ life and works
* Features the complete extant works of Theocritus, in both English translation and the original Greek
* Concise introduction to the poetry
* Provides three different translations, including both verse and prose translations
* Includes the J. M. Edmonds translation previously appearing in the Loeb Classical Library edition of Theocritus
* Excellent formatting of the texts
* Easily locate the poems or works you want to read with individual contents tables
* Includes Theocritus’ rare fragments, first time in digital print
* Provides a special dual English and Greek text, allowing readers to compare the sections paragraph by paragraph – ideal for students
* Features three bonus biographies – discover Theocritus’ ancient world
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

The Translations
THE IDYLLS OF Theocritus
C. S. CALVERLEY VERSE TRANSLATION, 1869
ANDREW LANG PROSE TRANSLATION, 1889
J. M. EDMONDS, LOEB TRANSLATION, 1912

The Greek Text
CONTENTS OF THE GREEK TEXT

The Dual Text
DUAL GREEK AND ENGLISH TEXT

The Biographies
THE LIFE OF Theocritus by J. M. Edmonds
Theocritus AND HIS AGE by Andrew Lang
Theocritus by Albert Curtis Clark

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Leseprobe

The Complete Works of

THEOCRITUS

(fl. c. 270 BC)

Contents

The Translations

THE IDYLLS OF THEOCRITUS

C. S. CALVERLEY VERSE TRANSLATION, 1869

ANDREW LANG PROSE TRANSLATION, 1889

J. M. EDMONDS, LOEB TRANSLATION, 1912

The Greek Text

CONTENTS OF THE GREEK TEXT

The Dual Text

DUAL GREEK AND ENGLISH TEXT

The Biographies

THE LIFE OF THEOCRITUS by J. M. Edmonds

THEOCRITUS AND HIS AGE by Andrew Lang

THEOCRITUS by Albert Curtis Clark

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2016

Version 1

The Complete Works of

THEOCRITUS

By Delphi Classics, 2016

COPYRIGHT

Complete Works of Theocritus

First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2016.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 78656 378 1

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

The Translations

Ortygia island, Syracuse — Theocritus’ birthplace

Ancient ruins at Syracuse — The Temple of Apollo

THE IDYLLS OF THEOCRITUS

Little is known of Theocritus, the creator of ancient bucolic poetry who flourished in the 3rd century BC, except what can be learned from his writings. It is clear that from an early date two collections were made of the Sicilian poet’s work: one consisting of poems whose authorship was doubtful, yet formed a corpus of bucolic poetry, the other a strict collection of those works, considered to have been composed by Theocritus himself.  Artemidorus of Tarsus, a grammarian, who lived in the time of Sulla, is believed to have been the first editor of these poems. He writes, “Bucolic muses, once were ye scattered, but now one byre, one herd is yours.” An annoymous epigram tells us: “The Chian is another. I, Theocritus, who wrote these songs, am of Syracuse, a man of the people, the son of Praxagoras and famed Philina. I never sought after a strange muse.” The last line may mean that he wrote nothing but bucolic poems, or that he only wrote in Doric. The assertion that he was from Syracuse appears to be upheld by several allusions in the Idylls.

A bucolic poem is set within a pastoral, rural setting, whilst a mime is set against the backdrop of a town. Theocritus’most famous Bucolics are 1, 6, 7 and 11. In Idyll 1 Thyrsis sings to a goatherd about how Daphnis, the mythical herdsman, having defied the power of Aphrodite, dies rather than yielding to a passion the goddess has inflicted on him. A series of divine figures from classical mythology, including Hermes, Priapus, and Aphrodite herself, interrogate the shepherd about his lovesickness. The poem deals with the classical belief of the folly of mortals that challenge the gods.

Idyll 11 concerns Polyphemus, the Cyclops, who is depicted in love with the sea-nymph Galatea and finds solace in his song. In Idyll 6, Polyphemus is cured of his passion and naively relates how he repulses the overtures now made to him by Galatea.  Idyll 7 describes a Harvest Feast and is generally considered one of the most important extant bucolic poems. The scene is set on the isle of Kos. The poet speaks in the first person and is called Simichidas by his friends. Other poets are introduced under feigned names. Ancient critics have identified the character Sicelidas of Samos with Asclepiades of Samos, and the character Lycidas, “the goatherd of Cydonia,” with the poet Astacides, whom Callimachus calls “the Cretan, the goatherd.” Theocritus speaks of himself as having already gained fame and boasts that his songs have been brought by report even unto the throne of Zeus. He praises Philitas, the veteran poet of Kos, and criticises “the fledgelings of the Muse that cackle against the Chian bard and find their labour lost.” Other persons mentioned are Nicias, a physician of Miletus, whose name occurs in other poems, and Aratus, whom the scholiasts identify with the author of the Phenomena.

Several of the other bucolic poems consist of singing-matches, conducted according to the rules of amoebaean poetry, in which the second singer takes the subject chosen by the first and contributes a variation on the same theme. Suspicion has been cast upon the authenticity of Idylls 8 and 9 on various grounds. However, both poems were in Virgil’s Theocritus, suggesting that they passed the scrutiny of the editor that formed the short collection of Theocritean Bucolics.

There are three mimes: 2, 14, and 15. In 2 Simaetha, deserted by Delphis, tells the story of her love to the moon; in 14 Aeschines narrates his quarrel with his sweetheart, and is advised to go to Egypt and enlist in the army of Ptolemy Philadelphus; in 15 Gorgo and Praxinoë go to the festival of Adonis. It may be noticed that in the best manuscript 2 comes immediately before 14, an arrangement which is obviously right, since it places the three mimes together. The second place in the manuscripts is occupied by Idyll 7, the “Harvest Feast.”

Amphora painting of Odysseus and his men blinding Polyphemus (Eleusis museum) — Theocritus describes the Sicilian Polyphemus as being his fellow countryman

Sculpture of Pan teaching Daphnis to play the pipes, found in Pompeii; c. 100 BC

Falconet’s 1763 sculpture of Galatea, a key figure of Idyll XI

Fragment of Theocritus' Idyll 13, P. Oxy. 694, 2nd century AD

C. S. CALVERLEY VERSE TRANSLATION, 1869

Translated by C. S. Calverley

CONTENTS

PREFACE.

Idylls.

IDYLL I. The Death of Daphnis.

IDYLL II. The Sorceress.

IDYLL III. The Serenade.

IDYLL IV. The Herdsmen.

IDYLL V. The Battle of the Bards.

IDYLL VI. The Drawn Battle.

IDYLL VII. Harvest-Home.

IDYLL VIII. The Triumph of Daphnis.

IDYLL IX. Pastorals.

IDYLL X. The Two Workmen.

IDYLL XI. The Giant’s Wooing

IDYLL XII. The Comrades

IDYLL XIII. Hylas.

IDYLL XIV. The Love of Æschines.

IDYLL XV. The Festival of Adonis.

IDYLL XVI. The Value of Song.

IDYLL XVII. The Praise of Ptolemy.

IDYLL XVIII. The Bridal of Helen.

IDYLL XIX. Love Stealing Honey.

IDYLL XX. Town and Country

IDYLL XXI. The Fishermen.

IDYLL XXII. The Sons of Leda

IDYLL XXIII. Love Avenged

IDYLL XXIV. The Infant Heracles.

IDYLL XXV. Heracles the Lion Slayer.

IDYLL XXVI. The Bacchanals.

IDYLL XXVII. A Countryman’s Wooing.

IDYLL XXVIII. The Distaff.

IDYLL XXIX. Loves.

IDYLL XXX. The Death of Adonis.

IDYLL XXXI. Loves.

Epigrams and Epitaphs.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII. For a Statue of Æsculapius.

VIII. Ortho’s Epitaph.

IX. Epitaph of Cleonicus.

X. For a Statue of the Muses.

XI. Epitaph of Eusthenes.

XII. For a Tripod Erected by Damoteles to Bacchus.

XIII. For a Statue of Anacreon.

XIV. Epitaph of Eurymedon.

XV. Another.

XVI. For a Statue of the Heavenly Aphrodite.

XVII. To Epicharmus.

XVIII. Epitaph of Cleita, Nurse of Medeius.

XIX. To Archilochus.

XX. Under a statue of Peisander, who wrote the labours of Heracles.

XXI. Epitaph of Hipponax.

XXII. On his own Book.

PREFACE.

I had intended translating all or nearly all these Idylls into blank verse, as the natural equivalent of Greek or of Latin hexameters; only deviating into rhyme where occasion seemed to demand it. But I found that other metres had their special advantages: the fourteen-syllable line in particular has that, among others, of containing about the same number of syllables as an ordinary line of Theocritus. And there is also no doubt something gained by variety.

Several recent writers on the subject have laid down that every translation of Greek poetry, especially bucolic poetry, must be in rhyme of some sort. But they have seldom stated, and it is hard to see, why. There is no rhyme in the original, and primâ facie should be none in the translation. Professor Blackie has, it is true, pointed out the “assonances, alliterations, and rhymes,” which are found in more or less abundance in Ionic Greek.[A] These may of course be purely accidental, like the hexameters in Livy or the blank-verse lines in Mr. Dickens’s prose: but accidental or not (it may be said) they are there, and ought to be recognised. May we not then recognise them by introducing similar assonances, etc., here and there into the English version? or by availing ourselves of what Professor Blackie again calls attention to, the “compensating powers”[B] of English? I think with him that it was hard to speak of our language as one which “transforms boos megaloio boeién into ‘great ox’s hide.’” Such phrases as ‘The Lord is a man of war,’ ‘The trumpet spake not to the armed throng,’ are to my ear quite as grand as Homer: and it would be equally fair to ask what we are to make of a language which transforms Milton’s line into [Greek: ê shalpigx ohy proshephê ton hôplismhenon hochlon.][C] But be this as it may, these phenomena are surely too rare and too arbitrary to be adequately represented by any regularly recurring rhyme: and the question remains, what is there in the unrhymed original to which rhyme answers?

To me its effect is to divide the verse into couplets, triplets, or (if the word may include them all) stanzas of some kind. Without rhyme we have no apparent means of conveying the effect of stanzas. There are of course devices such as repeating a line or part of a line at stated intervals, as is done in ‘Tears, idle tears’ and elsewhere: but clearly none of these would be available to a translator. Where therefore he has to express stanzas, it is easy to see that rhyme may be admissible and even necessary. Pope’s couplet may (or may not) stand for elegiacs, and the In Memoriam stanza for some one of Horace’s metres. Where the heroes of Virgil’s Eclogues sing alternately four lines each, Gray’s quatrain seems to suggest itself: and where a similar case occurs in these Idylls (as for instance in the ninth) I thought it might be met by taking whatever received English stanza was nearest the required length. Pope’s couplet again may possibly best convey the pomposity of some Idylls and the point of others. And there may be divers considerations of this kind. But, speaking generally, where the translator has not to intimate stanzas — where he has on the contrary to intimate that there are none — rhyme seems at first sight an intrusion and a suggestio falsi.

No doubt (as has been observed) what ‘Pastorals’ we have are mostly written in what is called the heroic measure. But the reason is, I suppose, not far to seek. Dryden and Pope wrote ‘heroics,’ not from any sense of their fitness for bucolic poetry, but from a sense of their universal fitness: and their followers copied them. But probably no scholar would affirm that any poem, original or translated, by Pope or Dryden or any of their school, really resembles in any degree the bucolic poetry of the Greeks. Mr. Morris, whose poems appear to me to resemble it more almost than anything I have ever seen, of course writes what is technically Pope’s metre, and equally of course is not of Pope’s school. Whether or no Pope and Dryden intended to resemble the old bucolic poets in style is, to say the least, immaterial. If they did not, there is no reason whatever why any of us who do should adopt their metre: if they did and failed, there is every reason why we should select a different one.

Professor Conington has adduced one cogent argument against blank verse: that is, that hardly any of us can write it.[D] But if this is so — if the ‘blank verse’ which we write is virtually prose in disguise — the addition of rhyme would only make it rhymed prose, and we should be as far as ever from “verse really deserving the name.”[E] Unless (which I can hardly imagine) the mere incident of ‘terminal consonance’ can constitute that verse which would not be verse independently, this argument is equally good against attempting verse of any kind: we should still be writing disguised, and had better write undisguised, prose. Prose translations are of course tenable, and are (I am told) advocated by another very eminent critic. These considerations against them occur to one: that, among the characteristics of his original which the translator is bound to preserve, one is that he wrote metrically; and that the prattle which passes muster, and sounds perhaps rather pretty than otherwise, in metre, would in plain prose be insufferable. Very likely some exceptional sort of prose may be meant, which would dispose of all such difficulties: but this would be harder for an ordinary writer to evolve out of his own brain, than to construct any species of verse for which he has at least a model and a precedent.

These remarks are made to shew that my metres were not selected, as it might appear, at hap-hazard. Metre is not so unimportant as to justify that. For the rest, I have used Briggs’s edition[F] (Poetæ Bucolici Græci), and have never, that I am aware of, taken refuge in any various reading where I could make any sense at all of the text as given by him. Sometimes I have been content to put down what I felt was a wrong rendering rather than omit; but only in cases where the original was plainly corrupt, and all suggested emendations seemed to me hopelessly wide of the mark. What, for instance, may be the true meaning of [Greek: bolbhost tist kochlhiast] in the fourteenth Idyll I have no idea. It is not very important. And no doubt the sense of the last two lines of the “Death of Adonis” is very unlikely to be what I have made it. But no suggestion that I met with seemed to me satisfactory or even plausible: and in this and a few similar cases I have put down what suited the context. Occasionally also, as in the Idyll here printed last — the one lately discovered by Bergk, which I elucidated by the light of Fritzsche’s conjectures — I have availed myself of an opinion which Professor Conington somewhere expresses, to the effect that, where two interpretations are tenable, it is lawful to accept for the purposes of translation the one you might reject as a commentator. [Greek: tetootaiost] has I dare say nothing whatever to do with ‘quartan fever.’

On one point, rather a minor one, I have ventured to dissent from Professor Blackie and others: namely, in retaining the Greek, instead of adopting the Roman, nomenclature. Professor Blackie says[G] that there are some men by whom “it is esteemed a grave offence to call Jupiter Jupiter,” which begs the question: and that Jove “is much more musical” than Zeus, which begs another. Granting (what might be questioned) that Zeus, Aphrodite, and Eros are as absolutely the same individuals with Jupiter, Venus, and Cupid as Odysseus undoubtedly is with Ulysses — still I cannot see why, in making a version of (say) Theocritus, one should not use by way of preference those names by which he invariably called them, and which are characteristic of him: why, in turning a Greek author into English, we should begin by turning all the proper names into Latin. Professor Blackie’s authoritative statement[H] that “there are whole idylls in Theocritus which would sound ridiculous in any other language than that of Tam o’ Shanter” I accept of course unhesitatingly, and should like to see it acted upon by himself or any competent person. But a translator is bound to interpret all as best he may: and an attempt to write Tam o’ Shanter’s language by one who was not Tam o’ Shanter’s countryman would, I fear, result in something more ridiculous still.

C.S.C.

Idylls.

IDYLL I. The Death of Daphnis.

THYRSIS. A GOATHERD.

THYRSIS.Sweet are the whispers of yon pine that makesLow music o’er the spring, and, Goatherd, sweetThy piping; second thou to Pan alone.Is his the horned ram? then thine the goat.Is his the goat? to thee shall fall the kid;And toothsome is the flesh of unmilked kids.

GOATHERD.Shepherd, thy lay is as the noise of streamsFalling and falling aye from yon tall crag.If for their meed the Muses claim the ewe,Be thine the stall-fed lamb; or if they chooseThe lamb, take thou the scarce less-valued ewe.

THYRSIS.Pray, by the Nymphs, pray, Goatherd, seat thee hereAgainst this hill-slope in the tamarisk shade,And pipe me somewhat, while I guard thy goats.

GOATHERD.I durst not, Shepherd, O I durst not pipeAt noontide; fearing Pan, who at that hourRests from the toils of hunting. Harsh is he;Wrath at his nostrils aye sits sentinel.But, Thyrsis, thou canst sing of Daphnis’ woes;High is thy name for woodland minstrelsy:Then rest we in the shadow of the elmFronting Priapus and the Fountain-nymphs.There, where the oaks are and the Shepherd’s seat,Sing as thou sang’st erewhile, when matched with himOf Libya, Chromis; and I’ll give thee, first,To milk, ay thrice, a goat — she suckles twins,Yet ne’ertheless can fill two milkpails full; — Next, a deep drinking-cup, with sweet wax scoured,Two-handled, newly-carven, smacking yetO’ the chisel. Ivy reaches up and climbsAbout its lip, gilt here and there with spraysOf woodbine, that enwreathed about it flauntsHer saffron fruitage. Framed therein appearsA damsel (’tis a miracle of art)In robe and snood: and suitors at her sideWith locks fair-flowing, on her right and left,Battle with words, that fail to reach her heart.She, laughing, glances now on this, flings nowHer chance regards on that: they, all for loveWearied and eye-swoln, find their labour lost.Carven elsewhere an ancient fisher standsOn the rough rocks: thereto the old man with painsDrags his great casting-net, as one that toilsFull stoutly: every fibre of his frameSeems fishing; so about the gray-beard’s neck(In might a youngster yet) the sinews swell.Hard by that wave-beat sire a vineyard bendsBeneath its graceful load of burnished grapes;A boy sits on the rude fence watching them.Near him two foxes: down the rows of grapesOne ranging steals the ripest; one assailsWith wiles the poor lad’s scrip, to leave him soonStranded and supperless. He plaits meanwhileWith ears of corn a right fine cricket-trap,And fits it on a rush: for vines, for scrip,Little he cares, enamoured of his toy.The cup is hung all round with lissom briar,Triumph of Æolian art, a wondrous sight.It was a ferryman’s of Calydon:A goat it cost me, and a great white cheese.Ne’er yet my lips came near it, virgin stillIt stands. And welcome to such boon art thou,If for my sake thou’lt sing that lay of lays.I jest not: up, lad, sing: no songs thou’lt ownIn the dim land where all things are forgot.THYSIS [sings].Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.The voice of Thyrsis. Ætna’s Thyrsis I.Where were ye, Nymphs, oh where, while Daphnis pined?In fair Penëus’ or in Pindus’ glens?For great Anapus’ stream was not your haunt,Nor Ætna’s cliff, nor Acis’ sacred rill.Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.O’er him the wolves, the jackals howled o’er him;The lion in the oak-copse mourned his death.Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.The kine and oxen stood around his feet,The heifers and the calves wailed all for him.Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.First from the mountain Hermes came, and said,“Daphnis, who frets thee? Lad, whom lov’st thou so?”Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.Came herdsmen, shepherds came, and goatherds came;All asked what ailed the lad. Priapus cameAnd said, “Why pine, poor Daphnis? while the maidFoots it round every pool and every grove,(Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song)“O lack-love and perverse, in quest of thee;Herdsman in name, but goatherd rightlier called.With eyes that yearn the goatherd marks his kidsRun riot, for he fain would frisk as they:(Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song):“With eyes that yearn dost thou too mark the laughOf maidens, for thou may’st not share their glee.”Still naught the herdsman said: he drained aloneHis bitter portion, till the fatal end.Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.Came Aphroditè, smiles on her sweet face,False smiles, for heavy was her heart, and spake:“So, Daphnis, thou must try a fall with Love!But stalwart Love hath won the fall of thee.”Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.Then “Ruthless Aphroditè,” Daphnis said,“Accursed Aphroditè, foe to man!Say’st thou mine hour is come, my sun hath set?Dead as alive, shall Daphnis work Love woe.”Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.“Fly to Mount Ida, where the swain (men say)And Aphroditè — to Anchises fly:There are oak-forests; here but galingale,And bees that make a music round the hives.Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.“Adonis owed his bloom to tending flocksAnd smiting hares, and bringing wild beasts down.Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.“Face once more Diomed: tell him ‘I have slainThe herdsman Daphnis; now I challenge thee.’Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.“Farewell, wolf, jackal, mountain-prisoned bear!Ye’ll see no more by grove or glade or glenYour herdsman Daphnis! Arethuse, farewell,And the bright streams that pour down Thymbris’ side.Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.“I am that Daphnis, who lead here my kine,Bring here to drink my oxen and my calves.Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.“Pan, Pan, oh whether great Lyceum’s cragsThou haunt’st to-day, or mightier Mænalus,Come to the Sicel isle! Abandon nowRhium and Helicè, and the mountain-cairn(That e’en gods cherish) of Lycaon’s son!Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song.“Come, king of song, o’er this my pipe, compactWith wax and honey-breathing, arch thy lip:For surely I am torn from life by Love.Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song.“From thicket now and thorn let violets spring,Now let white lilies drape the juniper,And pines grow figs, and nature all go wrong:For Daphnis dies. Let deer pursue the hounds,And mountain-owls outsing the nightingale.Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song.”So spake he, and he never spake again.Fain Aphroditè would have raised his head;But all his thread was spun. So down the streamWent Daphnis: closed the waters o’er a headDear to the Nine, of nymphs not unbeloved.Now give me goat and cup; that I may milkThe one, and pour the other to the Muse.Fare ye well, Muses, o’er and o’er farewell!I’ll sing strains lovelier yet in days to be.

GOATHERD.Thyrsis, let honey and the honeycombFill thy sweet mouth, and figs of Ægilus:For ne’er cicala trilled so sweet a song.Here is the cup: mark, friend, how sweet it smells:The Hours, thou’lt say, have washed it in their well.Hither, Cissætha! Thou, go milk her! Kids,Be steady, or your pranks will rouse the ram.

IDYLL II. The Sorceress.

Where are the bay-leaves, Thestylis, and the charms?Fetch all; with fiery wool the caldron crown;Let glamour win me back my false lord’s heart!Twelve days the wretch hath not come nigh to me,Nor made enquiry if I die or live,Nor clamoured (oh unkindness!) at my door.Sure his swift fancy wanders otherwhere,The slave of Aphroditè and of Love.I’ll off to Timagetus’ wrestling-schoolAt dawn, that I may see him and denounceHis doings; but I’ll charm him now with charms.So shine out fair, O moon! To thee I singMy soft low song: to thee and HecatèThe dweller in the shades, at whose approachE’en the dogs quake, as on she moves through bloodAnd darkness and the barrows of the slain.All hail, dread Hecatè: companion meUnto the end, and work me witcheriesPotent as Circè or Medea wrought,Or Perimedè of the golden hair!Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.First we ignite the grain. Nay, pile it on:Where are thy wits flown, timorous Thestylis?Shall I be flouted, I, by such as thou?Pile, and still say, ‘This pile is of his bones.’Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.Delphis racks me: I burn him in these bays.As, flame-enkindled, they lift up their voice,Blaze once, and not a trace is left behind:So waste his flesh to powder in yon fire!Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.E’en as I melt, not uninspired, the wax,May Mindian Delphis melt this hour with love:And, swiftly as this brazen wheel whirls round,May Aphroditè whirl him to my door.Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.Next burn the husks. Hell’s adamantine floorAnd aught that else stands firm can Artemis move.Thestylis, the hounds bay up and down the town:The goddess stands i’ the crossroads: sound the gongs.Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.Hushed are the voices of the winds and seas;But O not hushed the voice of my despair.He burns my being up, who left me hereNo wife, no maiden, in my misery.Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.Thrice I pour out; speak thrice, sweet mistress, thus:“What face soe’er hangs o’er him be forgotClean as, in Dia, Theseus (legends say)Forgat his Ariadne’s locks of love.”Turn, magic, wheel, draw homeward him I love.The coltsfoot grows in Arcady, the weedThat drives the mountain-colts and swift mares wild.Like them may Delphis rave: so, maniac-wise,Race from his burnished brethren home to me.Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.He lost this tassel from his robe; which IShred thus, and cast it on the raging flames.Ah baleful Love! why, like the marsh-born leech,Cling to my flesh, and drain my dark veins dry?Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.From a crushed eft tomorrow he shall drinkDeath! But now, Thestylis, take these herbs and smearThat threshold o’er, whereto at heart I clingStill, still — albeit he thinks scorn of me — And spit, and say, ‘’Tis Delphis’ bones I smear.’Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.[Exit Thestylis.Now, all alone, I’ll weep a love whence sprungWhen born? Who wrought my sorrow? Anaxo came,Her basket in her hand, to Artemis’ grove.Bound for the festival, troops of forest beastsStood round, and in the midst a lioness.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.Theucharidas’ slave, my Thracian nurse now deadThen my near neighbour, prayed me and imploredTo see the pageant: I, the poor doomed thing,Went with her, trailing a fine silken train,And gathering round me Clearista’s robe.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.Now, the mid-highway reached by Lycon’s farm,Delphis and Eudamippus passed me by.With beards as lustrous as the woodbine’s goldAnd breasts more sheeny than thyself, O Moon,Fresh from the wrestler’s glorious toil they came.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.I saw, I raved, smit (weakling) to my heart.My beauty withered, and I cared no moreFor all that pomp; and how I gained my homeI know not: some strange fever wasted me.Ten nights and days I lay upon my bed.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.And wan became my flesh, as ‘t had been dyed,And all my hair streamed off, and there was leftBut bones and skin. Whose threshold crossed I not,Or missed what grandam’s hut who dealt in charms?For no light thing was this, and time sped on.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.At last I spake the truth to that my maid:“Seek, an thou canst, some cure for my sore pain.Alas, I am all the Mindian’s! But begone,And watch by Timagetus’ wrestling-school:There doth he haunt, there soothly take his rest.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.“Find him alone: nod softly: say, ‘she waits’;And bring him.” So I spake: she went her way,And brought the lustrous-limbed one to my roof.And I, the instant I beheld him stepLightfooted o’er the threshold of my door,(Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love,)Became all cold like snow, and from my browBrake the damp dewdrops: utterance I had none,Not e’en such utterance as a babe may makeThat babbles to its mother in its dreams;But all my fair frame stiffened into wax.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.He bent his pitiless eyes on me; looked down,And sate him on my couch, and sitting, said:“Thou hast gained on me, Simætha, (e’en as IGained once on young Philinus in the race,)Bidding me hither ere I came unasked.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.“For I had come, by Eros I had come,This night, with comrades twain or may-be more,The fruitage of the Wine-god in my robe,And, wound about my brow with ribands red,The silver leaves so dear to Heracles.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.“Had ye said ‘Enter,’ well: for ‘mid my peersHigh is my name for goodliness and speed:I had kissed that sweet mouth once and gone my way.But had the door been barred, and I thrust out,With brand and axe would we have stormed ye then.Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.“Now be my thanks recorded, first to Love,Next to thee, maiden, who didst pluck me out,A half-burned helpless creature, from the flames,And badst me hither. It is Love that lightsA fire more fierce than his of Lipara;(Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.)“Scares, mischief-mad, the maiden from her bower,The bride from her warm couch.” He spake: and I,A willing listener, sat, my hand in his,Among the cushions, and his cheek touched mine,Each hotter than its wont, and we discoursedIn soft low language. Need I prate to thee,Sweet Moon, of all we said and all we did?Till yesterday he found no fault with me,Nor I with him. But lo, to-day there camePhilista’s mother — hers who flutes to me — With her Melampo’s; just when up the skyGallop the mares that chariot rose-limbed Dawn:And divers tales she brought me, with the restHow Delphis loved, she knew not rightly whom:But this she knew; that of the rich wine, ayeHe poured ‘to Love;’ and at the last had fled,To line, she deemed, the fair one’s hall with flowers.Such was my visitor’s tale, and it was true:For thrice, nay four times, daily he would strollHither, leave here full oft his Dorian flask:Now— ’tis a fortnight since I saw his face.Doth he then treasure something sweet elsewhere?Am I forgot? I’ll charm him now with charms.But let him try me more, and by the FatesHe’ll soon be knocking at the gates of hell.Spells of such power are in this chest of mine,Learned, lady, from mine host in Palestine.Lady, farewell: turn ocean-ward thy steeds:As I have purposed, so shall I fulfil.Farewell, thou bright-faced Moon! Ye stars, farewell,That wait upon the car of noiseless Night.

IDYLL III. The Serenade.

I pipe to Amaryllis; while my goats,Tityrus their guardian, browse along the fell.O Tityrus, as I love thee, feed my goats:And lead them to the spring, and, Tityrus, ‘wareThe lifted crest of yon gray Libyan ram.Ah winsome Amaryllis! Why no moreGreet’st thou thy darling, from the caverned rockPeeping all coyly? Think’st thou scorn of him?Hath a near view revealed him satyr-shapedOf chin and nostril? I shall hang me soon.See here ten apples: from thy favourite treeI plucked them: I shall bring ten more anon.Ah witness my heart-anguish! Oh were IA booming bee, to waft me to thy lair,Threading the fern and ivy in whose depthsThou nestlest! I have learned what Love is now:Fell god, he drank the lioness’s milk,In the wild woods his mother cradled him,Whose fire slow-burns me, smiting to the bone.O thou whose glance is beauty and whose heartAll marble: O dark-eyebrowed maiden mine!Cling to thy goatherd, let him kiss thy lips,For there is sweetness in an empty kiss.Thou wilt not? Piecemeal I will rend the crown,The ivy-crown which, dear, I guard for thee,Inwov’n with scented parsley and with flowers:Oh I am desperate — what betides me, what? — Still art thou deaf? I’ll doff my coat of skinsAnd leap into yon waves, where on the watchFor mackerel Olpis sits: tho’ I ‘scape death,That I have all but died will pleasure thee.That learned I when (I murmuring ‘loves she me?’)The Love-in-absence, crushed, returned no sound,But shrank and shrivelled on my smooth young wrist.I learned it of the sieve-divining croneWho gleaned behind the reapers yesterday:‘Thou’rt wrapt up all,’ Agraia said, ‘in her;She makes of none account her worshipper.’Lo! a white goat, and twins, I keep for thee:Mermnon’s lass covets them: dark she is of skin:But yet hers be they; thou but foolest me.She cometh, by the quivering of mine eye.I’ll lean against the pine-tree here and sing.She may look round: she is not adamant.[Sings] Hippomenes, when he a maid would wed,Took apples in his hand and on he sped.Famed Atalanta’s heart was won by this;She marked, and maddening sank in Love’s abyss.From Othrys did the seer Melampus strayTo Pylos with his herd: and lo there layIn a swain’s arms a maid of beauty rare;Alphesiboea, wise of heart, she bare.Did not Adonis rouse to such excessOf frenzy her whose name is Loveliness,(He a mere lad whose wethers grazed the hill)That, dead, he’s pillowed on her bosom still?Endymion sleeps the sleep that changeth not:And, maiden mine, I envy him his lot!Envy Iasion’s: his it was to gainBliss that I dare not breathe in ears profane.My head aches. What reck’st thou? I sing no more:E’en where I fell I’ll lie, until the wolvesRend me — may that be honey in thy mouth!

IDYLL IV. The Herdsmen.

BATTUS. CORYDON.

BATTUS.Who owns these cattle, Corydon? Philondas? Prythee say.

CORYDON.No, Ægon: and he gave them me to tend while he’s away.

BATTUS.Dost milk them in the gloaming, when none is nigh to see?

CORYDON.The old man brings the calves to suck, and keeps an eye on me.

BATTUS.And to what region then hath flown the cattle’s rightful lord?

CORYDON.Hast thou not heard? With Milo he vanished Elis-ward.

BATTUS.How! was the wrestler’s oil e’er yet so much as seen by him?

CORYDON.Men say he rivals Heracles in lustiness of limb.

BATTUS.I’m Polydeuces’ match (or so my mother says) and more.

CORYDON. — So off he started; with a spade, and of these ewes a score.

BATTUS.This Milo will be teaching wolves how they should raven next.

CORYDON. — And by these bellowings his kine proclaim how sore they’re vexed.

BATTUS.Poor kine! they’ve found their master a sorry knave indeed.

CORYDON.They’re poor enough, I grant you: they have not heart to feed.

BATTUS.Look at that heifer! sure there’s naught, save bare bones, left of her.Pray, does she browse on dewdrops, as doth the grasshopper?

CORYDON.Not she, by heaven! She pastures now by Æsarus’ glades,And handfuls fair I pluck her there of young and green grass-blades;Now bounds about Latymnus, that gathering-place of shades.

BATTUS.That bull again, the red one, my word but he is lean!I wish the Sybarite burghers aye may offer to the queenOf heaven as pitiful a beast: those burghers are so mean!

CORYDON.Yet to the Salt Lake’s edges I drive him, I can swear;Up Physcus, up Neæthus’ side — he lacks not victual there,With dittany and endive and foxglove for his fare.

BATTUS.Well, well! I pity Ægon. His cattle, go they mustTo rack and ruin, all because vain-glory was his lust.The pipe that erst he fashioned is doubtless scored with rust?

CORYDON.Nay, by the Nymphs! That pipe he left to me, the self-same dayHe made for Pisa: I am too a minstrel in my way:Well the flute-part in ‘Pyrrhus’ and in ‘Glauca’ can I play.I sing too ‘Here’s to Croton’ and ‘Zacynthus O ’tis fair,’And ‘Eastward to Lacinium:’ — the bruiser Milo thereHis single self ate eighty loaves; there also did he pullDown from its mountain-dwelling, by one hoof grasped, a bull,And gave it Amaryllis: the maidens screamed with fright;As for the owner of the bull he only laughed outright.

BATTUS.Sweet Amaryllis! thou alone, though dead, art unforgot.Dearer than thou, whose light is quenched, my very goats are not.Oh for the all-unkindly fate that’s fallen to my lot!

CORYDON.Cheer up, brave lad! tomorrow may ease thee of thy pain:Aye for the living are there hopes, past’ hoping are the slain:And now Zeus sends us sunshine, and now he sends us rain.

BATTUS.I’m better. Beat those young ones off! E’en now their teeth attackThat olive’s shoots, the graceless brutes! Back, with your white face, back!

CORYDON.Back to thy hill, Cymætha! Great Pan, how deaf thou art!I shall be with thee presently, and in the end thou’lt smart.I warn thee, keep thy distance. Look, up she creeps again!Oh were my hare-crook in nay hand, I’d give it to her then!

BATTUS.For heaven’s sake, Corydon, look here! Just now a bramble-spikeRan, there, into my instep — and oh how deep they strike,Those lancewood-shafts! A murrain light on that calf, I say!I got it gaping after her. Canst thou discern it, pray?

CORYDON.Ay, ay; and here I have it, safe in my finger-nails.

BATTUS.Eh! at how slight a matter how tall a warrior quails!

CORYDON.Ne’er range the hill-crest, Battus, all sandal-less and bare:Because the thistle and the thorn lift aye their plumed heads there.

BATTUS. — Say, Corydon, does that old man we wot of (tell me please!)Still haunt the dark-browed little girl whom once he used to tease?

CORYDON.Ay my poor boy, that doth he: I saw them yesterdayDown by the byre; and, trust me, loving enough were they.

BATTUS.Well done, my veteran light-o’-love! In deeming thee mere man,I wronged thy sire: some Satyr he, or an uncouth-limbed Pan.

IDYLL V. The Battle of the Bards.

COMETAS. LACON. MORSON.

COMETAS.Goats, from a shepherd who stands here, from Lacon, keep away:Sibyrtas owns him; and he stole my goatskin yesterday.

LACON.Hi! lambs! avoid yon fountain. Have ye not eyes to seeCometas, him who filched a pipe but two days back from me?

COMETAS.Sibyrtas’ bondsman own a pipe? whence gotst thou that, and how?Tootling through straws with Corydon mayhap’s beneath thee now?

LACON.’Twas Lycon’s gift, your highness. But pray, Cometas, say,What is that skin wherewith thou saidst that Lacon walked away?Why, thy lord’s self had ne’er a skin whereon his limbs to lay.

COMETAS.The skin that Crocylus gave me, a dark one streaked with white,The day he slew his she-goat. Why, thou wert ill with spite,Then, my false friend; and thou would’st end by beggaring me quite.

LACON.Did Lacon, did Calæthis’ son purloin a goatskin? No,By Pan that haunts the sea-beach! Lad, if I served thee so,Crazed may I drop from yon hill-top to Crathis’ stream below!

COMETAS.Nor pipe of thine, good fellow — the Ladies of the LakeSo be still kind and good to me — did e’er Cometas take.

LACON.Be Daphnis’ woes my portion, should that my credence win!Still, if thou list to stake a kid — that surely were no sin — Come on, I’ll sing it out with thee — until thou givest in.

COMETAS.‘The hog he braved Athene.’ As for the kid, ’tis there:You stake a lamb against him — that fat one — if you dare.

LACON.Fox! were that fair for either? At shearing who’d preferHorsehair to wool? or when the goat stood handy, suffer herTo nurse her firstling, and himself go milk a blatant cur?

COMETAS.The same who deemed his hornet’s-buzz the true cicala’s note,And braved — like you — his better. And so forsooth you voteMy kid a trifle? Then come on, fellow! I stake the goat.

LACON.Why be so hot? Art thou on fire? First prythee take thy seat‘Neath this wild woodland olive: thy tones will sound more sweet.Here falls a cold rill drop by drop, and green grass-blades uprearTheir heads, and fallen leaves are thick, and locusts prattle here.

COMETAS.Hot I am not; but hurt I am, and sorely, when I thinkThat thou canst look me in the face and never bleach nor blink — Me, thine own boyhood’s tutor! Go, train the she-wolf’s brood:Train dogs — that they may rend thee! This, this is gratitude!

LACON.When learned I from thy practice or thy preaching aught that’s right,Thou puppet, thou misshapen lump of ugliness and spite?

COMETAS.When? When I beat thee, wailing sore: yon goats looked on with glee,And bleated; and were dealt with e’en as I had dealt with thee.

LACON.Well, hunchback, shallow be thy grave as was thy judgment then!But hither, hither! Thou’lt not dip in herdsman’s lore again.

COMETAS.Nay, here are oaks and galingale: the hum of housing beesMakes the place pleasant, and the birds are piping in the trees.And here are two cold streamlets; here deeper shadows fallThan yon place owns, and look what cones drop from the pinetree tall.

LACON.Come hither, and tread on lambswool that is soft as any dream:Still more unsavoury than thyself to me thy goatskins seem.Here will I plant a bowl of milk, our ladies’ grace to win;And one, as huge, beside it, sweet olive-oil therein.

COMETAS.Come hither, and trample dainty fern and poppy-blossom: sleepOn goatskins that are softer than thy fleeces piled three deep.Here will I plant eight milkpails, great Pan’s regard to gain,Bound them eight cups: full honeycombs shall every cup contain.

LACON.Well! there essay thy woodcraft: thence fight me, never budgeFrom thine own oak; e’en have thy way. But who shall be our judge?Oh, if Lycopas with his kine should chance this way to trudge!

COMETAS.Nay, I want no Lycopas. But hail yon woodsman, do:’Tis Morson — see! his arms are full of bracken — there, by you.

LACON.We’ll hail him.

COMETAS.Ay, you hail him.

LACON.Friend, ‘twill not take thee long:We’re striving which is master, we twain, in woodland song:And thou, my good friend Morson, ne’er look with favouring eyesOn me; nor yet to yonder lad be fain to judge the prize.

COMETAS.Nay, by the Nymphs, sweet Morson, ne’er for Cometas’ sakeStretch thou a point; nor e’er let him undue advantage take.Sibyrtas owns yon wethers; a Thurian is he:And here, my friend, Eumares’ goats, of Sybaris, you may see.

LACON.And who asked thee, thou naughty knave, to whom belonged these flocks,Sibyrtas, or (it might be) me? Eh, thou’rt a chatter-box!

COMETAS.The simple truth, most worshipful, is all that I allege:I’m not for boasting. But thy wit hath all too keen an edge.

LACON.Come sing, if singing’s in thee — and may our friend get backTo town alive! Heaven help us, lad, how thy tongue doth clack!

COMETAS. [Sings]Daphnis the mighty minstrel was less precious to the NineThan I. I offered yesterday two kids upon their shrine.

LACON. [Sings]Ay, but Apollo fancies me hugely: for him I rearA lordly ram: and, look you, the Carnival is near.

COMETAS.Twin kids hath every goat I milk, save two. My maid, my own,Eyes me and asks ‘At milking time, rogue, art thou all alone?’

LACON.Go to! nigh twenty baskets doth Lacon fill with cheese:Hath time to woo a sweetheart too upon the blossomed leas.

COMETAS.Clarissa pelts her goatherd with apples, should he strayBy with his goats; and pouts her lip in a quaint charming way.

LACON.Me too a darling smooth of face notes as I tend my flocks:How maddeningly o’er that fair neck ripple those shining locks!

COMETAS.Tho’ dogrose and anemone are fair in their degree,The rose that blooms by garden-walls still is the rose for me.

LACON.Tho’ acorns’ cups are fair, their taste is bitterness, and stillI’ll choose, for honeysweet are they, the apples of the hill.

COMETAS.A cushat I will presently procure and give to herWho loves me: I know where it sits; up in the juniper.

LACON.Pooh! a soft fleece, to make a coat, I’ll give the day I shearMy brindled ewe — (no hand but mine shall touch it) — to my dear.

COMETAS.Back, lambs, from that wild-olive: and be content to browseHere on the shoulder of the hill, beneath the myrtle boughs.

LACON.Run, (will ye?) Ball and Dogstar, down from that oak tree, run:And feed where Spot is feeding, and catch the morning sun.

COMETAS.I have a bowl of cypress-wood: I have besides a cup:Praxiteles designed them: for her they’re treasured up.

LACON.I have a dog who throttles wolves: he loves the sheep, and theyLove him: I’ll give him to my dear, to keep wild beasts at bay.

COMETAS.Ye locusts that o’erleap my fence, oh let my vines escapeYour clutches, I beseech you: the bloom is on the grape.

LACON.Ye crickets, mark how nettled our friend the goatherd is!I ween, ye cost the reapers pangs as acute as his.

COMETAS.Those foxes with their bushy tails, I hate to see them crawlRound Micon’s homestead and purloin his grapes at evenfall.

LACON.I hate to see the beetles that come warping on the wind.And climb Philondas’ trees, and leave never a fig behind.

COMETAS.Have you forgot that cudgelling I gave you? At each strokeYou grinned and twisted with a grace, and clung to yonder oak.

LACON.That I’ve forgot — but I have not, how once Eumares tiedYou to that selfsame oak-trunk, and tanned your unclean hide.

COMETAS.There’s some one ill — of heartburn. You note it, I presume,Morson? Go quick, and fetch a squill from some old beldam’s tomb.

LACON.I think I’m stinging somebody, as Morson too perceives — Go to the river and dig up a clump of sowbread-leaves.

COMETAS.May Himera flow, not water, but milk: and may’st thou blush,Crathis, with wine; and fruitage grow upon every rush.

LACON.For me may Sybaris’ fountain flow, pure honey: so that you,My fair, may dip your pitcher each morn in honey-dew.

COMETAS.My goats are fed on clover and goat’s-delight: they treadOn lentisk leaves; or lie them down, ripe strawberries o’er their head.

LACON.My sheep crop honeysuckle bloom, while all around them blowsIn clusters rich the jasmine, as brave as any rose.

COMETAS.I scorn my maid; for when she took my cushat, she did notDraw with both hands my face to hers and kiss me on the spot.

LACON.I love my love, and hugely: for, when I gave my flute,I was rewarded with a kiss, a loving one to boot.

COMETAS.Lacon, the nightingale should scarce be challenged by the jay,Nor swan by hoopoe: but, poor boy, thou aye wert for a fray.

MORSON.I bid the shepherd hold his peace. Cometas, unto youI, Morson, do adjudge the lamb. You’ll first make offering dueUnto the nymphs: then savoury meat you’ll send to Morson too.

COMETAS.By Pan I will! Snort, all my herd of he-goats: I shall nowO’er Lacon, shepherd as he is, crow ye shall soon see how.I’ve won, and I could leap sky-high! Ye also dance and skip,My hornèd ewes: in Sybaris’ fount to-morrow all shall dip.Ho! you, sir, with the glossy coat and dangerous crest; you dareLook at a ewe, till I have slain my lamb, and ill you’ll fare.What! is he at his tricks again? He is, and he will get(Or my name’s not Cometas) a proper pounding yet.

IDYLL VI. The Drawn Battle.

DAPHNIS. DAMOETAS.

Daphnis the herdsman and Damoetas onceHad driven, Aratus, to the selfsame glen.One chin was yellowing, one shewed half a beard.And by a brookside on a summer noonThe pair sat down and sang; but Daphnis ledThe song, for Daphnis was the challenger.

DAPHNIS.“See! Galatea pelts thy flock with fruit,And calls their master ‘Lack-love,’ Polypheme.Thou mark’st her not, blind, blind, but pipest ayeThy wood-notes. See again, she smites thy dog:Sea-ward the fleeced flocks’ sentinel peers and barks,And, through the clear wave visible to her still,Careers along the gently babbling beach.Look that he leap not on the maid new-risenFrom her sea-bath and rend her dainty limbs.She fools thee, near or far, like thistle-waifsIn hot sweet summer: flies from thee when wooed,Unwooed pursues thee: risks all moves to win;For, Polypheme, things foul seem fair to Love.”And then, due prelude made, Damoetas sang.

DAMOETAS.“I marked her pelt my dog, I was not blind,By Pan, by this my one my precious eyeThat bounds my vision now and evermore!But Telemus the Seer, be his the woe,His and his children’s, that he promised me!Yet do I too tease her; I pass her by,Pretend to woo another: — and she hears(Heaven help me!) and is faint with jealousy;And hurrying from the sea-wave as if stung,Scans with keen glance my grotto and my flock.’Twas I hissed on the dog to bark at her;For, when I loved her, he would whine and layHis muzzle in her lap. These things she’ll noteMayhap, and message send on message soon:But I will bar my door until she swearTo make me on this isle fair bridal-bed.And I am less unlovely than men say.I looked into the mere (the mere was calm),And goodly seemed my beard, and goodly seemedMy solitary eye, and, half-revealed,My teeth gleamed whiter than the Parian marl.Thrice for good luck I spat upon my robe:That learned I of the hag Cottytaris — herWho fluted lately with Hippocoön’s mowers.”Damoetas then kissed Daphnis lovingly:One gave a pipe and one a goodly flute.Straight to the shepherd’s flute and herdsman’s pipeThe younglings bounded in the soft green grass:And neither was o’ermatched, but matchless both.

IDYLL VII. Harvest-Home.

Once on a time did Eucritus and I(With us Amyntas) to the riversideSteal from the city. For Lycopeus’ sonsWere that day busy with the harvest-home,Antigenes and Phrasidemus, sprung(If aught thou holdest by the good old names)By Clytia from great Chalcon — him who erstPlanted one stalwart knee against the rock,And lo, beneath his foot Burinè’s rillBrake forth, and at its side poplar and elmShewed aisles of pleasant shadow, greenly roofedBy tufted leaves. Scarce midway were we now,Nor yet descried the tomb of Brasilas:When, thanks be to the Muses, there drew nearA wayfarer from Crete, young Lycidas.The horned herd was his care: a glance might tellSo much: for every inch a herdsman he.Slung o’er his shoulder was a ruddy hideTorn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt claspedA patched cloak round his breast, and for a staffA gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.Soon with a quiet smile he spoke — his eyeTwinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:“And whither ploddest thou thy weary wayBeneath the noontide sun, Simichidas?For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,The crested lark folds now his wandering wing.Dost speed, a bidden guest, to some reveller’s board?Or townward to the treading of the grape?For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feetThe pavement-stones ring out right merrily.”Then I: “Friend Lycid, all men say that noneOf haymakers or herdsmen is thy matchAt piping: and my soul is glad thereat.Yet, to speak sooth, I think to rival thee.Now look, this road holds holiday to-day:For banded brethren solemnise a feastTo richly-dight Demeter, thanking herFor her good gifts: since with no grudging handHath the boon goddess filled the wheaten floors.So come: the way, the day, is thine as mine:Try we our woodcraft — each may learn from each.I am, as thou, a clarion-voice of song;All hail me chief of minstrels. But I am not,Heaven knows, o’ercredulous: no, I scarce can yet(I think) outvie Philetas, nor the bardOf Samos, champion of Sicilian song.They are as cicadas challenged by a frog.”I spake to gain mine ends; and laughing lightHe said: “Accept this club, as thou’rt indeedA born truth-teller, shaped by heaven’s own hand!I hate your builders who would rear a houseHigh as Oromedon’s mountain-pinnacle:I hate your song-birds too, whose cuckoo-cryStruggles (in vain) to match the Chian bard.But come, we’ll sing forthwith, Simichidas,Our woodland music: and for my part I — List, comrade, if you like the simple airI forged among the uplands yesterday.[Sings] Safe be my true-love convoyed o’er the mainTo Mitylenè — though the southern blastChase the lithe waves, while westward slant the Kids,Or low above the verge Orion stand — If from Love’s furnace she will rescue me,For Lycidas is parched with hot desire.Let halcyons lay the sea-waves and the winds,Northwind and Westwind, that in shores far-offFlutters the seaweed — halcyons, of all birdsWhose prey is on the waters, held most dearBy the green Nereids: yea let all things smileOn her to Mitylenè voyaging,And in fair harbour may she ride at last.I on that day, a chaplet woven of dillOr rose or simple violet on my brow,Will draw the wine of Pteleas from the caskStretched by the ingle. They shall roast me beans,And elbow-deep in thyme and asphodelAnd quaintly-curling parsley shall be piledMy bed of rushes, where in royal easeI sit and, thinking of my darling, drainWith stedfast lip the liquor to the dregs.I’ll have a pair of pipers, shepherds both,This from Acharnæ, from Lycopè that;And Tityrus shall be near me and shall singHow the swain Daphnis loved the stranger-maid;And how he ranged the fells, and how the oaks(Such oaks as Himera’s banks are green withal)Sang dirges o’er him waning fast awayLike snow on Athos, or on Hæmus high,Or Rhodopè, or utmost Caucasus.And he shall sing me how the big chest held(All through the maniac malice of his lord)A living goatherd: how the round-faced bees,Lured from their meadow by the cedar-smell,Fed him with daintiest flowers, because the MuseHad made his throat a well-spring of sweet song.Happy Cometas, this sweet lot was thine!Thee the chest prisoned, for thee the honey-beesToiled, as thou slavedst out the mellowing year:And oh hadst thou been numbered with the quickIn my day! I had led thy pretty goatsAbout the hill-side, listening to thy voice:While thou hadst lain thee down ‘neath oak or pine,Divine Cometas, warbling pleasantly.”He spake and paused; and thereupon spake I.“I too, friend Lycid, as I ranged the fells,Have learned much lore and pleasant from the Nymphs,Whose fame mayhap hath reached the throne of Zeus.But this wherewith I’ll grace thee ranks the first:Thou listen, since the Muses like thee well.[Sings] On me the young Loves sneezed: for hapless IAm fain of Myrto as the goats of Spring.But my best friend Aratus inly pinesFor one who loves him not. Aristis saw — (A wondrous seer is he, whose lute and layShrinèd Apollo’s self would scarce disdain) — How love had scorched Aratus to the bone.O Pan, who hauntest Homolè’s fair champaign,Bring the soft charmer, whosoe’er it be,Unbid to his sweet arms — so, gracious Pan,May ne’er thy ribs and shoulderblades be lashedWith squills by young Arcadians, whensoe’erThey are scant of supper! But should this my prayerMislike thee, then on nettles mayest thou sleep,Dinted and sore all over from their claws!Then mayest thou lodge amid Edonian hillsBy Hebrus, in midwinter; there subsist,The Bear thy neighbour: and, in summer, rangeWith the far Æthiops ‘neath the Blemmyan rocksWhere Nile is no more seen! But O ye Loves,Whose cheeks are like pink apples, quit your homesBy Hyetis, or Byblis’ pleasant rill,Or fair Dionè’s rocky pedestal,And strike that fair one with your arrows, strikeThe ill-starred damsel who disdains my friend.And lo, what is she but an o’er-ripe pear?The girls all cry ‘Her bloom is on the wane.’We’ll watch, Aratus, at that porch no more,Nor waste shoe-leather: let the morning cockCrow to wake others up to numb despair!Let Molon, and none else, that ordeal brave:While we make ease our study, and secureSome witch, to charm all evil from our door.”I ceased. He smiling sweetly as before,Gave me the staff, ‘the Muses’ parting gift,’And leftward sloped toward Pyxa. We the while,Bent us to Phrasydeme’s, Eucritus and I,And baby-faced Amyntas: there we layHalf-buried in a couch of fragrant reedAnd fresh-cut vineleaves, who so glad as we?A wealth of elm and poplar shook o’erhead;Hard by, a sacred spring flowed gurgling onFrom the Nymphs’ grot, and in the sombre boughsThe sweet cicada chirped laboriously.Hid in the thick thorn-bushes far awayThe treefrog’s note was heard; the crested larkSang with the goldfinch; turtles made their moan,And o’er the fountain hung the gilded bee.All of rich summer smacked, of autumn all:Pears at our feet, and apples at our sideRolled in luxuriance; branches on the groundSprawled, overweighed with damsons; while we brushedFrom the cask’s head the crust of four long years.Say, ye who dwell upon Parnassian peaks,