Rendered into English Prose, by Andrew Lang
- Life Of Theocritus
- I. The Death Of Daphnis
- Idyl II. The Sorceress
- Idyl III. The Serenade
- Idyl IV. The Herdsman
- Idyl V. The Battle Of The Bards
- Idyl VI. The Drawn Battle
- Idyl VII. The Song of Simichidas
- Idyl VIII. The Triumph Of Daphnis
- Idyl IX. Pastorals
- Idyl X. The Reapers
- Idyl XI. The Cyclops In Love
- Idyl XII. The Passionate Friend
- Idyl XIII. Hylas And Heracles
- Idyl XIV. The Love Of Aeschines
- Idyl XV. The Festival Of Adonis
- Idyl XVI. The Value Of Song
- Idyl XVII. The Praise Of Ptolemy
- Idyl XVIII. The Bride Of Helen
- Idyl XIX. The Thievish Love
- Idyl XX. Town And Country
- Idyl XXI. The Fishermen
- Idyl XXII. THE Dioscuri
- Idyl XXIII. The Vengence Of Love
- Idyl XXIV. The Infant Heracles
- Idyl XXV. Heracles The Lion Slayer
- Idyl XXVI. The Bacchanals
- Idyl XXVII. The Wooing Of Daphnis
- Idyl XXVIII. The Distaff
- Idyl XXIX. Loves
- Idyl XXX. The Dead Adonis
- Idyl XXXI. Loves
- Fragment Of The Berenice
- EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS
- I - For a rustic Altar.
- II - For a Herdsman’s Offering
- III - For a Picture
- IV - Priapus
- V - The rural Concert
- VI - The Dead are beyond hope
- VII - For a statue of Asclepius
- VIII - Orthon’s Grave
- IX - The Death of Cleonicus
- X - A Group of the Muses.
- XI - The Grave of Eusthenes
- XII - The Offering of Demoteles
- XIII - For a statue of Aphrodite
- XIV - The Grave of Euryrnedon
- XV - The Grave of Eurymedon
- XVI - For a statue of Anacreon
- XVII - For a statue of Epicharmus
- XVIII - The Grave of Cleita
- XIX - The statue of Archilochus
- XX - The statue of Pisander
- XXI - The Grave of Hipponax
- XXII - For the Bank of Caicus
- XXIII - On his own Poems
-
Bion
- I - The Lament For Adonis
- II - The Love Of Achilles
- III - The Seasons
- IV - The Boy And Love
- V - The Tutor Of Love
- VI - Love And The Muses
- Fragments
-
Moschus
- Idyl I - Love The Runaway
- Idyl II - Europa And The Bull
- Idyl III - The Lament For Bion
- Idyl IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX
Idyl I
The shepherd Thyrsis meets a goatherd, in a shady place beside a spring, and at his invitation sings the Song of Daphnis. This ideal hero of Greek pastoral song had won for his bride the fairest of the Nymphs. Confident in the strength of his passion, he boasted that Love could never subdue him to a new question. Love avenged himself by making Daphnis desire a strange maiden, but to this temptation he never yielded, and so died a constant lover. The song tells how the cattle and the wild things of the wood bewailed him, how Hermes and Priapus gave him counsel in vain, and how with his last breath he retorted the taunts of the implacable Aphrodite.
The scene is in Sicily.
Thyrsis. Sweet, meseems, is the whispering sound of
yonder pine tree, goatherd, that murmureth by the wells of water;
and sweet are thy pipings. After Pan the second prize shalt thou
bear away, and if he take the horned goat, the she-goat shalt
thou win; but if he choose the she-goat for his meed, the kid
falls to thee, and dainty is the flesh of kids e’er the age
when thou milkest them.
The Goatherd. Sweeter, O shepherd, is thy song than the
music of yonder water that is poured from the high face of the
rock! Yea, if the Muses take the young ewe for their gift, a
stall-fed lamb shalt thou receive for thy meed; but if it please
them to take the lamb, thou shalt lead away the ewe for the
second prize.
Thyrsis. Wilt thou, goatherd, in the nymphs’ name,
wilt thou sit thee down here, among the tamarisks, on this
sloping knoll, and pipe while in this place I watch thy
flocks?
Goatherd. Nay, shepherd, it may not be; we may not pipe in
the noontide. ‘Tis Pan we dread, who truly at this hour
rests weary from the chase; and bitter of mood is he, the keen
wrath sitting ever at his nostrils. But, Thyrsis, for that thou
surely wert wont to sing The Affliction of Daphnis, and hast most
deeply meditated the pastoral muse, come hither, and beneath
yonder elm let us sit down, in face of Priapus and the fountain
fairies, where is that resting-place of the shepherds, and where
the oak trees are. Ah! if thou wilt but sing as on that day thou
sangest in thy match with Chromis out of Libya, I will let thee
milk, ay, three times, a goat that is the mother of twins, and
even when she has suckled her kids her milk doth fill two pails.
A deep bowl of ivy-wood, too, I will give thee, rubbed with sweet
bees’-wax, a twy-eared bowl newly wrought, smacking still
of the knife of the graver. Round its upper edges goes the ivy
winding, ivy besprent with golden flowers; and about it is a
tendril twisted that joys in its saffron fruit. Within is
designed a maiden, as fair a thing as the gods could fashion,
arrayed in a sweeping robe, and a snood on her head. Beside her
two youths with fair love-locks are contending from either side,
with alternate speech, but her heart thereby is all untouched.
And now on one she glances, smiling, and anon she lightly flings
the other a thought, while by reason of the long vigils of love
their eyes are heavy, but their labour is all in vain.
Beyond these an ancient fisherman and a rock are fashioned, a
rugged rock, whereon with might and main the old man drags a
great net for his cast, as one that labours stoutly. Thou wouldst
say that he is fishing with all the might of his limbs, so big
the sinews swell all about his neck, grey-haired though he be,
but his strength is as the strength of youth. Now divided but a
little space from the sea-worn old man is a vineyard laden well
with fire-red clusters, and on the rough wall a little lad
watches the vineyard, sitting there. Round him two she-foxes are
skulking, and one goes along the vine-rows to devour the ripe
grapes, and the other brings all her cunning to bear against the
scrip, and vows she will never leave the lad, till she strand him
bare and breakfastless. But the boy is plaiting a pretty
locust-cage with stalks of asphodel, and fitting it with reeds,
and less care of his scrip has he, and of the vines, than delight
in his plaiting.
All about the cup is spread the soft acanthus, a miracle of
varied work, {6} a thing for thee to marvel on. For this bowl
I paid to a Calydonian ferryman a goat and a great white cream
cheese. Never has its lip touched mine, but it still lies maiden
for me. Gladly with this cup would I gain thee to my desire, if
thou, my friend, wilt sing me that delightful song. Nay, I grudge
it thee not at all. Begin, my friend, for be sure thou canst in
no wise carry thy song with thee to Hades, that puts all things
out of mind!
The Song of Thyrsis.
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! Thyrsis of
Etna am I, and this is the voice of Thyrsis. Where, ah! where
were ye when Daphnis was languishing; ye Nymphs, where were ye?
By Peneus’s beautiful dells, or by dells of Pindus? for
surely ye dwelt not by the great stream of the river Anapus, nor
on the watch-tower of Etna, nor by the sacred water of
Acis.
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
For him the jackals, for him the wolves did cry; for him did even
the lion out of the forest lament. Kine and bulls by his feet
right many, and heifers plenty, with the young calves bewailed
him.
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
Came Hermes first from the hill, and said, ‘Daphnis, who is
it that torments thee; child, whom dost thou love with so great
desire?’ The neatherds came, and the shepherds; the
goatherds came: all they asked what ailed him. Came also Priapus,
-
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
And said: ‘Unhappy Daphnis, wherefore dost thou languish,
while for thee the maiden by all the fountains, through all the
glades is fleeting, in search of thee? Ah! thou art too laggard a
lover, and thou nothing availest! A neatherd wert thou named, and
now thou art like the goatherd:
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
‘For the goatherd, when he marks the young goats at their
pastime, looks on with yearning eyes, and fain would be even as
they; and thou, when thou beholdest the laughter of maidens, dost
gaze with yearning eyes, for that thou dost not join their
dances.’
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
Yet these the herdsman answered not again, but he bare his bitter
love to the end, yea, to the fated end he bare it.
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
Ay, but she too came, the sweetly smiling Cypris, craftily
smiling she came, yet keeping her heavy anger; and she spake,
saying: ‘Daphnis, methinks thou didst boast that thou
wouldst throw Love a fall, nay, is it not thyself that hast been
thrown by grievous Love?’
Begin ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
But to her Daphnis answered again: ‘Implacable Cypris,
Cypris terrible, Cypris of mortals detested, already dost thou
deem that my latest sun has set; nay, Daphnis even in Hades shall
prove great sorrow to Love.
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
‘Where it is told how the herdsman with Cypris - Get thee
to Ida, get thee to Anchises! There are oak trees - here only
galingale blows, here sweetly hum the bees about the hives!
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
‘Thine Adonis, too, is in his bloom, for he herds the sheep
and slays the hares, and he chases all the wild beasts. Nay, go
and confront Diomedes again, and say, “The herdsman Daphnis
I conquered, do thou join battle with me.”
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
‘Ye wolves, ye jackals, and ye bears in the mountain caves,
farewell! The herdsman Daphnis ye never shall see again, no more
in the dells, no more in the groves, no more in the woodlands.
Farewell Arethusa, ye rivers, good-night, that pour down Thymbris
your beautiful waters.
Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
‘That Daphnis am I who here do herd the kine, Daphnis who
water here the bulls and calves.
‘O Pan, Pan! whether thou art on the high hills of Lycaeus,
or rangest mighty Maenalus, haste hither to the Sicilian isle!
Leave the tomb of Helice, leave that high cairn of the son of
Lycaon, which seems wondrous fair, even in the eyes of the
blessed. {9}
Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral
song!
‘Come hither, my prince, and take this fair pipe,
honey-breathed with wax-stopped joints; and well it fits thy lip:
for verily I, even I, by Love am now haled to Hades.
Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral
song!
‘Now violets bear, ye brambles, ye thorns bear violets; and
let fair narcissus bloom on the boughs of juniper! Let all things
with all be confounded, - from pines let men gather pears, for
Daphnis is dying! Let the stag drag down the hounds, let owls
from the hills contend in song with the
nightingales.’
Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral
song!
So Daphnis spake, and ended; but fain would Aphrodite have given
him back to life. Nay, spun was all the thread that the Fates
assigned, and Daphnis went down the stream. The whirling wave
closed over the man the Muses loved, the man not hated of the
nymphs.
Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral
song!
And thou, give me the bowl, and the she-goat, that I may milk her
and poor forth a libation to the Muses. Farewell, oh, farewells
manifold, ye Muses, and I, some future day, will sing you yet a
sweeter song.
The Goatherd. Filled may thy fair mouth be with honey,
Thyrsis, and filled with the honeycomb; and the sweet dried fig
mayst thou eat of Aegilus, for thou vanquishest the cicala in
song! Lo here is thy cup, see, my friend, of how pleasant a
savour! Thou wilt think it has been dipped in the well-spring of
the Hours. Hither, hither, Cissaetha: do thou milk her, Thyrsis.
And you young she-goats, wanton not so wildly lest you bring up
the he-goat against you.
Idyl II The Sorceress
Simaetha, madly in love with Delphis, who has forsaken her,
endeavours to subdue him to her by magic, and by invoking the
Moon, in her character of Hecate, and of Selene. She tells the
tale of the growth of her passion, and vows vengeance if her
magic arts are unsuccessful.
The scene is probably some garden beneath the moonlit shy, near
the town, and within sound of the sea. The characters are
Simaetha, and Thestylis, her handmaid.
Where are my laurel leaves? come, bring them, Thestylis; and
where are the love-charms? Wreath the bowl with bright-red wool,
that I may knit the witch-knots against my grievous lover,
{11} who for twelve days, oh cruel, has never
come hither, nor knows whether I am alive or dead, nor has once
knocked at my door, unkind that he is! Hath Love flown off with
his light desires by some other path - Love and Aphrodite?
To-morrow I will go to the wrestling school of Timagetus, to see
my love and to reproach him with all the wrong he is doing me.
But now I will bewitch him with my enchantments! Do thou, Selene,
shine clear and fair, for softly, Goddess, to thee will I sing,
and to Hecate of hell. The very whelps shiver before her as she
fares through black blood and across the barrows of the
dead.
Hail, awful Hecate! to the end be thou of our company, and make
this medicine of mine no weaker than the spells of Circe, or of
Medea, or of Perimede of the golden hair.
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
Lo, how the barley grain first smoulders in the fire, - nay, toss
on the barley, Thestylis! Miserable maid, where are thy wits
wandering? Even to thee, wretched that I am, have I become a
laughing-stock, even to thee? Scatter the grain, and cry thus the
while, ‘’Tis the bones of Delphis I am
scattering!’
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
Delphis troubled me, and I against Delphis am burning this
laurel; and even as it crackles loudly when it has caught the
flame, and suddenly is burned up, and we see not even the dust
thereof, lo, even thus may the flesh of Delphis waste in the
burning!
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
Even as I melt this wax, with the god to aid, so speedily may he
by love be molten, the Myndian Delphis! And as whirls this brazen
wheel, {13} so restless, under Aphrodite’s
spell, may he turn and turn about my doors.
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
Now will I burn the husks, and thou, O Artemis, hast power to
move hell’s adamantine gates, and all else that is as
stubborn. Thestylis, hark, ‘tis so; the hounds are baying
up and down the town! The Goddess stands where the three ways
meet! Hasten, and clash the brazen cymbals.
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
Lo, silent is the deep, and silent the winds, but never silent
the torment in my breast. Nay, I am all on fire for him that made
me, miserable me, no wife but a shameful thing, a girl no more a
maiden.
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
Three times do I pour libation, and thrice, my Lady Moon, I speak
this spell:- Be it with a friend that he lingers, be it with a
leman he lies, may he as clean forget them as Theseus, of old, in
Dia - so legends tell - did utterly forget the fair-tressed
Ariadne.
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
Coltsfoot is an Arcadian weed that maddens, on the hills, the
young stallions and fleet-footed mares. Ah! even as these may I
see Delphis; and to this house of mine, may he speed like a
madman, leaving the bright palaestra.
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
This fringe from his cloak Delphis lost; that now I shred and
cast into the cruel flame. Ah, ah, thou torturing Love, why
clingest thou to me like a leech of the fen, and drainest all the
black blood from my body?
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
Lo, I will crush an eft, and a venomous draught to-morrow I will
bring thee!
But now, Thestylis, take these magic herbs and secretly smear the
juice on the jambs of his gate (whereat, even now, my heart is
captive, though nothing he recks of me), and spit and whisper,
‘’Tis the bones of Delphis that I smear.’
My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!
And now that I am alone, whence shall I begin to bewail my love?
Whence shall I take up the tale: who brought on me this sorrow?
The maiden-bearer of the mystic vessel came our way, Anaxo,
daughter of Eubulus, to the grove of Artemis; and behold, she had
many other wild beasts paraded for that time, in the sacred show,
and among them a lioness.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
And the Thracian servant of Theucharidas, - my nurse that is but
lately dead, and who then dwelt at our doors, - besought me and
implored me to come and see the show. And I went with her,
wretched woman that I am, clad about in a fair and sweeping linen
stole, over which I had thrown the holiday dress of
Clearista.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
Lo! I was now come to the mid-point of the highway, near the
dwelling of Lycon, and there I saw Delphis and Eudamippus walking
together. Their beards were more golden than the golden flower of
the ivy; their breasts (they coming fresh from the glorious
wrestler’s toil) were brighter of sheen than thyself
Selene!
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
Even as I looked I loved, loved madly, and all my heart was
wounded, woe is me, and my beauty began to wane. No more heed
took I of that show, and how I came home I know not; but some
parching fever utterly overthrew me, and I lay a-bed ten days and
ten nights.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
And oftentimes my skin waxed wan as the colour of boxwood, and
all my hair was falling from my head, and what was left of me was
but skin and bones. Was there a wizard to whom I did not seek, or
a crone to whose house I did not resort, of them that have art
magical? But this was no light malady, and the time went fleeting
on.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
Thus I told the true story to my maiden, and said, ‘Go,
Thestylis, and find me some remedy for this sore disease. Ah me,
the Myndian possesses me, body and soul! Nay, depart, and watch
by the wrestling-ground of Timagetus, for there is his resort,
and there he loves to loiter.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
‘And when thou art sure he is alone, nod to him secretly,
and say, “Simaetha bids thee to come to her,” and
lead him hither privily.’ So I spoke; and she went and
brought the bright-limbed Delphis to my house. But I, when I
beheld him just crossing the threshold of the door, with his
light step, -
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
Grew colder all than snow, and the sweat streamed from my brow
like the dank dews, and I had no strength to speak, nay, nor to
utter as much as children murmur in their slumber, calling to
their mother dear: and all my fair body turned stiff as a puppet
of wax.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
Then when he had gazed on me, he that knows not love, he fixed
his eyes on the ground, and sat down on my bed, and spake as he
sat him down: ‘Truly, Simaetha, thou didst by no more
outrun mine own coming hither, when thou badst me to thy roof,
than of late I outran in the race the beautiful Philinus:
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
‘For I should have come; yea, by sweet Love, I should have
come, with friends of mine, two or three, as soon as night drew
on, bearing in my breast the apples of Dionysus, and on my head
silvery poplar leaves, the holy boughs of Heracles, all twined
with bands of purple.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
‘And if you had received me, they would have taken it well,
for among all the youths unwed I have a name for beauty and speed
of foot. With one kiss of thy lovely mouth I had been content;
but an if ye had thrust me forth, and the door had been fastened
with the bar, then truly should torch and axe have broken in upon
you.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
‘And now to Cypris first, methinks, my thanks are due, and
after Cypris it is thou that hast caught me, lady, from the
burning, in that thou badst me come to this thy house, half
consumed as I am! Yea, Love, ‘tis plain, lights oft a
fiercer blaze than Hephaestus the God of Lipara.
Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came, my Lady
Moon!
‘With his madness dire, he scares both the maiden from her
bower and the bride from the bridal bed, yet warm with the body
of her lord!’
So he spake, and I, that was easy to win, took his hand, and drew
him down on the soft bed beside me. And immediately body from
body caught fire, and our faces glowed as they had not done, and
sweetly we murmured. And now, dear Selene, to tell thee no long
tale, the great rites were accomplished, and we twain came to our
desire. Faultless was I in his sight, till yesterday, and he,
again, in mine. But there came to me the mother of Philista, my
flute player, and the mother of Melixo, to-day, when the horses
of the Sun were climbing the sky, bearing Dawn of the rosy arms
from the ocean stream. Many another thing she told me; and
chiefly this, that Delphis is a lover, and whom he loves she
vowed she knew not surely, but this only, that ever he filled up
his cup with the unmixed wine, to drink a toast to his dearest.
And at last he went off hastily, saying that he would cover with
garlands the dwelling of his love.
This news my visitor told me, and she speaks the truth. For
indeed, at other seasons, he would come to me thrice, or four
times, in the day, and often would leave with me his Dorian oil
flask. But now it is the twelfth day since I have even looked on
him! Can it be that he has not some other delight, and has
forgotten me? Now with magic rites I will strive to bind him,
{19} but if still he vexes me, he shall beat,
by the Fates I vow it, at the gate of Hell. Such evil medicines I
store against him in a certain coffer, the use whereof, my lady,
an Assyrian stranger taught me.
But do thou farewell, and turn thy steeds to Ocean, Lady, and my
pain I will bear, as even till now I have endured it. Farewell,
Selene bright and fair, farewell ye other stars, that follow the
wheels of quiet Night.
Idyl III
A goatherd, leaving his goats to feed on the hillside, in
the charge of Tityrus, approaches the cavern of Amaryllis, with
its veil of ferns and ivy, and attempts to win back the heart of
the girl by song. He mingles promises with harmless threats, and
repeats, in exquisite verses, the names of the famous lovers of
old days, Milanion and Endymion. Failing to move Amaryllis, the
goatherd threatens to die where he has thrown himself down,
beneath the trees.
Courting Amaryllis with song I go, while my she-goats
feed on the hill, and Tityrus herds them. Ah, Tityrus, my dearly
beloved, feed thou the goats, and to the well-side lead them,
Tityrus, and ‘ware the yellow Libyan he-goat, lest he butt
thee with his horns.
Ah, lovely Amaryllis, why no more, as of old, dust thou glance through this cavern after me, nor callest me, thy sweetheart, to thy side. Can it be that thou hatest me? Do I seem snub-nosed, now thou hast seen me near, maiden, and under-hung? Thou wilt make me strangle myself!
Lo, ten apples I bring thee, plucked from that very place where thou didst bid me pluck them, and others to-morrow I will bring thee.
Ah, regard my heart’s deep sorrow! ah, would I were that
humming bee, and to thy cave might come dipping beneath the fern
that hides thee, and the ivy leaves!
Now know I Love, and a cruel God is he. Surely he sucked the
lioness’s dug, and in the wild wood his mother reared him,
whose fire is scorching me, and bites even to the bone.
Ah, lovely as thou art to look upon, ah heart of stone, ah
dark-browed maiden, embrace me, thy true goatherd, that I may
kiss thee, and even in empty kisses there is a sweet
delight!
Soon wilt thou make me rend the wreath in pieces small, the
wreath of ivy, dear Amaryllis, that I keep for thee, with
rose-buds twined, and fragrant parsley. Ah me, what anguish!
Wretched that I am, whither shall I turn! Thou dust not hear my
prayer!
I will cast off my coat of skins, and into yonder waves I will
spring, where the fisher Olpis watches for the tunny shoals, and
even if I die not, surely thy pleasure will have been done.
I learned the truth of old, when, amid thoughts of thee, I asked,
‘Loves she, loves she not?’ and the poppy petal clung
not, and gave no crackling sound, but withered on my smooth
forearm, even so. {21}
And she too spoke sooth, even Agroeo, she that divineth with a
sieve, and of late was binding sheaves behind the reapers, who
said that I had set all my heart on thee, but that thou didst
nothing regard me.
Truly I keep for thee the white goat with the twin kids that
Mermnon’s daughter too, the brown-skinned Erithacis, prays
me to give her; and give her them I will, since thou dost flout
me.
My right eyelid throbs, is it a sign that I am to see her? Here
will I lean me against this pine tree, and sing, and then
perchance she will regard me, for she is not all of
adamant.
Lo, Hippomenes when he was eager to marry the famous maiden, took
apples in his hand, and so accomplished his course; and Atalanta
saw, and madly longed, and leaped into the deep waters of desire.
Melampus too, the soothsayer, brought the herd of oxen from
Othrys to Pylos, and thus in the arms of Bias was laid the lovely
mother of wise Alphesiboea.
And was it not thus that Adonis, as he pastured his sheep upon
the hills, led beautiful Cytherea to such heights of frenzy, that
not even in his death doth she unclasp him from her bosom?
Blessed, methinks is the lot of him that sleeps, and tosses not,
nor turns, even Endymion; and, dearest maiden, blessed I call
Iason, whom such things befell, as ye that be profane shall never
come to know.
My head aches, but thou carest not. I will sing no more, but dead
will I lie where I fall, and here may the wolves devour me.
Sweet as honey in the mouth may my death be to thee.
Idyl IV
Battus and Corydon, two rustic fellows, meeting in a glade,
gossip about their neighbour, Aegon, who has gone to try his
fortune at the Olympic games. After some random banter, the talk
turns on the death of Amaryllis, and the grief of Battus is
disturbed by the roaming of his cattle. Corydon removes a thorn
that has run into his friend’s foot, and the conversation
comes back to matters of rural scandal.
The scene is in Southern Italy.
Battus. Tell me, Corydon, whose kine are these, - the cattle
of Philondas?
Corydon. Nay, they are Aegon’s, he gave me them to
pasture.
Battus. Dost thou ever find a way to milk them all, on the
sly, just before evening?
Corydon. No chance of that, for the old man puts the
calves beneath their dams, and keeps watch on me.
Battus. But the neatherd himself, - to what land has he
passed out of sight?
Corydon. Hast thou not heard? Milon went and carried him
off to the Alpheus.
Battus. And when, pray, did he ever set eyes on the
wrestlers’ oil?
Corydon. They say he is a match for Heracles, in strength
and hardihood.
Battus. And I, so mother says, am a better man than
Polydeuces.
Corydon. Well, off he has gone, with a shovel, and with
twenty sheep from his flock here. {24}
Battus. Milo, thou’lt see, will soon be coaxing the
wolves to rave!
Corydon. But Aegon’s heifers here are lowing
pitifully, and miss their master.
Battus. Yes, wretched beasts that they are, how false a
neatherd was theirs!
Corydon. Wretched enough in truth, and they have no more
care to pasture.
Battus. Nothing is left, now, of that heifer, look you,
bones, that’s all. She does not live on dewdrops, does she,
like the grasshopper?
Corydon. No, by Earth, for sometimes I take her to graze
by the banks of Aesarus, fair handfuls of fresh grass I give her
too, and otherwhiles she wantons in the deep shade round
Latymnus.
Battus. How lean is the red bull too! May the sons of
Lampriades, the burghers to wit, get such another for their
sacrifice to Hera, for the township is an ill neighbour.
Corydon. And yet that bull is driven to the mere’s
mouth, and to the meadows of Physcus, and to the Neaethus, where
all fair herbs bloom, red goat-wort, and endive, and fragrant
bees-wort.
Battus. Ah, wretched Aegon, thy very kine will go to
Hades, while thou too art in love with a luckless victory, and
thy pipe is flecked with mildew, the pipe that once thou madest
for thyself!
Corydon. Not the pipe, by the nymphs, not so, for when he
went to Pisa, he left the same as a gift to me, and I am
something of a player. Well can I strike up the air of
Glaucé and well the strain of Pyrrhus, and
the praise of Croton I sing, and Zacynthus is a goodly
town, and Lacinium that fronts the dawn! There Aegon
the boxer, unaided, devoured eighty cakes to his own share, and
there he caught the bull by the hoof, and brought him from the
mountain, and gave him to Amaryllis. Thereon the women shrieked
aloud, and the neatherd, - he burst out laughing.
Battus. Ah, gracious Amaryllis! Thee alone even in death
will we ne’er forget. Dear to me as my goats wert thou, and
thou art dead! Alas, too cruel a spirit hath my lot in his
keeping.
Corydon. Dear Battus, thou must needs be comforted. The
morrow perchance will bring better fortune. The living may hope,
the dead alone are hopeless. Zeus now shows bright and clear, and
anon he rains.
Battus. Enough of thy comforting! Drive the calves from
the lower ground, the cursed beasts are grazing on the
olive-shoots. Hie on, white face.
Corydon. Out, Cymaetha, get thee to the hill! Dost thou
not hear? By Pan, I will soon come and be the death of you, if
you stay there! Look, here she is creeping back again! Would I
had my crook for hare killing: how I would cudgel thee.
Battus. In the name of Zeus, prithee look here, Corydon! A
thorn has just run into my foot under the ankle. How deep they
grow, the arrow-headed thorns. An ill end befall the heifer; I
was pricked when I was gaping after her. Prithee dost see
it?
Corydon. Yes, yes, and I have caught it in my nails, see,
here it is.
Battus. How tiny is the wound, and how tall a man it
masters!
Corydon. When thou goest to the hill, go not barefoot,
Battus, for on the hillside flourish thorns and brambles
plenty.
Battus. Come, tell me, Corydon, the old man now, does he
still run after that little black-browed darling whom he used to
dote on?
Corydon. He is after her still, my lad; but yesterday I
came upon them, by the very byre, and right loving were
they.
Battus. Well done, thou ancient lover! Sure, thou art near
akin to the satyrs, or a rival of the slim-shanked Pans! {26}
Idyl V
This Idyl begins with a ribald debate between two
hirelings, who, at last, compete with each other in a match of
pastoral song. No other idyl of Theocritus is so frankly true to
the rough side of rustic manners. The scene is in Southern
Italy.
Comatas. Goats of mine, keep clear of that notorious shepherd
of Sibyrtas, that Lacon; he stole my goat-skin yesterday.
Lacon. Will ye never leave the well-head? Off, my lambs,
see ye not Comatas; him that lately stole my shepherd’s
pipe?
Comatas. What manner of pipe might that be, for when
gat’st thou a pipe, thou slave of Sibyrtas? Why does
it no more suffice thee to keep a flute of straw, and whistle
with Corydon?
Lacon. What pipe, free sir? why, the pipe that Lycon gave
me. And what manner of goat-skin hadst thou, that Lacon made off
with? Tell me, Comatas, for truly even thy master, Eumarides, had
never a goat-skin to sleep in.
Comatas. ‘Twas the skin that Crocylus gave me, the
dappled one, when he sacrificed the she-goat to the nymphs; but
thou, wretch, even then wert wasting with envy, and now, at last,
thou hast stripped me bare!
Lacon. Nay verily, so help me Pan of the seashore, it was
not Lacon the son of Calaethis that filched the coat of skin. If
I lie, sirrah, may I leap frenzied down this rock into the
Crathis!
Comatas. Nay verily, my friend, so help me these nymphs of
the mere (and ever may they be favourable, as now, and kind to
me), it was not Comatas that pilfered thy pipe.
Lacon. If I believe thee, may I suffer the afflictions of
Daphnis! But see, if thou carest to stake a kid - though indeed
‘tis scarce worth my while - then, go to, I will sing
against thee, and cease not, till thou dust cry
‘enough!’
Comatas. The sow defied Athene! See, there is
staked the kid, go to, do thou too put a fatted lamb against him,
for thy stake.
Lacon. Thou fox, and where would be our even betting then?
Who ever chose hair to shear, in place of wool? and who prefers
to milk a filthy bitch, when he can have a she-goat, nursing her
first kid?
Comatas. Why, he that deems himself as sure of getting the
better of his neighbour as thou dost, a wasp that buzzes against
the cicala. But as it is plain thou thinkst the kid no fair
stake, lo, here is this he-goat. Begin the match!
Lacon. No such haste, thou art not on fire! More sweetly
wilt thou sing, if thou wilt sit down beneath the wild olive
tree, and the groves in this place. Chill water falls there, drop
by drop, here grows the grass, and here a leafy bed is strown,
and here the locusts prattle.
Comatas. Nay, no whit am I in haste, but I am sorely
vexed, that thou shouldst dare to look me straight in the face,
thou whom I used to teach while thou wert still a child. See
where gratitude goes! As well rear wolf-whelps, breed hounds,
that they may devour thee!
Lacon. And what good thing have I to remember that I ever
learned or heard from thee, thou envious thing, thou mere hideous
manikin!
But come this way, come, and thou shalt sing thy last of country
song.
Comatas. That way I will not go! Here be oak trees, and
here the galingale, and sweetly here hum the bees about the
hives. There are two wells of chill water, and on the tree the
birds are warbling, and the shadow is beyond compare with that
where thou liest, and from on high the pine tree pelts us with
her cones.
Lacon. Nay, but lambs’ wool, truly, and fleeces,
shalt thou tread here, if thou wilt but come, - fleeces more soft
than sleep, but the goat-skins beside thee stink - worse than
thyself. And I will set a great bowl of white milk for the
nymphs, and another will I offer of sweet olive oil.
Comatas. Nay, but an if thou wilt come, thou shalt tread
here the soft feathered fern, and flowering thyme, and beneath
thee shall be strown the skins of she-goats, four times more soft
than the fleeces of thy lambs. And I will set out eight bowls of
milk for Pan, and eight bowls full of the richest
honeycombs.
Lacon. Thence, where thou art, I pray thee, begin the
match, and there sing thy country song, tread thine own ground
and keep thine oaks to thyself. But who, who shall judge between
us? Would that Lycopas, the neatherd, might chance to come this
way!
Comatas. I want nothing with him, but that man, if thou
wilt, that woodcutter we will call, who is gathering those tufts
of heather near thee. It is Morson.
Lacon. Let us shout, then!
Comatas. Call thou to him.
Lacon. Ho, friend, come hither and listen for a little
while, for we two have a match to prove which is the better
singer of country song. So Morson, my friend, neither judge me
too kindly, no, nor show him favour.
Comatas. Yes, dear Morson, for the nymphs’ sake
neither lean in thy judgment to Comatas, nor, prithee, favour
him. The flock of sheep thou seest here belongs to
Sibyrtas of Thurii, and the goats, friend, that thou beholdest
are the goats of Eumarides of Sybaris.
Lacon. Now, in the name of Zeus did any one ask thee, thou
make-mischief, who owned the flock, I or Sibyrtas? What a
chatterer thou art!
Comatas. Best of men, I am for speaking the whole truth,
and boasting never, but thou art too fond of cutting
speeches.
Lacon. Come, say whatever thou hast to say, and let the
stranger get home to the city alive; oh, Paean, what a babbler
thou art, Comatas!
THE SINGING MATCH.
Comatas. The Muses love me better far than the minstrel
Daphnis; but a little while ago I sacrificed two young she-goats
to the Muses.
Lacon. Yea, and me too Apollo loves very dearly, and a
noble ram I rear for Apollo, for the feast of the Carnea, look
you, is drawing nigh.
Comatas. The she-goats that I milk have all borne twins
save two. The maiden saw me, and ‘alas,’ she cried,
‘dost thou milk alone?’
Lacon. Ah, ah, but Lacon here hath nigh twenty baskets
full of cheese, and Lacon lies with his darling in the
flowers!
Comatas. Clearista, too, pelts the goatherd with apples as
he drives past his she-goats, and a sweet word she murmurs.
Lacon. And wild with love am I too, for my fair young
darling, that meets the shepherd, with the bright hair floating
round the shapely neck.
Comatas. Nay, ye may not liken dog-roses to the rose, or
wind-flowers to the roses of the garden; by the garden walls
their beds are blossoming.
Lacon. Nay, nor wild apples to acorns, for acorns are
bitter in the oaken rind, but apples are sweet as honey.
Comatas. Soon will I give my maiden a ring-dove for a
gift; I will take it from the juniper tree, for there it is
brooding.
Lacon. But I will give my darling a soft fleece to make a
cloak, a free gift, when I shear the black ewe.
Comatas. Forth from the wild olive, my bleating she-goats,
feed here where the hillside slopes, and the tamarisks
grove.
Lacon. Conarus there, and Cynaetha, will you never leave
the oak? Graze here, where Phalarus feeds, where the hillside
fronts the dawn.
Comatas. Ay, and I have a vessel of cypress wood, and a
mixing bowl, the work of Praxiteles, and I hoard them for my
maiden.
Lacon. I too have a dog that loves the flock, the dog to
strangle wolves; him I am giving to my darling to chase all
manner of wild beasts.
Comatas. Ye locusts that overleap our fence, see that ye
harm not our vines, for our vines are young.
Lacon. Ye cicalas, see how I make the goatherd chafe: even
so, methinks, do ye vex the reapers.
Comatas. I hate the foxes, with their bushy brushes, that
ever come at evening, and eat the grapes of Micon.
Lacon. And I hate the lady-birds that devour the figs of
Philondas, and flit down the wind.
Comatas. Dost thou not remember how I cudgelled thee, and
thou didst grin and nimbly writhe, and catch hold of yonder
oak?
Lacon. That I have no memory of, but how Eumarides bound
thee there, upon a time, and flogged thee through and through,
that I do very well remember.
Comatas. Already, Morson, some one is waxing bitter, dust
thou see no sign of it? Go, go, and pluck, forthwith, the squills
from some old wife’s grave.
Lacon. And I too, Morson, I make some one chafe, and thou
dost perceive it. Be off now to the Hales stream, and dig
cyclamen.
Comatas. Let Himera flow with milk instead of water, and
thou, Crathis, run red with wine, and all thy reeds bear
apples.
Lacon. Would that the fount of Sybaris may flow with
honey, and may the maiden’s pail, at dawning, be dipped,
not in water, but in the honeycomb.
Comatas. My goats eat cytisus, and goatswort, and tread
the lentisk shoots, and lie at ease among the arbutus.
Lacon. But my ewes have honey-wort to feed on, and
luxuriant creepers flower around, as fair as roses.
Comatas. I love not Alcippe, for yesterday she did not
kiss me, and take my face between her hands, when I gave her the
dove.
Lacon. But deeply I love my darling, for a kind kiss once
I got, in return for the gift of a shepherd’s pipe.
Comatas. Lacon, it never was right that pyes should
contend with the nightingale, nor hoopoes with swans, but thou,
unhappy swain, art ever for contention.
Morson’s Judgement. I bid the shepherd cease. But to
thee, Comatas, Morson presents the lamb. And thou, when thou hast
sacrificed her to the nymphs, send Morson, anon, a goodly portion
of her flesh.
Comatas. I will, by Pan. Now leap, and snort, my he-goats,
all the herd of you, and see here how loud I ever will laugh, and
exult over Lacon, the shepherd, for that, at last, I have won the
lamb. See, I will leap sky high with joy. Take heart, my horned
goats, to-morrow I will dip you all in the fountain of Sybaris.
Thou white he-goat, I will beat thee if thou dare to touch one of
the herd before I sacrifice the lamb to the nymphs. There he is
at it again! Call me Melanthius, {34} not Comatas, if I
do not cudgel thee.
Idyl VI
Daphnis and Damoetas, two herdsmen of the golden age, meet
by a well-side, and sing a match, their topic is the Cyclops,
Polyphemus, and his love for the sea-nymph, Galatea.
The scene is in Sicily.
Damoetas, and Daphnis the herdsman, once on a time,
Aratus, led the flock together into one place. Golden was the
down on the chin of one, the beard of the other was half-grown,
and by a well-head the twain sat them down, in the summer noon,
and thus they sang. ‘Twas Daphnis that began the singing,
for the challenge had come from Daphnis.
Daphnis’s Song of the Cyclops.
Galatea is pelting thy flock with apples, Polyphemus,
she says the goatherd is a laggard lover! And thou dost not
glance at her, oh hard, hard that thou art, but still thou
sittest at thy sweet piping. Ah see, again, she is pelting thy
dog, that follows thee to watch thy sheep. He barks, as he looks
into the brine, and now the beautiful waves that softly plash
reveal him, {36} as he runs upon the shore. Take heed that
he leap not on the maiden’s limbs as she rises from the
salt water, see that he rend not her lovely body! Ah, thence
again, see, she is wantoning, light as dry thistle-down in the
scorching summer weather. She flies when thou art wooing her;
when thou woo’st not she pursues thee, she plays out all
her game and leaves her king unguarded. For truly to Love,
Polyphemus, many a time doth foul seem fair!
He ended and Damoetas touched a prelude to his sweet
song.
I saw her, by Pan, I saw her when she was pelting my
flock. Nay, she escaped not me, escaped not my one dear eye, -
wherewith I shall see to my life’s end, - let Telemus the
soothsayer, that prophesies hateful things, hateful things take
home, to keep them for his children! But it is all to torment
her, that I, in my turn, give not back her glances, pretending
that I have another love. To hear this makes her jealous of me,
by Paean, and she wastes with pain, and springs madly from the
sea, gazing at my caves and at my herds. And I hiss on my dog to
bark at her, for when I loved Galatea he would whine with joy,
and lay his muzzle on her lap. Perchance when she marks how I use
her she will send me many a messenger, but on her envoys I will
shut my door till she promises that herself will make a glorious
bridal-bed on this island for me. For in truth, I am not so
hideous as they say! But lately I was looking into the sea, when
all was calm; beautiful seemed my beard, beautiful my one eye -
as I count beauty - and the sea reflected the gleam of my teeth
whiter than the Parian stone. Then, all to shun the evil eye, did
I spit thrice in my breast; for this spell was taught me by the
crone, Cottytaris, that piped of yore to the reapers in
Hippocoon’s field.
Then Damoetas kissed Daphnis, as he ended his song, and he gave
Daphnis a pipe, and Daphnis gave him a beautiful flute. Damoetas
fluted, and Daphnis piped, the herdsman, - and anon the calves
were dancing in the soft green grass. Neither won the victory,
but both were invincible.
Idyl VII
The poet making his way through the noonday heat, with two
friends, to a harvest feast, meets the goatherd, Lycidas. To
humour the poet Lycidas sings a love song of his own, and the
other replies with verses about the passion of Aratus, the famous
writer of didactic verse. After a courteous parting from Lycidas,
the poet and his two friends repair to the orchard, where Demeter
is being gratified with the first-fruits of harvest and
vintaging.
In this idyl, Theocritus, speaking of himself by the name of
Simichidas, alludes to his teachers in poetry, and, perhaps, to
some of the literary quarrels of the time.
The scene is in the isle of Cos. G. Hermann fancied that the
scene was in Lucania, and Mr. W. R. Paton thinks he can identify
the places named by the aid of inscriptions (Classical
Review, ii. 8, 265). See also Rayet, Mémoire sur
l’île de Cos, p. 18, Paris, 1876.
The Harvest Feast.
It fell upon a time when Eucritus and I were walking
from the city to the Hales water, and Amyntas was the third in
our company. The harvest-feast of Deo was then being held by
Phrasidemus and Antigenes, two sons of Lycopeus (if aught there
be of noble and old descent), whose lineage dates from Clytia,
and Chalcon himself - Chalcon, beneath whose foot the fountain
sprang, the well of Buriné. He set his knee stoutly
against the rock, and straightway by the spring poplars and elm
trees showed a shadowy glade, arched overhead they grew, and
pleached with leaves of green. We had not yet reached the
mid-point of the way, nor was the tomb of Brasilas yet risen upon
our sight, when, - thanks be to the Muses - we met a certain
wayfarer, the best of men, a Cydonian. Lycidas was his name, a
goatherd was he, nor could any that saw him have taken him for
other than he was, for all about him bespoke the goatherd.
Stripped from the roughest of he-goats was the tawny skin he wore
on his shoulders, the smell of rennet clinging to it still, and
about his breast an old cloak was buckled with a plaited belt,
and in his right hand he carried a crooked staff of wild olive:
and quietly he accosted me, with a smile, a twinkling eye, and a
laugh still on his lips:-
‘Simichidas, whither, pray, through the noon dost thou
trail thy feet, when even the very lizard on the rough stone wall
is sleeping, and the crested larks no longer fare afield? Art
thou hastening to a feast, a bidden guest, or art thou for
treading a townsman’s wine-press? For such is thy speed
that every stone upon the way spins singing from thy
boots!’
‘Dear Lycidas,’ I answered him, ‘they all say
that thou among herdsmen, yea, and reapers art far the chiefest
flute-player. In sooth this greatly rejoices our hearts, and yet,
to my conceit, meseems I can vie with thee. But as to this
journey, we are going to the harvest-feast, for, look you some
friends of ours are paying a festival to fair-robed Demeter, out
of the first-fruits of their increase, for verily in rich measure
has the goddess filled their threshing-floor with barley grain.
But come, for the way and the day are thine alike and mine, come,
let us vie in pastoral song, perchance each will make the other
delight. For I, too, am a clear-voiced mouth of the Muses, and
they all call me the best of minstrels, but I am not so
credulous; no, by Earth, for to my mind I cannot as yet conquer
in song that great Sicelidas - the Samian - nay, nor yet
Philetas. ‘Tis a match of frog against cicala!’
So I spoke, to win my end, and the goatherd with his sweet laugh,
said, ‘I give thee this staff, because thou art a sapling
of Zeus, and in thee is no guile. For as I hate your builders
that try to raise a house as high as the mountain summit of
Oromedon, {40} so I hate all birds of the Muses that
vainly toil with their cackling notes against the Minstrel of
Chios! But come, Simichidas, without more ado let us begin the
pastoral song. And I - nay, see friend - if it please thee at
all, this ditty that I lately fashioned on the mountain
side!’
The Song of Lycidas.
Fair voyaging befall Ageanax to Mytilene, both when the
Kids are westering, and the south wind the wet waves
chases, and when Orion holds his feet above the Ocean! Fair
voyaging betide him, if he saves Lycidas from the fire of
Aphrodite, for hot is the love that consumes me.
The halcyons will lull the waves, and lull the deep, and the
south wind, and the east, that stirs the sea-weeds on the
farthest shores, {41} the halcyons that
are dearest to the green-haired mermaids, of all the birds that
take their prey from the salt sea. Let all things smile on
Ageanax to Mytilene sailing, and may he come to a friendly haven.
And I, on that day, will go crowned with anise, or with a rosy
wreath, or a garland of white violets, and the fine wine of
Ptelea I will dip from the bowl as I lie by the fire, while one
shall roast beans for me, in the embers. And elbow-deep shall the
flowery bed be thickly strewn, with fragrant leaves and with
asphodel, and with curled parsley; and softly will I drink,
toasting Ageanax with lips clinging fast to the cup, and draining
it even to the lees.
Two shepherds shall be my flute-players, one from Acharnae, one
from Lycope, and hard by Tityrus shall sing, how the herdsman
Daphnis once loved a strange maiden, and how on the hill he
wandered, and how the oak trees sang his dirge - the oaks that
grow by the banks of the river Himeras - while he was wasting
like any snow under high Haemus, or Athos, or Rhodope, or
Caucasus at the world’s end.
And he shall sing how, once upon a time, the great chest prisoned
the living goatherd, by his lord’s infatuate and evil will,
and how the blunt-faced bees, as they came up from the meadow to
the fragrant cedar chest, fed him with food of tender flowers,
because the Muse still dropped sweet nectar on his lips. {42}
O blessed Comatas, surely these joyful things befell thee, and
thou wast enclosed within the chest, and feeding on the honeycomb
through the springtime didst thou serve out thy bondage. Ah,
would that in my days thou hadst been numbered with the living,
how gladly on the hills would I have herded thy pretty she-goats,
and listened to thy voice, whilst thou, under oaks or pine trees
lying, didst sweetly sing, divine Comatas!
When he had chanted thus much he ceased, and I followed after him
again, with some such words as these:-
‘Dear Lycidas, many another song the Nymphs have taught me
also, as I followed my herds upon the hillside, bright songs that
Rumour, perchance, has brought even to the throne of Zeus. But of
them all this is far the most excellent, wherewith I will begin
to do thee honour: nay listen as thou art dear to the
Muses.’
The Song of Simichidas
For Simichidas the Loves have sneezed, for truly the wretch
loves Myrto as dearly as goats love the spring. {43}
But Aratus, far the dearest of my friends, deep, deep his heart
he keeps Desire, - and Aratus’s love is young! Aristis
knows it, an honourable man, nay of men the best, whom even
Phoebus would permit to stand and sing lyre in hand, by his
tripods. Aristis knows how deeply love is burning Aratus to the
bone. Ah, Pan, thou lord of the beautiful plain of Homole, bring,
I pray thee, the darling of Aratus unbidden to his arms,
whosoe’er it be that he loves. If this thou dost, dear Pan,
then never may the boys of Arcady flog thy sides and shoulders
with stinging herbs, when scanty meats are left them on thine
altar. But if thou shouldst otherwise decree, then may all thy
skin be frayed and torn with thy nails, yea, and in nettles mayst
thou couch! In the hills of the Edonians mayst thou dwell in
mid-winter time, by the river Hebrus, close neighbour to the
Polar star! But in summer mayst thou range with the uttermost
Æthiopians beneath the rock of the Blemyes, whence Nile no
more is seen.
And you, leave ye the sweet fountain of Hyetis and Byblis, and ye
that dwell in the steep home of golden Dione, ye Loves as rosy as
red apples, strike me with your arrows, the desired, the beloved;
strike, for that ill-starred one pities not my friend, my host!
And yet assuredly the pear is over-ripe, and the maidens cry
‘alas, alas, thy fair bloom fades away!’
Come, no more let us mount guard by these gates, Aratus, nor wear
our feet away with knocking there. Nay, let the crowing of the
morning cock give others over to the bitter cold of dawn. Let
Molon alone, my friend, bear the torment at that school of
passion! For us, let us secure a quiet life, and some old crone
to spit on us for luck, and so keep all unlovely things
away.
Thus I sang, and sweetly smiling, as before, he gave me the
staff, a pledge of brotherhood in the Muses. Then he bent his way
to the left, and took the road to Pyxa, while I and Eucritus,
with beautiful Amyntas, turned to the farm of Phrasidemus. There
we reclined on deep beds of fragrant lentisk, lowly strown, and
rejoicing we lay in new stript leaves of the vine. And high above
our heads waved many a poplar, many an elm tree, while close at
hand the sacred water from the nymphs’ own cave welled
forth with murmurs musical. On shadowy boughs the burnt cicalas
kept their chattering toil, far off the little owl cried in the
thick thorn brake, the larks and finches were singing, the
ring-dove moaned, the yellow bees were flitting about the
springs. All breathed the scent of the opulent summer, of the
season of fruits; pears at our feet and apples by our sides were
rolling plentiful, the tender branches, with wild plums laden,
were earthward bowed, and the four-year-old pitch seal was
loosened from the mouth of the wine-jars.
Ye nymphs of Castaly that hold the steep of Parnassus, say, was
it ever a bowl like this that old Chiron set before Heracles in
the rocky cave of Pholus? Was it nectar like this that beguiled
the shepherd to dance and foot it about his folds, the shepherd
that dwelt by Anapus, on a time, the strong Polyphemus who hurled
at ships with mountains? Had these ever such a draught as ye
nymphs bade flow for us by the altar of Demeter of the
threshing-floor?
Ah, once again may I plant the great fan on her corn-heap, while
she stands smiling by, with sheaves and poppies in her
hands.
Idyl VIII
The scene is among the high mountain pastures of
Sicily:-
‘On the sword, at the cliff top
Lie strewn the white flocks,’
and far below shines and murmurs the Sicilian sea. Here Daphnis
and Menalcas, two herdsmen of the golden age, meet, while still
in their earliest youth, and contend for the prize of pastoral.
Their songs, in elegiac measure, are variations on the themes of
love and friendship (for Menalcas sings of Milon, Daphnis of
Nais), and of nature. Daphnis is the winner,- it is his earliest
victory, and the prelude to his great renown among nymphs and
shepherds. In this version the strophes are arranged as in
Fritzsche’s text. Some critics take the poem to be a
patchwork by various hands.
As beautiful Daphnis was following his kine, and
Menalcas shepherding his flock, they met, as men tell, on the
long ranges of the hills. The beards of both had still the first
golden bloom, both were in their earliest youth, both were
pipe-players skilled, both skilled in song. Then first Menalcas,
looking at Daphnis, thus bespoke him.
‘Daphnis, thou herdsman of the lowing kine, art thou minded
to sing a match with me? Methinks I shall vanquish thee, when I
sing in turn, as readily as I please.’
Then Daphnis answered him again in this wise, ‘Thou
shepherd of the fleecy sheep, Menalcas, the pipe-player, never
wilt thou vanquish me in song, not thou, if thou shouldst sing
till some evil thing befall thee!’
Menalcas. Dost thou care then, to try this and see, dost
thou care to risk a stake?
Daphnis. I do care to try this and see, a stake I am ready
to risk.
Menalcas. But what shall we stake, what pledge shall we
find equal and sufficient?
Daphnis. I will pledge a calf, and do thou put down a
lamb, one that has grown to his mother’s height.
Menalcas. Nay, never will I stake a lamb, for stern is my
father, and stern my mother, and they number all the sheep at
evening.
Daphnis. But what, then, wilt thou lay, and where is to be
the victor’s gain?
Menalcas. The pipe, the fair pipe with nine stops, that I
made myself, fitted with white wax, and smoothed evenly, above as
below. This would I readily wager, but never will I stake aught
that is my father’s.
Daphnis. See then, I too, in truth, have a pipe with nine
stops, fitted with white wax, and smoothed evenly, above as
below. But lately I put it together, and this finger still aches,
where the reed split, and cut it deeply.
Menalcas. But who is to judge between us, who will listen
to our singing?
Daphnis. That goatherd yonder, he will do, if we call him
hither, the man for whom that dog, a black hound with a white
patch, is barking among the kids.
Then the boys called aloud, and the goatherd gave ear, and came,
and the boys began to sing, and the goatherd was willing to be
their umpire. And first Menalcas sang (for he drew the lot) the
sweet-voiced Menalcas, and Daphnis took up the answering strain
of pastoral song - and ‘twas thus Menalcas began:
Menalcas. Ye glades, ye rivers, issue of the Gods, if ever
Menalcas the flute-player sang a song ye loved, to please him,
feed his lambs; and if ever Daphnis come hither with his calves,
nay he have no less a boon.
Daphnis. Ye wells and pastures, sweet growth o’ the
world, if Daphnis sings like the nightingales, do ye fatten this
herd of his, and if Menalcas hither lead a flock, may he too have
pasture ungrudging to his full desire!
Menalcas. There doth the ewe bear twins, and there the
goats; there the bees fill the hives, and there oaks grow loftier
than common, wheresoever beautiful Milon’s feet walk
wandering; ah, if he depart, then withered and lean is the
shepherd, and lean the pastures
Daphnis. Everywhere is spring, and pastures everywhere,
and everywhere the cows’ udders are swollen with milk, and
the younglings are fostered, wheresoever fair Nais roams; ah, if
she depart, then parched are the kine, and he that feeds
them!
Menalcas. O bearded goat, thou mate of the white herd, and
O ye blunt-faced kids, where are the manifold deeps of the
forest, thither get ye to the water, for thereby is Milon; go,
thou hornless goat, and say to him, ‘Milon, Proteus was a
herdsman, and that of seals, though he was a god.’
Daphnis. . . .
Menalcas. Not mine be the land of Pelops, not mine to own
talents of gold, nay, nor mine to outrun the speed of the winds!
Nay, but beneath this rock will I sing, with thee in mine arms,
and watch our flocks feeding together, and, before us, the
Sicilian sea.
Daphnis . . . .
Menalcas . . . .
Daphnis. Tempest is the dread pest of the trees, drought
of the waters, snares of the birds, and the hunter’s net of
the wild beasts, but ruinous to man is the love of a delicate
maiden. O father, O Zeus, I have not been the only lover, thou
too hast longed for a mortal woman.
Thus the boys sang in verses amoebaean, and thus Menalcas began
the crowning lay:
Menalcas. Wolf, spare the kids, spare the mothers of my
herd, and harm not me, so young as I am to tend so great a flock.
Ah, Lampurus, my dog, dost thou then sleep so soundly? a dog
should not sleep so sound, that helps a boyish shepherd. Ewes of
mine, spare ye not to take your fill of the tender herb, ye shall
not weary, ‘ere all this grass grows again. Hist, feed on,
feed on, fill, all of you, your udders, that there may be milk
for the lambs, and somewhat for me to store away in the
cheese-crates.
Then Daphnis followed again, and sweetly preluded to his
singing:
Daphnis. Me, even me, from the cave, the girl with meeting
eyebrows spied yesterday as I was driving past my calves, and she
cried, ‘How fair, how fair he is!’ But I answered her
never the word of railing, but cast down my eyes, and plodded on
my way.
Sweet is the voice of the heifer, sweet her breath, {50}
sweet to lie beneath the sky in summer, by running water.
Acorns are the pride of the oak, apples of the apple tree, the
calf of the heifer, and the neatherd glories in his kine.
So sang the lads; and the goatherd thus bespoke them,
‘Sweet is thy mouth, O Daphnis, and delectable thy song!
Better is it to listen to thy singing, than to taste the
honeycomb. Take thou the pipe, for thou hast conquered in the
singing match. Ah, if thou wilt but teach some lay, even to me,
as I tend the goats beside thee, this blunt-horned she-goat will
I give thee, for the price of thy teaching, this she-goat that
ever fills the milking pail above the brim.’
Then was the boy as glad, - and leaped high, and clapped his
hands over his victory, - as a young fawn leaps about his
mother.
But the heart of the other was wasted with grief, and desolate,
even as a maiden sorrows that is newly wed.
From this time Daphnis became the foremost among the shepherds,
and while yet in his earliest youth, he wedded the nymph
Nais.
Idyl IX
Daphnis and Menalcas, at the bidding of the poet, sing the
joys of the neatherds and of the shepherds life. Both receive the
thanks of the poet, and rustic prizes - a staff and a horn, made
of a spiral shell. Doubts have been expressed as to the
authenticity of the prelude and concluding verses. The latter
breathe all Theocritus’s enthusiastic love of song.
Sing, Daphnis, a pastoral lay, do thou first begin the
song, the song begin, O Daphnis; but let Menalcas join in the
strain, when ye have mated the heifers and their calves, the
barren kine and the bulls. Let them all pasture together, let
them wander in the coppice, but never leave the herd. Chant thou
for me, first, and on the other side let Menalcas reply.
Daphnis. Ah, sweetly lows the calf, and sweetly the
heifer, sweetly sounds the neatherd with his pipe, and sweetly
also I! My bed of leaves is strown by the cool water, and thereon
are heaped fair skins from the white calves that were all
browsing upon the arbutus, on a time, when the south-west wind
dashed me them from the height.
And thus I heed no more the scorching summer, than a lover cares
to heed the words of father or of mother.
So Daphnis sang to me, and thus, in turn, did Menalcas
sing.
Menalcas. Aetna, mother mine, I too dwell in a beautiful
cavern in the chamber of the rock, and, lo, all the wealth have I
that we behold in dreams; ewes in plenty and she-goats abundant,
their fleeces are strown beneath my head and feet. In the fire of
oak-faggots puddings are hissing-hot, and dry beech-nuts roast
therein, in the wintry weather, and, truly, for the winter season
I care not even so much as a toothless man does for walnuts, when
rich pottage is beside him.
Then I clapped my hands in their honour, and instantly gave each
a gift, to Daphnis a staff that grew in my father’s close,
self-shapen, yet so straight, that perchance even a craftsman
could have found no fault in it. To the other I gave a goodly
spiral shell, the meat that filled it once I had eaten after
stalking the fish on the Icarian rocks (I cut it into five shares
for five of us), - and Menalcas blew a blast on the shell.
Ye pastoral Muses, farewell! Bring ye into the light the song
that I sang there to these shepherds on that day! Never let the
pimple grow on my tongue-tip. {53}
Cicala to cicala is dear, and ant to ant, and hawks to hawks, but
to me the Muse and song. Of song may all my dwelling be full, for
sleep is not more sweet, nor sudden spring, nor flowers are more
delicious to the bees - so dear to me are the Muses. {54}
Whom they look on in happy hour, Circe hath never harmed with her
enchanted potion.
Idyl X - THE REAPERS
This is an idyl of the same genre as Idyl IV. The sturdy
reaper, Milon, as he levels the swathes of corn, derides his
languid and love-worn companion, Buttus. The latter defends his
gipsy love in verses which have been the keynote of much later
poetry, and which echo in the fourth book of Lucretius, and in
the Misanthrope of Molière. Milon replies with the song of
Lityerses - a string, apparently, of popular rural couplets, such
as Theocritus may have heard chanted in the fields.
Milan. Thou toilsome clod; what ails thee now, thou wretched
fellow? Canst thou neither cut thy swathe straight, as thou wert
wont to do, nor keep time with thy neighbour in thy reaping, but
thou must fall out, like an ewe that is foot-pricked with a thorn
and straggles from the herd? What manner of man wilt thou prove
after mid-noon, and at evening, thou that dost not prosper with
thy swathe when thou art fresh begun?
Battus. Milon, thou that canst toil till late, thou chip
of the stubborn stone, has it never befallen thee to long for one
that was not with thee?
Milan. Never! What has a labouring man to do with
hankering after what he has not got?
Battus. Then it never befell thee to lie awake for
love?
Milan. Forbid it; ‘tis an ill thing to let the dog
once taste of pudding.
Battus. But I, Milon, am in love for almost eleven
days!
Milan. ‘Tis easily seen that thou drawest from a
wine-cask, while even vinegar is scarce with me.
Battus. And for Love’s sake, the fields before my
doors are untilled since seed-time.
Milan. But which of the girls afflicts thee so?
Battus. The daughter of Polybotas, she that of late was
wont to pipe to the reapers on Hippocoon’s farm.
Milan. God has found out the guilty! Thou hast what
thou’st long been seeking, that grasshopper of a girl will
lie by thee the night long!
Battus. Thou art beginning thy mocks of me, but Plutus is
not the only blind god; he too is blind, the heedless Love!
Beware of talking big.
Milan. Talk big I do not! Only see that thou dust level
the corn, and strike up some love-ditty in the wench’s
praise. More pleasantly thus wilt thou labour, and, indeed, of
old thou wert a melodist.
Battus. Ye Muses Pierian, sing ye with me the slender
maiden, for whatsoever ye do but touch, ye goddesses, ye make
wholly fair.
They all call thee a gipsy, gracious Bombyca, and
lean, and sunburnt, ‘tis only I that call
thee honey-pale.
Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered
hyacinth, but yet these flowers are chosen the first in
garlands.
The goat runs after cytisus, the wolf pursues the goat, the crane
follows the plough, but I am wild for love of thee.
Would it were mine, all the wealth whereof once Croesus was lord,
as men tell! Then images of us twain, all in gold, should be
dedicated to Aphrodite, thou with thy flute, and a rose, yea, or
an apple, and I in fair attire, and new shoon of Amyclae on both
my feet.
Ah gracious Bombyca, thy feet are fashioned like carven ivory,
thy voice is drowsy sweet, and thy ways, I cannot tell of them!
{57}
Milan. Verily our clown was a maker of lovely songs, and
we knew it not! How well he meted out and shaped his harmony; woe
is me for the beard that I have grown, all in vain! Come, mark
thou too these lines of godlike Lityerses
THE LITYERSES SONG.
Demeter, rich in fruit, and rich in grain, may this corn be easy
to win, and fruitful exceedingly!
Bind, ye bandsters, the sheaves, lest the wayfarer should cry,
‘Men of straw were the workers here, ay, and their hire was
wasted!’
See that the cut stubble faces the North wind, or the West,
‘tis thus the grain waxes richest.
They that thresh corn should shun the noon-day steep; at noon the
chaff parts easiest from the straw.
As for the reapers, let them begin when the crested lark is
waking, and cease when he sleeps, but take holiday in the
heat.
Lads, the frog has a jolly life, he is not cumbered about a
butler to his drink, for he has liquor by him unstinted!
Boil the lentils better, thou miserly steward; take heed lest
thou chop thy fingers, when thou’rt splitting
cumin-seed.
‘Tis thus that men should sing who labour i’ the sun,
but thy starveling love, thou clod, ‘twere fit to tell to
thy mother when she stirs in bed at dawning.
Idyl X - THE REAPERS
This is an idyl of the same genre as Idyl IV. The sturdy
reaper, Milon, as he levels the swathes of corn, derides his
languid and love-worn companion, Buttus. The latter defends his
gipsy love in verses which have been the keynote of much later
poetry, and which echo in the fourth book of Lucretius, and in
the Misanthrope of Molière. Milon replies with the song of
Lityerses - a string, apparently, of popular rural couplets, such
as Theocritus may have heard chanted in the fields.
Milan. Thou toilsome clod; what ails thee now, thou wretched
fellow? Canst thou neither cut thy swathe straight, as thou wert
wont to do, nor keep time with thy neighbour in thy reaping, but
thou must fall out, like an ewe that is foot-pricked with a thorn
and straggles from the herd? What manner of man wilt thou prove
after mid-noon, and at evening, thou that dost not prosper with
thy swathe when thou art fresh begun?
Battus. Milon, thou that canst toil till late, thou chip
of the stubborn stone, has it never befallen thee to long for one
that was not with thee?
Milan. Never! What has a labouring man to do with
hankering after what he has not got?
Battus. Then it never befell thee to lie awake for
love?
Milan. Forbid it; ‘tis an ill thing to let the dog
once taste of pudding.
Battus. But I, Milon, am in love for almost eleven
days!
Milan. ‘Tis easily seen that thou drawest from a
wine-cask, while even vinegar is scarce with me.
Battus. And for Love’s sake, the fields before my
doors are untilled since seed-time.
Milan. But which of the girls afflicts thee so?
Battus. The daughter of Polybotas, she that of late was
wont to pipe to the reapers on Hippocoon’s farm.
Milan. God has found out the guilty! Thou hast what
thou’st long been seeking, that grasshopper of a girl will
lie by thee the night long!
Battus. Thou art beginning thy mocks of me, but Plutus is
not the only blind god; he too is blind, the heedless Love!
Beware of talking big.
Milan. Talk big I do not! Only see that thou dust level
the corn, and strike up some love-ditty in the wench’s
praise. More pleasantly thus wilt thou labour, and, indeed, of
old thou wert a melodist.
Battus. Ye Muses Pierian, sing ye with me the slender
maiden, for whatsoever ye do but touch, ye goddesses, ye make
wholly fair.
They all call thee a gipsy, gracious Bombyca, and
lean, and sunburnt, ‘tis only I that call
thee honey-pale.
Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered
hyacinth, but yet these flowers are chosen the first in
garlands.
The goat runs after cytisus, the wolf pursues the goat, the crane
follows the plough, but I am wild for love of thee.
Would it were mine, all the wealth whereof once Croesus was lord,
as men tell! Then images of us twain, all in gold, should be
dedicated to Aphrodite, thou with thy flute, and a rose, yea, or
an apple, and I in fair attire, and new shoon of Amyclae on both
my feet.
Ah gracious Bombyca, thy feet are fashioned like carven ivory,
thy voice is drowsy sweet, and thy ways, I cannot tell of them!
{57}
Milan. Verily our clown was a maker of lovely songs, and
we knew it not! How well he meted out and shaped his harmony; woe
is me for the beard that I have grown, all in vain! Come, mark
thou too these lines of godlike Lityerses
THE LITYERSES SONG
Demeter, rich in fruit, and rich in grain, may this corn be
easy to win, and fruitful exceedingly!
Bind, ye bandsters, the sheaves, lest the wayfarer should cry,
‘Men of straw were the workers here, ay, and their hire was
wasted!’
See that the cut stubble faces the North wind, or the West,
‘tis thus the grain waxes richest.
They that thresh corn should shun the noon-day steep; at noon the
chaff parts easiest from the straw.
As for the reapers, let them begin when the crested lark is
waking, and cease when he sleeps, but take holiday in the
heat.
Lads, the frog has a jolly life, he is not cumbered about a
butler to his drink, for he has liquor by him unstinted!
Boil the lentils better, thou miserly steward; take heed lest
thou chop thy fingers, when thou’rt splitting
cumin-seed.
‘Tis thus that men should sing who labour
i’ the sun, but thy starveling love, thou clod,
‘twere fit to tell to thy mother when she stirs in bed at
dawning.
Idyl XI - THE CYCLOPS IN LOVE
Nicias, the physician and poet, being in love, Theocritus
reminds him that in song lies the only remedy. It was by song, he
says, that the Cyclops, Polyphemus, got him some ease, when he
was in love with Galatea, the sea-nymph.
The idyl displays, in the most graceful manner, the Alexandrian
taste for turning Greek mythology into love stories. No creature
could be more remote from love than the original Polyphemus, the
cannibal giant of the Odyssey.
There is none other medicine, Nicias, against Love,
neither unguent, methinks, nor salve to sprinkle, - none, save
the Muses of Pieria! Now a delicate thing is their minstrelsy in
man’s life, and a sweet, but hard to procure. Methinks thou
know’st this well, who art thyself a leech, and beyond all
men art plainly dear to the Muses nine.
‘Twas surely thus the Cyclops fleeted his life most easily,
he that dwelt among us, - Polyphemus of old time, - when the
beard was yet young on his cheek and chin; and he loved Galatea.
He loved, not with apples, not roses, nor locks of hair, but with
fatal frenzy, and all things else he held but trifles by the way.
Many a time from the green pastures would his ewes stray back,
self-shepherded, to the fold. But he was singing of Galatea, and
pining in his place he sat by the sea-weed of the beach, from the
dawn of day, with the direst hurt beneath his breast of mighty
Cypris’s sending, - the wound of her arrow in his
heart!
Yet this remedy he found, and sitting on the crest of the tall
cliff, and looking to the deep, ‘twas thus he would
sing:-
Song of the Cyclops.
O milk-white Galatea, why cast off him that loves thee? More
white than is pressed milk to look upon, more delicate than the
lamb art thou, than the young calf wantoner, more sleek than the
unripened grape! Here dust thou resort, even so, when sweet sleep
possesses me, and home straightway dost thou depart when sweet
sleep lets me go, fleeing me like an ewe that has seen the grey
wolf.
I fell in love with thee, maiden, I, on the day when first thou
camest, with my mother, and didst wish to pluck the hyacinths
from the hill, and I was thy guide on the way. But to leave
loving thee, when once I had seen thee, neither afterward, nor
now at all, have I the strength, even from that hour. But to thee
all this is as nothing, by Zeus, nay, nothing at all!
I know, thou gracious maiden, why it is that thou dust shun me.
It is all for the shaggy brow that spans all my forehead, from
this to the other ear, one long unbroken eyebrow. And but one eye
is on my forehead, and broad is the nose that overhangs my lip.
Yet I (even such as thou seest me) feed a thousand cattle, and
from these I draw and drink the best milk in the world. And
cheese I never lack, in summer time or autumn, nay, nor in the
dead of winter, but my baskets are always overladen.
Also I am skilled in piping, as none other of the Cyclopes here,
and of thee, my love, my sweet-apple, and of myself too I sing,
many a time, deep in the night. And for thee I tend eleven fawns,
all crescent-browed, {61} and four young
whelps of the bear.
Nay, come thou to me, and thou shalt lack nothing that now thou
hast. Leave the grey sea to roll against the land; more sweetly,
in this cavern, shalt thou fleet the night with me! Thereby the
laurels grow, and there the slender cypresses, there is the ivy
dun, and the sweet clustered grapes; there is chill water, that
for me deep-wooded Ætna sends down from the white snow, a
draught divine! Ah who, in place of these, would choose the sea
to dwell in, or the waves of the sea?
But if thou dust refuse because my body seems shaggy and rough,
well, I have faggots of oakwood, and beneath the ashes is fire
unwearied, and I would endure to let thee burn my very soul, and
this my one eye, the dearest thing that is mine.
Ah me, that my mother bore me not a finny thing, so would I have
gone down to thee, and kissed thy hand, if thy lips thou would
not suffer me to kiss! And I would have brought thee either white
lilies, or the soft poppy with its scarlet petals. Nay, these are
summer’s flowers, and those are flowers of winter, so I
could not have brought thee them all at one time.
Now, verily, maiden, now and here will I learn to swim, if
perchance some stranger come hither, sailing with his ship, that
I may see why it is so dear to thee, to have thy dwelling in the
deep.
Come forth, Galatea, and forget as thou comest, even as I that
sit here have forgotten, the homeward way! Nay, choose with me to
go shepherding, with me to milk the flocks, and to pour the sharp
rennet in, and to fix the cheeses.
There is none that wrongs me but that mother of mine, and her do
I blame. Never, nay, never once has she spoken a kind word for me
to thee, and that though day by day she beholds me wasting. I
will tell her that my head, and both my feet are throbbing, that
she may somewhat suffer, since I too am suffering.
O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither are thy wits wandering? Ah that thou
wouldst go, and weave thy wicker-work, and gather broken boughs
to carry to thy lambs: in faith, if thou didst this, far wiser
wouldst thou be!
Milk the ewe that thou hast, why pursue the thing that shuns
thee? Thou wilt find, perchance, another, and a fairer Galatea.
Many be the girls that bid me play with them through the night,
and softly they all laugh, if perchance I answer them. On land it
is plain that I too seem to be somebody!
Lo, thus Polyphemus still shepherded his love with song, and
lived lighter than if he had given gold for ease.
Idyl XII - THE PASSIONATE FRIEND
This is rather a lyric than an idyl, being an expression of
that singular passion which existed between men in historical
Greece. The next idyl, like the Myrmidons of Aeschylus,
attributes the same manners to mythical and heroic Greece. It
should be unnecessary to say that the affection between Homeric
warriors, like Achilles and Patroclus, was only that of
companions in arms and was quite unlike the later
sentiment.
Hast thou come, dear youth, with the third night and
the dawning; hast thou come? but men in longing grow old in a
day! As spring than the winter is sweeter, as the apple than the
sloe, as the ewe is deeper of fleece than the lamb she bore; as a
maiden surpasses a thrice-wedded wife, as the fawn is nimbler
than the calf; nay, by as much as sweetest of all fowls sings the
clear-voiced nightingale, so much has thy coming gladdened me! To
thee have I hastened as the traveller hastens under the burning
sun to the shadow of the ilex tree.
Ah, would that equally the Loves may breathe upon us twain, may
we become a song in the ears of all men unborn.
‘Lo, a pair were these two friends among the folk of former
time,’ the one ‘the Knight’ (so the Amyclaeans
call him), the other, again, ‘the Page,’ so styled in
speech of Thessaly.
‘An equal yoke of friendship they bore: ah, surely then
there were golden men of old, when friends gave love for
love!’
And would, O father Cronides, and would, ye ageless immortals,
that this might be; and that when two hundred generations have
sped, one might bring these tidings to me by Acheron, the
irremeable stream.
‘The loving-kindness that was between thee and thy gracious
friend, is even now in all men’s mouths, and chiefly on the
lips of the young.’
Nay, verily, the gods of heaven will be masters of these things,
to rule them as they will, but when I praise thy graciousness no
blotch that punishes the perjurer shall spring upon the tip of my
nose! Nay, if ever thou hast somewhat pained me, forthwith thou
healest the hurt, giving a double delight, and I depart with my
cup full and running over!
Nisaean men of Megara, ye champions of the oars, happily may ye
dwell, for that ye honoured above all men the Athenian stranger,
even Diodes, the true lover. Always about his tomb the children
gather in their companies, at the coming in of the spring, and
contend for the prize of kissing. And whoso most sweetly touches
lip to lip, laden with garlands he returneth to his mother. Happy
is he that judges those kisses of the children; surely he prays
most earnestly to bright-faced Ganymedes, that his lips may be as
the Lydian touchstone wherewith the money-changers try gold lest,
perchance base metal pass for true.
Idyl XIII - HYLAS AND HERACLES
As in the eleventh Idyl, Nicias is again addressed, by way
of introduction to the story of Hylas. This beautiful lad, a
favourite companion of Heracles, took part in the Quest of the
Fleece of Gold. As he went to draw water from a fountain, the
water-nymphs dragged him down to their home, and Heracles, after
a long and vain search, was compelled to follow the heroes of the
Quest on foot to Phasis.
Not for us only, Nicias, as we were used to deem, was
Love begotten, by whomsoever of the Gods was the father of the
child; not first to us seemed beauty beautiful, to us that are
mortal men and look not on the morrow. Nay, but the son of
Amphitryon, that heart of bronze, who abode the wild lion’s
onset, loved a lad, beautiful Hylas - Hylas of the braided locks,
and he taught him all things as a father teaches his child, all
whereby himself became a mighty man, and renowned in minstrelsy.
Never was he apart from Hylas, not when midnoon was high in
heaven, not when Dawn with her white horses speeds upwards to the
dwelling of Zeus, not when the twittering nestlings look towards
the perch, while their mother flaps her wings above the
smoke-browned beam; and all this that the lad might be fashioned
to his mind, and might drive a straight furrow, and come to the
true measure of man.
But when Iason, Aeson’s son, was sailing after the fleece
of gold (and with him followed the champions, the first chosen
out of all the cities, they that were of most avail), to rich
Iolcos too came the mighty man and adventurous, the son of the
woman of Midea, noble Alcmene. With him went down Hylas also, to
Argo of the goodly benches, the ship that grazed not on the
clashing rocks Cyanean, but through she sped and ran into deep
Phasis, as an eagle over the mighty gulf of the sea. And the
clashing rocks stand fixed, even from that hour!
Now at the rising of the Pleiades, when the upland fields begin
to pasture the young lambs, and when spring is already on the
wane, then the flower divine of Heroes bethought them of
sea-faring. On board the hollow Argo they sat down to the oars,
and to the Hellespont they came when the south wind had been for
three days blowing, and made their haven within Propontis, where
the oxen of the Cianes wear bright the ploughshare, as they widen
the furrows. Then they went forth upon the shore, and each couple
busily got ready supper in the late evening, and many as they
were one bed they strewed lowly on the ground, for they found a
meadow lying, rich in couches of strown grass and leaves. Thence
they cut them pointed flag-leaves, and deep marsh-galingale. And
Hylas of the yellow hair, with a vessel of bronze in his hand,
went to draw water against suppertime, for Heracles himself, and
the steadfast Telamon, for these comrades twain supped ever at
one table. Soon was he ware of a spring, in a hollow land, and
the rushes grew thickly round it, and dark swallow-wort, and
green maiden-hair, and blooming parsley, and deer-grass spreading
through the marshy land. In the midst of the water the nymphs
were arraying their dances, the sleepless nymphs, dread goddesses
of the country people, Eunice, and Malis, and Nycheia, with her
April eyes. And now the boy was holding out the wide-mouthed
pitcher to the water, intent on dipping it, but the nymphs all
clung to his hand, for love of the Argive lad had fluttered the
soft hearts of all of them. Then down he sank into the black
water, headlong all, as when a star shoots flaming from the sky,
plumb in the deep it falls, and a mate shouts out to the seamen,
‘Up with the gear, my lads, the wind is fair for
sailing.’
Then the nymphs held the weeping boy on their laps, and with
gentle words were striving to comfort him. But the son of
Amphitryon was troubled about the lad, and went forth, carrying
his bended bow in Scythian fashion, and the club that is ever
grasped in his right hand. Thrice he shouted ‘Hylas!’
as loud as his deep throat could call, and thrice again the boy
heard him, and thin came his voice from the water, and, hard by
though he was, he seemed very far away. And as when a bearded
lion, a ravening lion on the hills, hears the bleating of a fawn
afar off, and rushes forth from his lair to seize it, his
readiest meal, even so the mighty Heracles, in longing for the
lad, sped through the trackless briars, and ranged over much
country.
Reckless are lovers: great toils did Heracles bear, in hills and
thickets wandering, and Iason’s quest was all postponed to
this. Now the ship abode with her tackling aloft, and the company
gathered there, {70} but at midnight the young men were
lowering the sails again, awaiting Heracles. But he wheresoever
his feet might lead him went wandering in his fury, for the cruel
Goddess of love was rending his heart within him.
Thus loveliest Hylas is numbered with the Blessed, but for a
runaway they girded at Heracles, the heroes, because he roamed
from Argo of the sixty oarsmen. But on foot he came to Colchis
and inhospitable Phasis.
Idyl XIV
This Idyl, like the next, is dramatic in form. One
Aeschines tells Thyonichus the story of his quarrel with his
mistress Cynisca. He speaks of taking foreign service, and
Thyonichus recommends that of Ptolemy. The idyl was probably
written at Alexandria, as a compliment to Ptolemy, and an
inducement to Greeks to join his forces. There is nothing,
however, to fix the date.
Aeschines. All hail to the stout Thyonichus!
Thyonichus. As much to you, Aeschines.
Aeschines. How long it is since we met!
Thyonichus. Is it so long? But why, pray, this
melancholy?
Aeschines. I am not in the best of luck, Thyonichus.
Thyonichus. ‘Tis for that, then, you are so lean,
and hence comes this long moustache, and these love-locks all
adust. Just such a figure was a Pythagorean that came here of
late, barefoot and wan, - and said he was an Athenian. Marry, he
too was in love, methinks, with a plate of pancakes.
Aeschines. Friend, you will always have your jest, - but
beautiful Cynisca, - she flouts me! I shall go mad some day, when
no man looks for it; I am but a hair’s-breadth on the
hither side, even now.
Thyonichus. You are ever like this, dear Aeschines, now
mad, now sad, and crying for all things at your whim. Yet, tell
me, what is your new trouble?
Aeschines. The Argive, and I, and the Thessalian rough
rider, Apis, and Cleunichus the free lance, were drinking
together, at my farm. I had killed two chickens, and a sucking
pig, and had opened the Bibline wine for them, - nearly four
years old, - but fragrant as when it left the wine-press.
Truffles and shellfish had been brought out, it was a jolly
drinking match. And when things were now getting forwarder, we
determined that each of us should toast whom he pleased, in
unmixed wine, only he must name his toast. So we all drank, and
called our toasts as had been agreed. Yet She said nothing,
though I was there; how think you I liked that?
‘Won’t you call a toast? You have seen the
wolf!’ some one said in jest, ‘as the proverb
goes,’ {72} then she kindled; yes, you could easily
have lighted a lamp at her face. There is one Wolf, one Wolf
there is, the son of Labes our neighbour, - he is tall,
smooth-skinned, many think him handsome. His was that illustrious
love in which she was pining, yes, and a breath about the
business once came secretly to my ears, but I never looked into
it, beshrew my beard!
Already, mark you, we four men were deep in our cups, when the
Larissa man out of mere mischief, struck up, ‘My
Wolf,’ some Thessalian catch, from the very beginning. Then
Cynisca suddenly broke out weeping more bitterly than a
six-year-old maid, that longs for her mother’s lap. Then I,
- you know me, Thyonichus, - struck her on the cheek with
clenched fist, - one two! She caught up her robes, and forth she
rushed, quicker than she came. ‘Ah, my undoing’
(cried I), ‘I am not good enough for you, then - you have a
dearer playfellow? well, be off and cherish your other lover,
‘tis for him your tears run big as apples!’ {73}
And as the swallow flies swiftly back to gather a morsel, fresh
food, for her young ones under the eaves, still swifter sped she
from her soft chair, straight through the vestibule and
folding-doors, wherever her feet carried her. So, sure, the old
proverb says, ‘the bull has sought the wild
wood.’
Since then there are twenty days, and eight to these, and nine
again, then ten others, to-day is the eleventh, add two more, and
it is two months since we parted, and I have not shaved, not even
in Thracian fashion. {74a}
And now Wolf is everything with her. Wolf finds the door open
o’ nights, and I am of no account, not in the reckoning,
like the wretched men of Megara, in the place dishonourable.
{74b}
And if I could cease to love, the world would wag as well as may
be. But now, - now, - as they say, Thyonichus, I am like the
mouse that has tasted pitch. And what remedy there may be for a
bootless love, I know not; except that Simus, he who was in love
with the daughter of Epicalchus, went over seas, and came back
heart-whole, - a man of my own age. And I too will cross the
water, and prove not the first, maybe, nor the last, perhaps, but
a fair soldier as times go.
Thyonichus. Would that things had gone to your mind,
Aeschines. But if, in good earnest, you are thus set on going
into exile, PTOLEMY is the free man’s best paymaster!
Aeschines. And in other respects, what kind of man?
Thyonichus. The free man’s best paymaster! Indulgent
too, the Muses’ darling, a true lover, the top of good
company, knows his friends, and still better knows his enemies. A
great giver to many, refuses nothing that he is asked which to
give may beseem a king, but, Aeschines, we should not always be
asking. Thus, if you are minded to pin up the top corner of your
cloak over the right shoulder, and if you have the heart to stand
steady on both feet, and bide the brunt of a hardy targeteer, off
instantly to Egypt! From the temples downward we all wax grey,
and on to the chin creeps the rime of age, men must do somewhat
while their knees are yet nimble.
Idyl XV
This famous idyl should rather, perhaps, be called a mimus.
It describes the visit paid by two Syracusan women residing in
Alexandria, to the festival of the resurrection of Adonis. The
festival is given by Arsinoë, wife and sister of Ptolemy
Philadelphus, and the poem cannot have been written earlier than
his marriage, in 266 B.C. [?] Nothing can be more gay and natural
than the chatter of the women, which has changed no more in two
thousand years than the song of birds. Theocritus is believed to
have had a model for this idyl in the Isthmiazusae of Sophron, an
older poet. In the Isthmiazusae two ladies described the
spectacle of the Isthmian games.
Gorgo. Is Praxinoë at home?
Praxinoë. Dear Gorgo, how long it is since you have
been here! She is at home. The wonder is that you have got
here at last! Eunoë, see that she has a chair. Throw a
cushion on it too.
Gorgo. It does most charmingly as it is.
Praxinoë. Do sit down.
Gorgo. Oh, what a thing spirit is! I have scarcely got to
you alive, Praxinoë! What a huge crowd, what hosts of
four-in-hands! Everywhere cavalry boots, everywhere men in
uniform! And the road is endless: yes, you really live too
far away!
Praxinoë. It is all the fault of that madman of mine.
Here he came to the ends of the earth and took - a hole, not a
house, and all that we might not be neighbours. The jealous
wretch, always the same, ever for spite!
Gorgo. Don’t talk of your husband, Dinon, like that,
my dear girl, before the little boy, - look how he is staring at
you! Never mind, Zopyrion, sweet child, she is not speaking about
papa.
Praxinoë. Our Lady! the child takes notice. {77}
Gorgo. Nice papa!
Praxinoë. That papa of his the other day - we call
every day ‘the other day’ - went to get soap and
rouge at the shop, and back he came to me with salt - the great
big endless fellow!
Gorgo. Mine has the same trick, too, a perfect spendthrift
- Diocleides! Yesterday he got what he meant for five fleeces,
and paid seven shillings a piece for - what do you suppose? -
dogskins, shreds of old leather wallets, mere trash - trouble on
trouble. But come, take your cloak and shawl. Let us be off to
the palace of rich Ptolemy, the King, to see the Adonis; I hear
the Queen has provided something splendid!
Praxinoë. Fine folks do everything finely.
Gorgo. What a tale you will have to tell about the things
you have seen, to any one who has not seen them! It seems nearly
time to go.
Praxinoë. Idlers have always holiday. Eunoë,
bring the water and put it down in the middle of the room, lazy
creature that you are. Cats like always to sleep soft! {78a} Come, bustle, bring the water; quicker.
I want water first, and how she carries it! give it me all the
same; don’t pour out so much, you extravagant thing. Stupid
girl! Why are you wetting my dress? There, stop, I have washed my
hands, as heaven would have it. Where is the key of the big
chest? Bring it here.
Gorgo. Praxinoë, that full body becomes you
wonderfully. Tell me how much did the stuff cost you just off the
loom?
Praxinoë. Don’t speak of it, Gorgo! More than
eight pounds in good silver money, - and the work on it! I nearly
slaved my soul out over it!
Gorgo. Well, it is most successful; all you could
wish. {78b}
Praxinoë. Thanks for the pretty speech! Bring my
shawl, and set my hat on my head, the fashionable way. No, child,
I don’t mean to take you. Boo! Bogies! There’s a
horse that bites! Cry as much as you please, but I cannot have
you lamed. Let us be moving. Phrygia take the child, and keep him
amused, call in the dog, and shut the street door.
[They go into the street.
Ye gods, what a crowd! How on earth are we ever to get
through this coil? They are like ants that no one can measure or
number. Many a good deed have you done, Ptolemy; since your
father joined the immortals, there’s never a malefactor to
spoil the passer-by, creeping on him in Egyptian fashion - oh!
the tricks those perfect rascals used to play. Birds of a
feather, ill jesters, scoundrels all! Dear Gorgo, what will
become of us? Here come the King’s war-horses! My dear man,
don’t trample on me. Look, the bay’s rearing, see,
what temper! Eunoë, you foolhardy girl, will you never keep
out of the way? The beast will kill the man that’s leading
him. What a good thing it is for me that my brat stays safe at
home.
Gorgo. Courage, Praxinoë. We are safe behind them,
now, and they have gone to their station.
Praxinoë. There! I begin to be myself again. Ever
since I was a child I have feared nothing so much as horses and
the chilly snake. Come along, the huge mob is overflowing
us.
Gorgo (to an old Woman). Are you from the Court,
mother?
Old Woman. I am, my child.
Praxinoë. Is it easy to get there?
Old Woman. The Achaeans got into Troy by trying, my
prettiest of ladies. Trying will do everything in the long
run.
Gorgo. The old wife has spoken her oracles, and off she
goes.
Praxinoë. Women know everything, yes, and how Zeus
married Hera!
Gorgo. See Praxinoë, what a crowd there is about the
doors.
Praxinoë. Monstrous, Gorgo! Give me your hand, and
you, Eunoë, catch hold of Eutychis; never lose hold of her,
for fear lest you get lost. Let us all go in together;
Eunoë, clutch tight to me. Oh, how tiresome, Gorgo, my
muslin veil is torn in two already! For heaven’s sake, sir,
if you ever wish to be fortunate, take care of my shawl!
Stranger. I can hardly help myself, but for all that I
will be as careful as I can.
Praxinoë. How close-packed the mob is, they hustle
like a herd of swine.
Stranger. Courage, lady, all is well with us now.
Praxinoë. Both this year and for ever may all be well
with you, my dear sir, for your care of us. A good kind man!
We’re letting Eunoë get squeezed - come, wretched
girl, push your way through. That is the way. We are all on the
right side of the door, quoth the bridegroom, when he had shut
himself in with his bride.
Gorgo. Do come here, Praxinoë. Look first at these
embroideries. How light and how lovely! You will call them the
garments of the gods.
Praxinoë. Lady Athene, what spinning women wrought
them, what painters designed these drawings, so true they are?
How naturally they stand and move, like living creatures, not
patterns woven. What a clever thing is man! Ah, and himself -
Adonis - how beautiful to behold he lies on his silver couch,
with the first down on his cheeks, the thrice-beloved Adonis, -
Adonis beloved even among the dead.
A Stranger. You weariful women, do cease your endless
cooing talk! They bore one to death with their eternal broad
vowels!
Gorgo. Indeed! And where may this person come from? What
is it to you if we are chatterboxes! Give orders to your
own servants, sir. Do you pretend to command ladies of Syracuse?
If you must know, we are Corinthians by descent, like Bellerophon
himself, and we speak Peloponnesian. Dorian women may lawfully
speak Doric, I presume?
Praxinoë. Lady Persephone, never may we have more
than one master. I am not afraid of your putting me on
short commons.
Gorgo. Hush, hush, Praxinoë - the Argive
woman’s daughter, the great singer, is beginning the
Adonis; she that won the prize last year for
dirge-singing. {82} I am sure she will give us something
lovely; see, she is preluding with her airs and graces.
The Psalm of Adonis.
O Queen that lovest Golgi, and Idalium, and the steep of Eryx,
O Aphrodite, that playest with gold, lo, from the stream eternal
of Acheron they have brought back to thee Adonis - even in the
twelfth month they have brought him, the dainty-footed Hours.
Tardiest of the Immortals are the beloved Hours, but dear and
desired they come, for always, to all mortals, they bring some
gift with them. O Cypris, daughter of Diônê, from
mortal to immortal, so men tell, thou hast changed Berenice,
dropping softly in the woman’s breast the stuff of
immortality.
Therefore, for thy delight, O thou of many names and many
temples, doth the daughter of Berenice, even Arsinoë, lovely
as Helen, cherish Adonis with all things beautiful.
Before him lie all ripe fruits that the tall trees’
branches bear, and the delicate gardens, arrayed in baskets of
silver, and the golden vessels are full of incense of Syria. And
all the dainty cakes that women fashion in the kneading-tray,
mingling blossoms manifold with the white wheaten flour, all that
is wrought of honey sweet, and in soft olive oil, all cakes
fashioned in the semblance of things that fly, and of things that
creep, lo, here they are set before him.
Here are built for him shadowy bowers of green, all laden with
tender anise, and children flit overhead - the little Loves - as
the young nightingales perched upon the trees fly forth and try
their wings from bough to bough.
O the ebony, O the gold, O the twin eagles of white ivory that
carry to Zeus the son of Cronos his darling, his cup-bearer! O
the purple coverlet strewn above, more soft than sleep! So
Miletus will say, and whoso feeds sheep in Samos.
Another bed is strewn for beautiful Adonis, one bed Cypris keeps,
and one the rosy-armed Adonis. A bridegroom of eighteen or
nineteen years is he, his kisses are not rough, the golden down
being yet upon his lips! And now, good-night to Cypris, in the
arms of her lover! But lo, in the morning we will all of us
gather with the dew, and carry him forth among the waves that
break upon the beach, and with locks unloosed, and ungirt raiment
falling to the ankles, and bosoms bare will we begin our shrill
sweet song.
Thou only, dear Adonis, so men tell, thou only of the demigods
dost visit both this world and the stream of Acheron. For
Agamemnon had no such lot, nor Aias, that mighty lord of the
terrible anger, nor Hector, the eldest born of the twenty sons of
Hecabe, nor Patroclus, nor Pyrrhus, that returned out of
Troyland, nor the heroes of yet more ancient days, the Lapithae
and Deucalion’s sons, nor the sons of Pelops, and the
chiefs of Pelasgian Argus. Be gracious now, dear Adonis, and
propitious even in the coming year. Dear to us has thine advent
been, Adonis, and dear shall it be when thou comest again.
Gorgo. Praxinoë, the woman is cleverer than we
fancied! Happy woman to know so much, thrice happy to have so
sweet a voice. Well, all the same, it is time to be making for
home. Diocleides has not had his dinner, and the man is all
vinegar, - don’t venture near him when he is kept waiting
for dinner. Farewell, beloved Adonis, may you find us glad at
your next coming!
Idyl XVI
In 265 B.C. Sicily was devastated by the Carthaginians, and
by the companies of disciplined free-lances who called themselves
Mamertines, or Mars’s men. The hopes of the Greek
inhabitants of the island were centred in Hiero, son of
Hierocles, who was about to besiege Messana (then held by the
Carthaginians) and who had revived the courage of the Syracusans.
To him Theocritus addressed this idyl, in which he complains of
the sordid indifference of the rich, rehearses the merits of
song, dilates on the true nature of wealth, and of the happy
lift, and finally expresses his hope that Hiero will rid the isle
of the foreign foe, and will restore peace and pastoral joys. The
idyl contains some allusions to Simonides, the old lyric poet,
and to his relations with the famous Hiero tyrant of
Syracuse.
Ever is this the care of the maidens of Zeus, ever the
care of minstrels, to sing the Immortals, to sing the praises of
noble men. The Muses, lo, are Goddesses, of Gods the Goddesses
sing, but we on earth are mortal men; let us mortals sing of
mortals. Ah, who of all them that dwell beneath the grey morning,
will open his door and gladly receive our Graces within his
house? who is there that will not send them back again without a
gift? And they with looks askance, and naked feet come homewards,
and sorely they upbraid me when they have gone on a vain journey,
and listless again in the bottom of their empty coffer, they
dwell with heads bowed over their chilly knees, where is their
drear abode, when gainless they return.
Where is there such an one, among men to-day? Where is he that
will befriend him that speaks his praises? I know not, for now no
longer, as of old, are men eager to win the renown of noble
deeds, nay, they are the slaves of gain! Each man clasps his
hands below the purse-fold of his gown, and looks about to spy
whence he may get him money: the very rust is too precious to be
rubbed off for a gift. Nay, each has his ready saw; the shin
is further than the knee; first let me get my own!
‘Tis the Gods’ affair to honour minstrels!
Homer is enough for every one, who wants to hear any
other? He is the best of bards who takes nothing that is
mine.
O foolish men, in the store of gold uncounted, what
gain have ye? Not in this do the wise find the true enjoyment of
wealth, but in that they can indulge their own desires, and
something bestow on one of the minstrels, and do good deeds to
many of their kin, and to many another man; and always give
altar-rites to the Gods, nor ever play the churlish host, but
kindly entreat the guest at table, and speed him when he would be
gone. And this, above all, to honour the holy interpreters of the
Muses, that so thou mayest have a goodly fame, even when hidden
in Hades, nor ever moan without renown by the chill water of
Acheron, like one whose palms the spade has hardened, some
landless man bewailing the poverty that is all his
heritage.
Many were the thralls that in the palace of Antiochus, and of
king Aleuas drew out their monthly dole, many the calves that
were driven to the penns of the Scopiadae, and lowed with the
horned kine: countless on the Crannonian plain did shepherds
pasture beneath the sky the choicest sheep of the hospitable
Creondae, yet from all this they had no joy, when once into the
wide raft of hateful Acheron they had breathed sweet life away!
Yea, unremembered (though they had left all that rich store), for
ages long would they have lain among the dead forlorn, if a name
among later men the skilled Ceian minstrel had spared to bestow,
singing his bright songs to a harp of many strings. Honour too
was won by the swift steeds that came home to them crowned from
the sacred contests.
And who would ever have known the Lycian champions of time past,
who Priam’s long-haired sons, and Cycnus, white of skin as
a maiden, if minstrels had not chanted of the war cries of the
old heroes? Nor would Odysseus have won his lasting glory, for
all his ten years wandering among all folks; and despite the
visit he paid, he a living man, to inmost Hades, and for all his
escape from the murderous Cyclops’s cave, - unheard too
were the names of the swineherd Eumaeus, and of Philoetius, busy
with the kine of the herds; yea, and even of Laertes, high of
heart; if the songs of the Ionian man had not kept them in
renown.
From the Muses comes a goodly report to men, but the living heirs
devour the possessions of the dead. But, lo, it is as light
labour to count the waves upon the beach, as many as wind and
grey sea-tide roll upon the shore, or in violet-hued water to
cleanse away the stain from a potsherd, as to win favour from a
man that is smitten with the greed of gain. Good-day to such an
one, and countless be his coin, and ever may he be possessed by a
longing desire for more! But I for my part would choose honour
and the loving-kindness of men, far before wealth in mules and
horses.
I am seeking to what mortal I may come, a welcome guest, with the
help of the Muses, for hard indeed do minstrels find the ways,
who go uncompanioned by the daughters of deep-counselling Zeus.
Not yet is the heaven aweary of rolling the months onwards, and
the years, and many a horse shall yet whirl the chariot wheels,
and the man shall yet be found, who will take me for his
minstrel; a man of deeds like those that great Achilles wrought,
or puissant Aias, in the plain of Simois, where is the tomb of
Phrygian Ilus.
Even now the Phoenicians that dwell beneath the setting sun on
the spur of Libya, shudder for dread, even now the Syracusans
poise lances in rest, and their arms are burdened by the linden
shields. Among them Hiero, like the mighty men of old, girds
himself for fight, and the horse-hair crest is shadowing his
helmet. Ah, Zeus, our father renowned, and ah, lady Athene, and O
thou Maiden that with the Mother dost possess the great burg of
the rich Ephyreans, by the water of Lusimeleia, {89}
would that dire necessity may drive our foemen from the isle,
along the Sardinian wave, to tell the doom of their friends to
children and to wives - messengers easy to number out of so many
warriors! But as for our cities may they again be held by their
ancient masters, - all the cities that hostile hands have utterly
spoiled. May our people till the flowering fields, and may
thousands of sheep unnumbered fatten ‘mid the herbage, and
bleat along the plain, while the kine as they come in droves to
the stalls warn the belated traveller to hasten on his way. May
the fallows be broken for the seed-time, while the cicala,
watching the shepherds as they toil in the sun, in the shade of
the trees doth sing on the topmost sprays. May spiders weave
their delicate webs over martial gear, may none any more so much
as name the cry of onset!
But the fame of Hiero may minstrels bear aloft, across the
Scythian sea, and where Semiramis reigned, that built the mighty
wall, and made it fast with slime for mortar. I am but one of
many that are loved by the daughters of Zeus, and they all are
fain to sing of Sicilian Arethusa, with the people of the isle,
and the warrior Hiero. O Graces, ye Goddesses, adored of
Eteocles, ye that love Orchomenos of the Minyae, the ancient
enemy of Thebes, when no man bids me, let me abide at home, but
to the houses of such as bid me, boldly let me come with my
Muses. Nay, neither the Muses nor you Graces will I leave behind,
for without the Graces what have men that is desirable? with the
Graces of song may I dwell for ever!
The poet praises Ptolemy Philadelphus in a strain of almost
religious adoration. Hauler, in his Life of Theocritus, dates the
poem about 259 B.C., but it may have been many years
earlier.
From Zeus let us begin, and with Zeus make end, ye
Muses, whensoever we chant in songs the chiefest of immortals!
But of men, again, let Ptolemy be named, among the foremost, and
last, and in the midmost place, for of men he hath the
pre-eminence. The heroes that in old days were begotten of the
demigods, wrought noble deeds, and chanced on minstrels skilled,
but I, with what skill I have in song, would fain make my hymn of
Ptolemy, and hymns are the glorious meed, yea, of the very
immortals.
When the feller hath come up to wooded Ida, he glances around, so
many are the trees, to see whence he should begin his labour.
Where first shall I begin the tale, for there are
countless things ready for the telling, wherewith the Gods have
graced the most excellent of kings?
Even by virtue of his sires, how mighty was he to accomplish some
great work, - Ptolemy son of Lagus, - when he had stored in his
mind such a design, as no other man was able even to devise! Him
hath the Father stablished in the same honour as the blessed
immortals, and for him a golden mansion in the house of Zeus is
builded; beside him is throned Alexander, that dearly loves him,
Alexander, a grievous god to the white-turbaned Persians.
And over against them is set the throne of Heracles, the slayer
of the Bull, wrought of stubborn adamant. There holds he festival
with the rest of the heavenly host, rejoicing exceedingly in his
far-off children’s children, for that the son of Cronos
hath taken old age clean away from their limbs, and they are
called immortals, being his offspring. For the strong son of
Heracles is ancestor of the twain, I and both are reckoned to
Heracles, on the utmost of the lineage.
Therefore when he hath now had his fill of fragrant nectar, and
is going from the feast to the bower of his bed-fellow dear, to
one of his children he gives his bow, and the quiver that swings
beneath his elbow, to the other his knotted mace of iron. Then
they to the ambrosial bower of white-ankled Hera, convey the
weapons and the bearded son of Zeus.
Again, how shone renowned Berenice among the wise of womankind,
how great a boon was she to them that begat her! Yea, in her
fragrant breast did the Lady of Cyprus, the queenly daughter of
Dione, lay her slender hands, wherefore they say that never any
woman brought man such delight as came from the love borne to his
wife by Ptolemy. And verily he was loved again with far greater
love, and in such a wedlock a man may well trust all his house to
his children, whensoever he goes to the bed of one that loves him
as he loves her. But the mind of a woman that loves not is set
ever on a stranger, and she hath children at her desire, but they
are never like the father.
O thou that amongst the Goddesses hast the prize of beauty, O
Lady Aphrodite, thy care was she, and by thy favour the lovely
Berenice crossed not Acheron, the river of mourning, but thou
didst catch her away, ere she came to the dark water, and to the
still-detested ferryman of souls outworn, and in thy temple didst
thou instal her, and gavest her a share of thy worship. Kindly is
she to all mortals, and she breathes into them soft desires, and
she lightens the cares of him that is in longing.
O dark-browed lady of Argos, {93} in wedlock with
Tydeus didst thou bear slaying Diomede, a hero of Calydon, and,
again, deep-bosomed Thetis to Peleus, son of Aeacus, bare the
spearman Achilles. But thee, O warrior Ptolemy, to Ptolemy the
warrior bare the glorious Berenice! And Cos did foster thee, when
thou wert still a child new-born, and received thee at thy
mother’s hand, when thou saw’st thy first dawning.
For there she called aloud on Eilithyia, loosener of the girdle;
she called, the daughter of Antigone, when heavy on her came the
pangs of childbirth. And Eilithyia was present to help her, and
so poured over all her limbs release from pain. Then the beloved
child was born, his father’s very counterpart. And Cos
brake forth into a cry, when she beheld it, and touching the
child with kind hands, she said:
‘Blessed, O child, mayst thou be, and me mayst thou honour
even as Phoebus Apollo honours Delos of the azure crown, yea,
stablish in the same renown the Triopean hill, and allot such
glory to the Dorians dwelling nigh, as that wherewithal Prince
Apollo favours Rhenaea.’
Lo, thus spake the Isle, but far aloft under the clouds a great
eagle screamed thrice aloud, the ominous bird of Zeus. This sign,
methinks, was of Zeus; Zeus, the son of Cronos, in his care hath
awful kings, but he is above all, whom Zeus loved from the first,
even from his birth. Great fortune goes with him, and much land
he rules, and wide sea.
Countless are the lands, and tribes of men innumerable win
increase of the soil that waxeth under the rain of Zeus, but no
land brings forth so much as low-lying Egypt, when Nile wells up
and breaks the sodden soil. Nor is there any land that hath so
many towns of men skilled in handiwork; therein are three
centuries of cities builded, and thousands three, and to these
three myriads, and cities twice three, and beside these, three
times nine, and over them all high-hearted Ptolemy is king.
Yea, and he taketh him a portion of Phoenicia, and of Arabia, and
of Syria, and of Libya, and the black Aethiopians. And he is lord
of all the Pamphylians, and the Cilician warriors, and the
Lycians, and the Carians, that joy in battle, and lord of the
isles of the Cyclades, - since his are the best of ships that
sail over the deep, - yea, all the sea, and land and the sounding
rivers are ruled by Ptolemy. Many are his horsemen, and many his
targeteers that go clanging in harness of shining bronze. And in
weight of wealth he surpasses all kings; such treasure comes day
by day from every side to his rich palace, while the people are
busy about their labours in peace.
For never hath a foeman marched up the bank of teaming Nile,
and raised the cry of war in villages not his own, nor hath any
cuirassed enemy leaped ashore from his swift ship, to harry the
kine of Egypt. So mighty a hero hath his throne established in
the broad plains, even Ptolemy of the fair hair, a spearman
skilled, whose care is above all, as a good king’s should
be, to keep all the heritage of his fathers, and yet more he
himself doth win. Nay, nor useless in his wealthy house,
is the gold, like piled stores of the still toilsome ants, but
the glorious temples of the gods have their rich share, for
constant first-fruits he renders, with many another due, and much
is lavished on mighty kings, much on cities, much on faithful
friends. And never to the sacred contests of Dionysus comes any
man that is skilled to raise the shrill sweet song, but Ptolemy
gives him a guerdon worthy of his art. And the interpreters of
the Muses sing of Ptolemy, in return for his favours. Nay, what
fairer thing might befall a wealthy man, than to win a goodly
renown among mortals?
This abides even by the sons of Atreus, but all those countless
treasures that they won, when they took the mighty house of
Priam, are hidden away in the mist, whence there is no
returning.
Ptolemy alone presses his own feet in the footmarks, yet glowing
in the dust, of his fathers that were before him. To his mother
dear, and his father he hath stablished fragrant temples; therein
has he set their images, splendid with gold and ivory, to succour
all earthly men. And many fat thighs of kine doth he burn on the
empurpled altars, as the months roll by, he and his stately wife;
no nobler lady did ever embrace a bridegroom in the halls, who
loves, with her whole heart, her brother, her lord. On this wise
was the holy bridal of the Immortals, too, accomplished, even of
the pair that great Rhea bore, the rulers of Olympus; and one bed
for the slumber of Zeus and of Hera doth Iris strew, with
myrrh-anointed hands, the virgin Iris.
Prince Ptolemy, farewell, and of thee will I make mention, even
as of the other demigods; and a word methinks I will utter not to
be rejected of men yet unborn, - excellence, howbeit, thou shalt
gain from Zeus.
Idyl XVIII
This epithalamium may have been written for the wedding of
a friend of the poet’s. The idea is said to have been
borrowed from an old poem by Stesichorus. The epithalamium was
chanted at night by a chorus of girls, outside the bridal
chamber. Compare the conclusion of the hymn of Adonis, in the
fifteenth Idyl.
In Sparta, once, to the house of fair-haired Menelaus, came
maidens with the blooming hyacinth in their hair, and before the
new painted chamber arrayed their dance, - twelve maidens, the
first in the city, the glory of Laconian girls, - what time the
younger Atrides had wooed and won Helen, and closed the door of
the bridal-bower on the beloved daughter of Tyndarus. Then sang
they all in harmony, beating time with woven paces, and the house
rang round with the bridal song.
The Chorus.
Thus early art thou sleeping, dear bridegroom, say are
thy limbs heavy with slumber, or art thou all too fond of sleep,
or hadst thou perchance drunken over well, ere thou didst fling
thee to thy rest? Thou shouldst have slept betimes, and alone, if
thou wert so fain of sleep; thou shouldst have left the maiden
with maidens beside her mother dear, to play till deep in the
dawn, for to-morrow, and next day, and for all the years,
Menelaus, she is thy bride.
O happy bridegroom, some good spirit sneezed out on thee a
blessing, as thou wert approaching Sparta whither went the other
princes, that so thou mightst win thy desire! Alone among the
demigods shalt thou have Zeus for father! Yea, and the daughter
of Zeus has come beneath one coverlet with thee, so fair a lady,
peerless among all Achaean women that walk the earth. Surely a
wondrous child would she bear thee, if she bore one like the
mother!
For lo, we maidens are all of like age with her, and one course
we were wont to run, anointed in manly fashion, by the baths of
Eurotas. Four times sixty girls were we, the maiden flower of the
land, {98} but of us all not one was faultless, when
matched with Helen.
As the rising Dawn shows forth her fairer face than thine, O
Night, or as the bright Spring, when Winter relaxes his hold,
even so amongst us still she shone, the golden Helen. Even as the
crops spring up, the glory of the rich plough land; or, as is the
cypress in the garden; or, in a chariot, a horse of Thessalian
breed, even so is rose-red Helen the glory of Lacedaemon. No
other in her basket of wool winds forth such goodly work, and
none cuts out, from between the mighty beams, a closer warp than
that her shuttle weaves in the carven loom. Yea, and of a truth
none other smites the lyre, hymning Artemis and broad-breasted
Athene, with such skill as Helen, within whose eyes dwell all the
Loves.
O fair, O gracious damsel, even now art thou a wedded wife; but
we will go forth right early to the course we ran, and to the
grassy meadows, to gather sweet-breathing coronals of flowers,
thinking often upon thee, Helen, even as youngling lambs that
miss the teats of the mother-ewe. For thee first will we twine a
wreath of lotus flowers that lowly grow, and hang it on a shadowy
plane tree, for thee first will we take soft oil from the silver
phial, and drop it beneath a shadowy plane tree, and letters will
we grave on the bark, in Dorian wise, so that the wayfarer may
read:
WORSHIP ME, I AM THE TREE OF HELEN.
Good night, thou bride, good night, thou groom that hast won a
mighty sire! May Leto, Leto, the nurse of noble offspring, give
you the blessing of children; and may Cypris, divine Cypris,
grant you equal love, to cherish each the other; and may Zeus,
even Zeus the son of Cronos, give you wealth imperishable, to be
handed down from generation to generation of the princes.
Sleep ye, breathing love and desire each into the other’s
breast, but forget not to wake in the dawning, and at dawn we too
will come, when the earliest cock shrills from his perch, and
raises his feathered neck.
Hymen, O Hymenae, rejoice thou in this bridal.
Idyl XIX
This little piece is but doubtfully ascribed to Theocritus.
The motif is that of a well-known Anacreontic Ode. The idyl has
been translated by Ronsard.
The thievish Love, - a cruel bee once stung him, as he
was rifling honey from the hives, and pricked his finger-tips
all; then he was in pain, and blew upon his hand, and leaped, and
stamped the ground. And then he showed his hurt to Aphrodite, and
made much complaint, how that the bee is a tiny creature, and yet
what wounds it deals! And his mother laughed out, and said,
‘Art thou not even such a creature as the bees, for tiny
art thou, but what wounds thou dealest!’
Idyl XX
A herdsman, who had been contemptuously rejected by Eunica,
a girl of the town, protests that he is beautiful, and that
Eunica is prouder than Cybele, Selene, and Aphrodite, all of whom
loved mortal herdsmen. For grammatical and other reasons, some
critics consider this idyl apocryphal.
Eunica laughed out at me when sweetly I would have
kissed her, and taunting me, thus she spoke: ‘Get thee gone
from me! Wouldst thou kiss me, wretch; thou - a neatherd? I never
learned to kiss in country fashion, but to press lips with city
gentlefolks. Never hope to kiss my lovely mouth, nay, not even in
a dream. How thou dost look, what chatter is thine, how
countrified thy tricks are, how delicate thy talk, how easy thy
tattle! And then thy beard - so soft! thy elegant hair! Why, thy
lips are like some sick man’s, thy hands are black, and
thou art of evil savour. Away with thee, lest thy presence soil
me!’ These taunts she mouthed, and thrice spat in the
breast of her gown, and stared at me all over from head to feet;
shooting out her lips, and glancing with half-shut eyes, writhing
her beautiful body, and so sneered, and laughed me to scorn. And
instantly my blood boiled, and I grew red under the sting, as a
rose with dew. And she went off and left me, but I bear angry
pride deep in my heart, that I, the handsome shepherd, should
have been mocked by a wretched light-o’-love.
Shepherds, tell me the very truth; am I not beautiful? Has some
God changed me suddenly to another man? Surely a sweet grace ever
blossomed round me, till this hour, like ivy round a tree, and
covered my chin, and about my temples fell my locks, like curling
parsley-leaves, and white shone my forehead above my dark
eyebrows. Mine eyes were brighter far than the glance of the
grey-eyed Athene, my mouth than even pressed milk was sweeter,
and from my lips my voice flowed sweeter than honey from the
honeycomb. Sweet too, is my music, whether I make melody on pipe,
or discourse on the flute, or reed, or flageolet. And all the
mountain-maidens call me beautiful, and they would kiss me, all
of them. But the city girl did not kiss me, but ran past me,
because I am a neatherd, and she never heard how fair Dionysus in
the dells doth drive the calves, and knows not that Cypris was
wild with love for a herdsman, and drove afield in the mountains
of Phrygia; ay, and Adonis himself, - in the oakwood she kissed,
in the oakwood she bewailed him. And what was Endymion? was he
not a neatherd? whom nevertheless as he watched his herds Selene
saw and loved, and from Olympus descending she came to the
Latmian glade, and lay in one couch with the boy; and thou, Rhea,
dust weep for thy herdsman.
And didst not thou, too, Son of Cronos, take the shape of a
wandering bird, and all for a cowherd boy?
But Eunica alone would not kiss the herdsman; Eunica, she that is
greater than Cybele, and Cypris, and Selene!
Well, Cypris, never mayst thou, in city or on hillside, kiss thy
darling, {104} and lonely all the long night mayst thou
sleep!
Idyl XXI
After some verses addressed to Diophantus, a friend about
whom nothing is known, the poet describes the toilsome life of
two old fishermen. One of them has dreamed of catching a golden
fish, and has sworn, in his dream, never again to tempt the sea.
The other reminds him that his oath is as empty as his vision,
and that he must angle for common fish, if he would not starve
among his golden dreams. The idyl is, unfortunately, corrupt
beyond hope of certain correction.
‘Tis Poverty alone, Diophantus, that awakens the
arts; Poverty, the very teacher of labour. Nay, not even sleep is
permitted, by weary cares, to men that live by toil, and if, for
a little while, one close his eyes {105} in the night,
cares throng about him, and suddenly disquiet his slumber.
Two fishers, on a time, two old men, together lay and slept; they
had strown the dry sea-moss for a bed in their wattled cabin, and
there they lay against the leafy wall. Beside them were strewn
the instruments of their toilsome hands, the fishing-creels, the
rods of reed, the hooks, the sails bedraggled with sea-spoil,
{106a} the lines, the weds, the lobster pots
woven of rushes, the seines, two oars, {106b} and an old
coble upon props. Beneath their heads was a scanty matting, their
clothes, their sailor’s caps. Here was all their toil, here
all their wealth. The threshold had never a door, nor a
watch-dog; {106c} all things, all, to them seemed
superfluity, for Poverty was their sentinel. They had no
neighbour by them, but ever against their narrow cabin gently
floated up the sea.
The chariot of the moon had not yet reached the mid-point of her
course, but their familiar toil awakened the fishermen; from
their eyelids they cast out slumber, and roused their souls with
speech. {106d}
Asphalion. They lie all, my friend, who say that the
nights wane short in summer, when Zeus brings the long days.
Already have I seen ten thousand dreams, and the dawn is not yet.
Am I wrong, what ails them, the nights are surely long?
The Friend. Asphalion, thou blamest the beautiful summer!
It is not that the season hath wilfully passed his natural
course, but care, breaking thy sleep, makes night seem long to
thee.
Asphalion. Didst ever learn to interpret dreams? for good
dreams have I beheld. I would not have thee to go without thy
share in my vision; even as we go shares in the fish we catch, so
share all my dreams! Sure, thou art not to be surpassed in
wisdom; and he is the best interpreter of dreams that hath wisdom
for his teacher. Moreover, we have time to idle in, for what
could a man find to do, lying on a leafy bed beside the wave and
slumbering not? Nay, the ass is among the thorns, the lantern in
the town hall, for, they say, it is always sleepless. {107}
The Friend. Tell me, then, the vision of the night; nay,
tell all to thy friend.
Asphalion. As I was sleeping late, amid the labours of the
salt sea (and truly not too full-fed, for we supped early if thou
dost remember, and did not overtax our bellies), I saw myself
busy on a rock, and there I sat and watched the fishes, and kept
spinning the bait with the rods. And one of the fish nibbled, a
fat one, for in sleep dogs dream of bread, and of fish dream I.
Well, he was tightly hooked, and the blood was running, and the
rod I grasped was bent with his struggle. So with both hands I
strained, and had a sore tussle for the monster. How was I ever
to land so big a fish with hooks all too slim? Then just to
remind him he was hooked, I gently pricked him, {108a} pricked, and slackened, and, as he did
not run, I took in line. My toil was ended with the sight of my
prize; I drew up a golden fish, lo you, a fish all plated thick
with gold! Then fear took hold of me, lest he might be some fish
beloved of Posidon, or perchance some jewel of the sea-grey
Amphitrite. Gently I unhooked him, lest ever the hooks should
retain some of the gold of his mouth. Then I dragged him on shore
with the ropes, {108b} and swore
that never again would I set foot on sea, but abide on land, and
lord it over the gold.
This was even what wakened me, but, for the rest, set thy mind to
it, my friend, for I am in dismay about the oath I swore.
The Friend. Nay, never fear, thou art no more sworn than
thou hast found the golden fish of thy vision; dreams are but
lies. But if thou wilt search these waters, wide awake, and not
asleep, there is some hope in thy slumbers; seek the fish of
flesh, lest thou die of famine with all thy dreams of
gold!
Idyl XXII - THE DIOSCURI
This is a hymn, in the Homeric manner, to Castor and
Polydeuces. Compare the life and truth of the descriptions of
nature, and of the boxing-match, with the frigid manner of
Apollonius Rhodius. - Argonautica, II. I. seq.
We hymn the children twain of Leda, and of
aegis-bearing Zeus, - Castor, and Pollux, the boxer dread, when
he hath harnessed his knuckles in thongs of ox-hide. Twice hymn
we, and thrice the stalwart sons of the daughter of Thestias, the
two brethren of Lacedaemon. Succourers are they of men in the
very thick of peril, and of horses maddened in the bloody press
of battle, and of ships that, defying the stars that set and rise
in heaven, have encountered the perilous breath of storms. The
winds raise huge billows about their stern, yea, or from the
prow, or even as each wind wills, and cast them into the hold of
the ship, and shatter both bulwarks, while with the sail hangs
all the gear confused and broken, and the storm-rain falls from
heaven as night creeps on, and the wide sea rings, being lashed
by the gusts, and by showers of iron hail.
Yet even so do ye draw forth the ships from the abyss, with their
sailors that looked immediately to die; and instantly the winds
are still, and there is an oily calm along the sea, and the
clouds flee apart, this way and that, also the Bears
appear, and in the midst, dimly seen, the Asses’
manger, declaring that all is smooth for sailing.
O ye twain that aid all mortals, O beloved pair, ye knights, ye
harpers, ye wrestlers, ye minstrels, of Castor, or of Polydeuces
first shall I begin to sing? Of both of you will I make my hymn,
but first will I sing of Polydeuces.
Even already had Argo fled forth from the Clashing Rocks, and the
dread jaws of snowy Pontus, and was come to the land of the
Bebryces, with her crew, dear children of the gods. There all the
heroes disembarked, down one ladder, from both sides of the ship
of Iason. When they had landed on the deep seashore and a
sea-bank sheltered from the wind, they strewed their beds, and
their hands were busy with firewood. {111}
Then Castor of the swift steeds, and swart Polydeuces, these
twain went wandering alone, apart from their fellows, and
marvelling at all the various wildwood on the mountain. Beneath a
smooth cliff they found an ever-flowing spring filled with the
purest water, and the pebbles below shone like crystal or silver
from the deep. Tall fir trees grew thereby, and white poplars,
and planes, and cypresses with their lofty tufts of leaves, and
there bloomed all fragrant flowers that fill the meadows when
early summer is waning - dear work-steads of the hairy bees. But
there a monstrous man was sitting in the sun, terrible of aspect;
the bruisers’ hard fists had crushed his ears, and his
mighty breast and his broad back were domed with iron flesh, like
some huge statue of hammered iron. The muscles on his brawny
arms, close by the shoulder, stood out like rounded rocks, that
the winter torrent has rolled, and worn smooth, in the great
swirling stream, but about his back and neck was draped a
lion’s skin, hung by the claws. Him first accosted the
champion, Polydeuces.
Polydeuces. Good luck to thee, stranger, whosoe’er
thou art! What men are they that possess this land?
Amycus. What sort of luck, when I see men that I never saw
before?
Polydeuces. Fear not! Be sure that those thou
look’st on are neither evil, nor the children of evil
men.
Amycus. No fear have I, and it is not for thee to teach me
that lesson.
Polydeuces. Art thou a savage, resenting all address, or
some vainglorious man?
Amycus. I am that thou see’st, and on thy land, at
least, I trespass not.
Polydeuces. Come, and with kindly gifts return homeward
again!
Amycus. Gift me no gifts, none such have I ready for
thee.
Polydeuces. Nay, wilt thou not even grant us leave to
taste this spring?
Amycus. That shalt thou learn when thirst has parched thy
shrivelled lips.
Polydeuces. Will silver buy the boon, or with what price,
prithee, may we gain thy leave?
Amycus. Put up thy hands and stand in single combat, man
to man.
Polydeuces. A boxing-match, or is kicking fair, when we
meet eye to eye?
Amycus. Do thy best with thy fists and spare not thy
skill!
Polydeuces. And who is the man on whom I am to lay my
hands and gloves?
Amycus. Thou see’st him close enough, the boxer will
not prove a maiden!
Polydeuces. And is the prize ready, for which we two must
fight?
Amycus. Thy man shall I be called (shouldst thou win), or
thou mine, if I be victor.
Polydeuces. On such terms fight the red-crested birds of
the game.
Amycus. Well, be we like birds or lions, we shall fight
for no other stake.
So Amycus spoke, and seized and blew his hollow shell, and
speedily the long-haired Bebryces gathered beneath the shadowy
planes, at the blowing of the shell. And in likewise did Castor,
eminent in war, go forth and summon all the heroes from the
Magnesian ship. And the champions, when they had strengthened
their fists with the stout ox-skin gloves, and bound long
leathern thongs about their arms, stepped into the ring,
breathing slaughter against each other. Then had they much ado,
in that assault, - which should have the sun’s light at his
back. But by thy skill, Polydeuces, thou didst outwit the giant,
and the sun’s rays fell full on the face of Amycus. Then
came he eagerly on in great wrath and heat, making play with his
fists, but the son of Tyndarus smote him on the chin as he
charged, maddening him even more, and the giant confused the
fighting, laying on with all his weight, and going in with his
head down. The Bebryces cheered their man, and on the other side
the heroes still encouraged stout Polydeuces, for they feared
lest the giant’s weight, a match for Tityus, might crush
their champion in the narrow lists. But the son of Zeus stood to
him, shifting his ground again and again, and kept smiting him,
right and left, and somewhat checked the rush of the son of
Posidon, for all his monstrous strength. Then he stood reeling
like a drunken man under the blows, and spat out the red blood,
while all the heroes together raised a cheer, as they marked the
woful bruises about his mouth and jaws, and how, as his face
swelled up, his eyes were half closed. Next, the prince teased
him, feinting on every side but seeing now that the giant was all
abroad, he planted his fist just above the middle of the nose,
beneath the eyebrows, and skinned all the brow to the bone. Thus
smitten, Amycus lay stretched on his back, among the flowers and
grasses. There was fierce fighting when he arose again, and they
bruised each other well, laying on with the hard weighted gloves;
but the champion of the Bebryces was always playing on the chest,
and outside the neck, while unconquered Polydeuces kept smashing
his foeman’s face with ugly blows. The giant’s flesh
was melting away in his sweat, till from a huge mass he soon
became small enough, but the limbs of the other waxed always
stronger, and his colour better, as he warmed to his work.
How then, at last, did the son of Zeus lay low the glutton? say
goddess, for thou knowest, but I, who am but the interpreter of
others, will speak all that thou wilt, and in such wise as
pleases thee.
Now behold the giant was keen to do some great feat, so with his
left hand he grasped the left of Polydeuces, stooping slantwise
from his onset, while with his other hand he made his effort, and
drove a huge fist up from his right haunch. Had his blow come
home, he would have harmed the King of Amyclae, but he slipped
his head out of the way, and then with his strong hand struck
Amycus on the left temple, putting his shoulder into the blow.
Quick gushed the black blood from the gaping temple, while
Polydeuces smote the giant’s mouth with his left, and the
close-set teeth rattled. And still he punished his face with
quick-repeated blows, till the cheeks were fairly pounded. Then
Amycus lay stretched all on the ground, fainting, and held out
both his hands, to show that he declined the fight, for he was
near to death.
There then, despite thy victory, didst thou work him no insensate
wrong, O boxer Polydeuces, but to thee he swore a mighty oath,
calling his sire Posidon from the deep, that assuredly never
again would he be violent to strangers.
Thee have I hymned, my prince; but thee now, Castor, will I sing,
O son of Tyndarus, O lord of the swift steeds, O wielder of the
spear, thou that wearest the corselet of bronze.
Now these twain, the sons of Zeus, had seized and were bearing
away the two daughters of Lycippus, and eagerly in sooth these
two other brethren were pursuing them, the sons of Aphareus, even
they that should soon have been the bridegrooms, - Lynceus and
mighty Idas. But when they were come to the tomb of the dead
Aphareus, then forth from their chariots they all sprang
together, and set upon each other, under the weight of their
spears and hollow shields. But Lynceus again spake, and shouted
loud from under his vizor:-
‘Sirs, wherefore desire ye battle, and how are ye thus
violent to win the brides of others with naked swords in your
hands. To us, behold, did Leucippus betroth these his daughters
long before; to us this bridal is by oath confirmed. And ye did
not well, in that to win the wives of others ye perverted him
with gifts of oxen, and mules, and other wealth, and so won
wedlock by bribes. Lo many a time, in face of both of you, I have
spoken thus, I that am not a man of many words, saying, -
“Not thus, dear friends, does it become heroes to woo their
wives, wives that already have bridegrooms betrothed. Lo Sparta
is wide, and wide is Elis, a land of chariots and horses, and
Arcadia rich in sheep, and there are the citadels of the
Achaeans, and Messenia, and Argos, and all the sea-coast of
Sisyphus. There be maidens by their parents nurtured, maidens
countless, that lack not aught in wisdom or in comeliness. Of
these ye may easily win such as ye will, for many are willing to
be the fathers-in-law of noble youths, and ye are the very choice
of heroes all, as your fathers were, and all your father’s
kin, and all your blood from of old. But, friends, let this our
bridal find its due conclusion, and for you let all of us seek
out another marriage.”
‘Many such words I would speak, but the wind’s breath
bare them away to the wet wave of the sea, and no favour followed
with my words. For ye twain are hard and ruthless, - nay, but
even now do ye listen, for ye are our cousins, and kin by the
father’s side. But if your heart yet lusts for war, and
with blood we must break up the kindred strife, and end the feud,
{118} then Idas and his cousin, mighty
Polydeuces, shall hold their hands and abstain from battle, but
let us twain, Castor and I, the younger born, try the ordeal of
war! Let us not leave the heaviest of grief to our fathers!
Enough is one slain man from a house, but the others will make
festival for all their friends, and will be bridegrooms, not
slain men, and will wed these maidens. Lo, it is fitting with
light loss to end a great dispute.’
So he spake, and these words the gods were not to make vain. For
the elder pair laid down their harness from their shoulders on
the ground, but Lynceus stepped into the midst, swaying his
mighty spear beneath the outer rim of his shield, and even so did
Castor sway his spear-points, and the plumes were nodding above
the crests of each. With the sharp spears long they laboured and
tilted at each other, if perchance they might anywhere spy a part
of the flesh unarmed. But ere either was wounded the spear-points
were broken, fast stuck in the linden shields. Then both drew
their swords from the sheaths, and again devised each the
other’s slaying, and there was no truce in the fight. Many
a time did Castor smite on broad shield and horse-hair crest, and
many a time the keen-sighted Lynceus smote upon his shield, and
his blade just shore the scarlet plume. Then, as he aimed the
sharp sword at the left knee, Castor drew back with his left
foot, and hacked the fingers off the hand of Lynceus. Then he
being smitten cast away his sword, and turned swiftly to flee to
the tomb of his father, where mighty Idas lay, and watched this
strife of kinsmen. But the son of Tyndarus sped after him, and
drove the broad sword through bowels and navel, and instantly the
bronze cleft all in twain, and Lynceus bowed, and on his face he
lay fallen on the ground, and forthwith heavy sleep rushed down
upon his eyelids.
Nay, nor that other of her children did Laocoosa see, by the
hearth of his fathers, after he had fulfilled a happy marriage.
For lo, Messenian Idas did swiftly break away the standing stone
from the tomb of his father Aphareus, and now he would have
smitten the slayer of his brother, but Zeus defended him and
drave the polished stone from the hands of Idas, and utterly
consumed him with a flaming thunderbolt.
Thus it is no light labour to war with the sons of Tyndarus, for
a mighty pair are they, and mighty is he that begat them.
Farewell, ye children of Leda, and all goodly renown send ye ever
to our singing. Dear are all minstrels to the sons of Tyndarus,
and to Helen, and to the other heroes that sacked Troy in aid of
Menelaus.
For you, O princes, the bard of Chios wrought renown, when he
sang the city of Priam, and the ships of the Achaeans, and the
Ilian war, and Achilles, a tower of battle. And to you, in my
turn, the charms of the clear-voiced Muses, even all that they
can give, and all that my house has in store, these do I bring.
The fairest meed of the gods is song.
Idyl XXIII - THE VENGEANCE OF LOVE
A lover hangs himself at the gate of his obdurate darling
who, in turn, is slain by a statue of Love.
This poem is not attributed with much certainty to Theocritus,
and is found in but a small proportion of manuscripts.
A love-sick youth pined for an unkind love, beautiful
in form, but fair no more in mood. The beloved hated the lover,
and had for him no gentleness at all, and knew not Love, how
mighty a God is he, and what a bow his hands do wield, and what
bitter arrows he dealeth at the young. Yea, in all things ever,
in speech and in all approaches, was the beloved unyielding.
Never was there any assuagement of Love’s fires, never was
there a smile of the lips, nor a bright glance of the eyes, never
a blushing cheek, nor a word, nor a kiss that lightens the burden
of desire. Nay, as a beast of the wild wood hath the hunters in
watchful dread, even so did the beloved in all things regard the
man, with angered lips, and eyes that had the dreadful glance of
fate, and the whole face was answerable to this wrath, the colour
fled from it, sicklied o’er with wrathful pride. Yet even
thus was the loved one beautiful, and the lover was the more
moved by this haughtiness. At length he could no more endure so
fierce a flame of the Cytherean, but drew near and wept by the
hateful dwelling, and kissed the lintel of the door, and thus he
lifted up his voice:
‘O cruel child, and hateful, thou nursling of some fierce
lioness, O child all of stone unworthy of love; I have come with
these my latest gifts to thee, even this halter of mine; for,
child, I would no longer anger thee and work thee pain. Nay, I am
going where thou hast condemned me to fare, where, as men say, is
the path, and there the common remedy of lovers, the River of
Forgetfulness. Nay, but were I to take and drain with my lips all
the waters thereof, not even so shall I quench my yearning
desire. And now I bid my farewell to these gates of thine.
‘Behold I know the thing that is to be.
‘Yea, the rose is beautiful, and Time he withers it; and
fair is the violet in spring, and swiftly it waxes old; white is
the lily, it fadeth when it falleth; and snow is white, and
melteth after it hath been frozen. And the beauty of youth is
fair, but lives only for a little season.
‘That time will come when thou too shalt love, when thy
heart shall burn, and thou shalt weep salt tears.
‘But, child, do me even this last favour; when thou comest
forth, and see’st me hanging in thy gateway, - pass me not
careless by, thy hapless lover, but stand, and weep a little
while; and when thou hast made this libation of thy tears, then
loose me from the rope, and cast over me some garment from thine
own limbs, and so cover me from sight; but first kiss me for that
latest time of all, and grant the dead this grace of thy
lips.
‘Fear me not, I cannot live again, no, not though thou
shouldst be reconciled to me, and kiss me. A tomb for me do thou
hollow, to be the hiding-place of my love, and if thou departest,
cry thrice above me, -
O friend, thou liest low!
And if thou wilt, add this also, -
Alas, my true friend is dead!
‘And this legend do thou write, that I will scratch on thy
walls, -
This man Love slew! Wayfarer, pass not heedless
by,
But stand, and say, “he had a cruel
darling.”’
Therewith he seized a stone, and laid it against the wall, as
high as the middle of the doorposts, a dreadful stone, and from
the lintel he fastened the slender halter, and cast the noose
about his neck, and kicked away the support from under his foot,
and there was he hanged dead.
But the beloved opened the door, and saw the dead man hanging
there in the court, unmoved of heart, and tearless for the
strange, woful death; but on the dead man were all the garments
of youth defiled. Then forth went the beloved to the contests of
the wrestlers, and there was heart-set on the delightful
bathing-places, and even thereby encountered the very God
dishonoured, for Love stood on a pedestal of stone above the
waters. {124} And lo, the statue leaped, and slew that
cruel one, and the water was red with blood, but the voice of the
slain kept floating to the brim.
Rejoice, ye lovers, for he that hated is slain. Love, all ye
beloved, for the God knoweth how to deal righteous
judgment.
Idyl XXIV - THE INFANT HERACLES
This poem describes the earliest feat of Heracles, the
slaying of the snakes sent against him by Hera, and gives an
account of the hero’s training. The vivacity and tenderness
of the pictures of domestic life, and the minute knowledge of
expiatory ceremonies seem to stamp this idyl as the work of
Theocritus. As the following poem also deals with an adventure of
Heracles, it seems not impossible that Theocritus wrote, or
contemplated writing, a Heraclean epic, in a series of
idyls.
When Heracles was but ten months old, the lady of
Midea, even Alcmena, took him, on a time, and Iphicles his
brother, younger by one night, and gave them both their bath, and
their fill of milk, then laid them down in the buckler of bronze,
that goodly piece whereof Amphitryon had strippen the fallen
Pterelaus. And then the lady stroked her children’s heads,
and spoke, saying:-
‘Sleep, my little ones, a light delicious sleep; sleep,
soul of mine, two brothers, babes unharmed; blessed be your
sleep, and blessed may ye come to the dawn.’
So speaking she rocked the huge shield, and in a moment sleep
laid hold on them.
But when the Bear at midnight wheels westward over against
Orion that shows his mighty shoulder, even then did crafty
Hera send forth two monstrous things, two snakes bristling up
their coils of azure; against the broad threshold, where are the
hollow pillars of the house-door she urged them; with intent that
they should devour the young child Heracles. Then these twain
crawled forth, writhing their ravenous bellies along the ground,
and still from their eyes a baleful fire was shining as they
came, and they spat out their deadly venom. But when with their
flickering tongues they were drawing near the children, then
Alcmena’s dear babes wakened, by the will of Zeus that
knows all things, and there was a bright light in the chamber.
Then truly one child, even Iphicles, screamed out straightway,
when he beheld the hideous monsters above the hollow shield, and
saw their pitiless fangs, and he kicked off the woollen coverlet
with his feet, in his eagerness to flee. But Heracles set his
force against them, and grasped them with his hands, binding them
both in a grievous bond, having got them by the throat, wherein
lies the evil venom of baleful snakes, the venom detested even by
the gods. Then the serpents, in their turn, wound with their
coils about the young child, the child unweaned, that wept never
in his nursling days; but again they relaxed their spines in
stress, of pain, and strove to find some issue from the grasp of
iron.
Now Alcmena heard the cry, and wakened first, -
‘Arise, Amphitryon, for numbing fear lays hold of me:
arise, nor stay to put shoon beneath thy feet! Hearest thou not
how loud the younger child is wailing? Mark’st thou not
that though it is the depth of the night, the walls are all plain
to see as in the clear dawn? {127} There is some
strange thing I trow within the house, there is, my dearest
lord!’
Thus she spake, and at his wife’s bidding he stepped down
out of his bed, and made for his richly dight sword that he kept
always hanging on its pin above his bed of cedar. Verily he was
reaching out for his new-woven belt, lifting with the other hand
the mighty sheath, a work of lotus wood, when lo, the wide
chamber was filled again with night. Then he cried aloud on his
thralls, who were drawing the deep breath of sleep, -
‘Lights! Bring lights as quick as may be from the hearth,
my thralls, and thrust back the strong bolts of the doors. Arise,
ye serving-men, stout of heart, ‘tis the master
calls.’
Then quick the serving-men came speeding with torches burning,
and the house waxed full as each man hasted along. Then truly
when they saw the young child Heracles clutching the snakes twain
in his tender grasp, they all cried out and smote their hands
together. But he kept showing the creeping things to his father,
Amphitryon, and leaped on high in his childish glee, and
laughing, at his father’s feet he laid them down, the dread
monsters fallen on the sleep of death. Then Alcmena in her own
bosom took and laid Iphicles, dry-eyed and wan with fear;
{128} but Amphitryon, placing the other child
beneath a lamb’s-wool coverlet, betook himself again to his
bed, and gat him to his rest.
The cocks were now but singing their third welcome to the
earliest dawn, when Alcmena called forth Tiresias, the seer that
cannot lie, and told him of the new portent, and bade him declare
what things should come to pass.
‘Nay, and even if the gods devise some mischief, conceal it
not from me in ruth and pity; and how that mortals may not escape
the doom that Fate speeds from her spindle, O soothsayer
Euerides, I am teaching thee, that thyself knowest it right
well.’
Thus spake the Queen, and thus he answered her:
‘Be of good cheer, daughter of Perseus, woman that hast
borne the noblest of children [and lay up in thy heart the better
of the things that are to be]. For by the sweet light that long
hath left mine eyes, I swear that many Achaean women, as they
card the soft wool about their knees, shall sing at eventide, of
Alcmena’s name, and thou shalt be honourable among the
women of Argos. Such a man, even this thy son, shall mount to the
starry firmament, the hero broad of breast, the master of all
wild beasts, and of all mankind. Twelve labours is he fated to
accomplish, and thereafter to dwell in the house of Zeus, but all
his mortal part a Trachinian pyre shall possess.
‘And the son of the Immortals, by virtue of his bride,
shall he be called, even of them that urged forth these snakes
from their dens to destroy the child. Verily that day shall come
when the ravening wolf, beholding the fawn in his lair, will not
seek to work him harm.
‘But lady, see that thou hast fire at hand, beneath the
embers, and let make ready dry fuel of gorse, or thorn, or
bramble, or pear boughs dried with the wind’s buffeting,
and on the wild fire burn these serpents twain, at midnight, even
at the hour when they would have slain thy child. But at dawn let
one of thy maidens gather the dust of the fire, and bear and cast
it all, every grain, over the river from the brow of the broken
cliff, {129} beyond the march of your land, and
return again without looking behind. Then cleanse your house with
the fire of unmixed sulphur first, and then, as is ordained, with
a filleted bough sprinkle holy water over all, mingled with salt.
{130} And to Zeus supreme, moreover, do ye
sacrifice a young boar, that ye may ever have the mastery over
all your enemies.’
So spake he, and thrust back his ivory chair, and departed, even
Tiresias, despite the weight of all his many years.
But Heracles was reared under his mother’s care, like some
young sapling in a garden close, being called the son of
Amphitryon of Argos. And the lad was taught his letters by the
ancient Linus, Apollo’s son, a tutor ever watchful. And to
draw the bow, and send the arrow to the mark did Eurytus teach
him, Eurytus rich in wide ancestral lands. And Eumolpus, son of
Philammon, made the lad a minstrel, and formed his hands to the
boxwood lyre. And all the tricks wherewith the nimble Argive
cross-buttockers give each other the fall, and all the wiles of
boxers skilled with the gloves, and all the art that the rough
and tumble fighters have sought out to aid their science, all
these did Heracles learn from Harpalacus of Phanes, the son of
Hermes. Him no man that beheld, even from afar, would have
confidently met as a wrestler in the lists, so grim a brow
overhung his dreadful face. And to drive forth his horses
‘neath the chariot, and safely to guide them round the
goals, with the naves of the wheels unharmed, Amphitryon taught
his son in his loving-kindness, Amphitryon himself, for many a
prize had he borne away from the fleet races in Argos,
pasture-land of steeds, and unbroken were the chariots that he
mounted, till time loosened their leathern thongs.
But to charge with spear in rest, against a foe, guarding,
meanwhile, his back with the shield, to bide the biting swords,
to order a company, and to measure, in his onslaught, the ambush
of foemen, and to give horsemen the word of command, he was
taught by knightly Castor. An outlaw came Castor out of Argos,
when Tydeus was holding all the land and all the wide vineyards,
having received Argos, a land of steeds, from the hand of
Adrastus. No peer in war among the demigods had Castor, till age
wore down his youth.
Thus did his dear mother let train Heracles, and the
child’s bed was made hard by his father’s; a
lion’s skin was the coverlet he loved; his dinner was roast
meat, and a great Dorian loaf in a basket, a meal to satisfy a
delving hind. At the close of day he would take a meagre supper
that needed no fire to the cooking, and his plain kirtle fell no
lower than the middle of his shin.
Idyl XXV - HERACLES THE LION-SLAVER
This is another idyl of the epic sort. The poet’s
interest in the details of the rural life, and in the description
of the herds of King Augeas, seem to mark it as the work of
Theocritus. It has, however, been attributed by learned
conjecture to various writers of an older age. The idyl, or
fragment, is incomplete. Heracles visits the herds of Augeas (to
clean their stalls was one of his labours), and, after an
encounter with a bull, describes to the king’s son his
battle with the lion of Nemea.
. . . Him answered the old man, a husbandman that had
the care of the tillage, ceasing a moment from the work that lay
betwixt his hands - ‘Right readily will I tell thee,
stranger, concerning the things whereof thou inquirest, for I
revere the awful wrath of Hermes of the roadside. Yea he, they
say, is of all the heavenly Gods the most in anger, if any deny
the wayfarer that asks eagerly for the way.
‘The fleecy flocks of the king Augeas feed not all on one
pasture, nor in one place, but some there be that graze by the
river-banks round Elisus, and some by the sacred stream of divine
Alpheius, and some by Buprasium rich in clusters of the vine, and
some even in this place. And behold, the pens for each herd after
its kind are builded apart. Nay, but for all the herds of Augeas,
overflowing as they be, these pasture lands are ever fresh and
flowering, around the great marsh of Peneus, for with herbage
honey-sweet the dewy water-meadows are ever blossoming
abundantly, and this fodder it is that feeds the strength of
horned kine. And this their steading, on thy right hand stands
all plain to view, beyond the running river, there, where the
plane-trees grow luxuriant, and the green wild olive, a sacred
grove, O stranger, of Apollo of the pastures, a God most gracious
unto prayer. Next thereto are builded long rows of huts for the
country folk, even for us that do zealously guard the great and
marvellous wealth of the king; casting in season the seed in
fallow lands, thrice, ay, and four times broken by the plough. As
for the marches, truly, the ditchers know them, men of many
toils, who throng to the wine-press at the coming of high summer
tide. For, behold, all this plain is held by gracious Augeas, and
the wheat-bearing plough-land, and the orchards with their trees,
as far as the upland farm of the ridge, whence the fountains
spring; over all which lands we go labouring, the whole day long,
as is the wont of thralls that live their lives among the
fields.
‘But, prithee, tell thou me, in thy turn (and for thine own
gain it will be), whom comest thou hither to seek; in quest,
perchance, of Augeas, or one of his servants? Of all these
things, behold, I have knowledge, and could tell thee plainly,
for methinks that thou, for thy part, comest of no churlish
stock, nay, nor hath thy shape aught of the churl, so excellent
in might shows thy form. Lo, now, even such are the children of
the immortal Gods among mortal men.’ Then the mighty son of
Zeus answered him, saying -
‘Yea, old man, I fain would see Augeas, prince of the
Epeans, for truly ‘twas need of him that brought me hither.
If he abides at the town with his citizens, caring for his
people, and settling the pleas, do thou, old man, bid one of the
servants to guide me on the way, a head-man of the more
honourable sort in these fields, to whom I may both tell my
desire, and learn in turn what I would, for God has made all men
dependent, each on each.’
Then the old man, the worthy husbandman, answered him again
-
‘By the guidance of some one of the immortals hast thou
come hither, stranger, for verily all that thou requirest hath
quickly been fulfilled. For hither hath come Augeas, the dear son
of Helios, with his own son, the strong and princely Phyleus. But
yesterday he came hither from the city, to be overseeing after
many days his substance, that he hath uncounted in the fields.
Thus do even kings in their inmost hearts believe that the eye of
the master makes the house more prosperous. Nay come, let us
hasten to him, and I will lead thee to our dwelling, where
methinks we shall find the king.’
So he spake, and began to lead the way, but in his mind, as he
marked the lion’s hide, and the club that filled the
stranger’s fist, the old man was deeply pondering as to
whence he came, and ever he was eager to inquire of him. But back
again he kept catching the word as it rose to his lips, in fear
lest he should speak somewhat out of season (his companion being
in haste) for hard it is to know another’s mood.
Now as they began to draw nigh, the dogs from afar were instantly
aware of them, both by the scent, and by the sound of footsteps,
and, yelling furiously, they charged from all sides against
Heracles, son of Amphitryon, while with faint yelping, on the
other side, they greeted the old man, and fawned around him. But
he just lifted stones from the ground, {135} and scared
them away, and, raising his voice, he right roughly chid them
all, and made them cease from their yelping, being glad in his
heart withal for that they guarded his dwelling, even when he was
afar. Then thus he spake -
‘Lo, what a comrade for men have the Gods, the lords of
all, made in this creature, how mindful is he! If he had but so
much wit within him as to know against whom he should rage, and
with whom he should forbear, no beast in the world could vie with
his deserts. But now he is something over-fierce and blindly
furious.’
So he spake, and they hastened, and came even to that dwelling
whither they were faring.
Now Helios had turned his steeds to the west, bringing the late
day, and the fatted sheep came up from the pastures to the pens
and folds. Next thereafter the kine approaching, ten thousand
upon ten thousand, showed for multitude even like the watery
clouds that roll forward in heaven under the stress of the South
Wind, or the Thracian North (and countless are they, and
ceaseless in their airy passage, for the wind’s might rolls
up the rear as numerous as the van, and hosts upon hosts again
are moving in infinite array), even so many did herds upon herds
of kine move ever forwards. And, lo, the whole plain was filled,
and all the ways, as the cattle fared onwards, and the rich
fields could not contain their lowing, and the stalls were
lightly filled with kine of trailing feet, and the sheep were
being penned in the folds.
There no man, for lack of labour, stood idle by the cattle,
though countless men were there, but one was fastening guards of
wood, with shapely thongs, about the feet of the kine, that he
might draw near and stand by, and milk them. And another beneath
their mothers kind was placing the calves right eager to drink of
the sweet milk. Yet another held a milking pail, while his fellow
was fixing the rich cheese, and another led in the bulls apart
from the cows. Meanwhile Augeas was going round all the stalls,
and marking the care his herdsmen bestowed upon all that was his.
And the king’s son, and the mighty, deep-pondering
Heracles, went along with the king, as he passed through his
great possessions. Then though he bore a stout spirit in his
heart, and a mind stablished always imperturbable, yet the son of
Amphitryon still marvelled out of measure, as he beheld these
countless troops of cattle. Yea none would have deemed or
believed that the substance of one man could be so vast, nay, nor
ten men’s wealth, were they the richest in sheep of all the
kings in the world. But Helios to his son gave this gift
pre-eminent, namely to abound in flocks far above all other men,
and Helios himself did ever and always give increase to the
cattle, for upon his herds came no disease, of them that always
minish the herdman’s toil. But always more in number waxed
the horned kine, and goodlier, year by year, for verily they all
brought forth exceeding abundantly, and never cast their young,
and chiefly bare heifers.
With the kine went continually three hundred bulls,
white-shanked, and curved of horn, - and two hundred others, red
cattle, - and all these already were of an age to mate with the
kine. Other twelve bulls, again, besides these, went together in
a herd, being sacred to Helios. They were white as swans, and
shone among all the herds of trailing gait. And these disdaining
the herds grazed still on the rich herbage in the pastures, and
they were exceeding high of heart. And whensoever the swift wild
beasts came down from the rough oakwood to the plain, to seek the
wilder cattle, afield went these bulls first to the fight, at the
smell of the savour of the beasts, bellowing fearfully, and
glancing slaughter from their brows.
Among these bulls was one pre-eminent for strength and might, and
for reckless pride, even the mighty Phaethon, that all the
herdsmen still likened to a star, because he always shone so
bright when he went among the other cattle, and was right easy to
be discerned. Now when this bull beheld the dried skin of the
fierce-faced lion, he rushed against the keen-eyed Heracles
himself, to dash his head and stalwart front against the sides of
the hero. Even as he charged, the prince forthwith grasped him
with strong hand by the left horn, and bowed his neck down to the
ground, puissant as he was, and, with the weight of his shoulder,
crushed him backwards, while clear stood out the strained muscle
over the sinews on the hero’s upper arm. Then marvelled the
king himself, and his son, the warlike Phyleus, and the herdsmen
that were set over the horned kine, - when they beheld the
exceeding strength of the son of Amphitryon.
Now these twain, even Phyleus and mighty Heracles, left the fat
fields there, and were making for the city. But just where they
entered on the highway, after quickly speeding over the narrow
path that stretched through the vineyard from the farmhouses, a
dim path through the green wood, thereby the dear son of Augeas
bespake the child of supreme Zeus, who was behind him, slightly
turning his head over his right shoulder,
‘Stranger, long time ago I heard a tale, which, as of late
I guess, surely concerneth thee. For there came hither, in his
wayfaring out of Argos, a certain young Achaean, from
Helicé, by the seashore, who verily told a tale and that
among many Epeians here, - how, even in his presence, a certain
Argive slew a wild beast, a lion dread, a curse of evil omen to
the country folk. The monster had its hollow lair by the grove of
Nemean Zeus, but as for him that slew it, I know not surely
whether he was a man of sacred Argos, there, or a dweller in
Tiryns city, or in Mycenae, as he that told the tale declared. By
birth, howbeit, he said (if rightly, I recall it) that the hero
was descended from Perseus. Methinks that none of the Aegialeis
had the hardihood for this deed save thyself; nay, the hide of
the beast that covers thy sides doth clearly proclaim the mighty
deed of thy hands. But come now, hero, tell thou me first, that
truly I may know, whether my foreboding be right or wrong, - if
thou art that man of whom the Achaean from Helicé spake in
our hearing, and if I read thee aright. Tell me how single-handed
thou didst slay this ruinous pest, and how it came to the
well-watered ground of Nemea, for not in Apis couldst thou find,
- not though thou soughtest after it, - so great a monster. For
the country feeds no such large game, but bears, and boars, and
the pestilent race of wolves. Wherefore all were in amaze that
listened to the story, and there were some who said that the
traveller was lying, and pleasing them that stood by with the
words of an idle tongue.’
Thus Phyleus spake, and stepped out of the middle of the road,
that there might be space for both to walk abreast, and that so
he might hear the more easily the words of Heracles who now came
abreast with him, and spake thus,
‘O son of Augeas, concerning that whereof thou first didst
ask me, thyself most easily hast discerned it aright. Nay then,
about this monster I will tell thee all, even how all was done, -
since thou art eager to hear, - save, indeed, as to whence he
came, for, many as the Argives be, not one can tell that clearly.
Only we guess that some one of the Immortals, in wrath for
sacrifice unoffered, sent this bane against the children of
Phoroneus. For over all the men of Pisa the lion swept, like a
flood, and still ravaged insatiate, and chiefly spoiled the
Bembinaeans, that were his neighbours, and endured things
intolerable.
‘Now this labour did Eurystheus enjoin on me to fulfil the first of all, and bade me slay the dreadful monster. So I took my supple bow, and hollow quiver full of arrows, and set forth; and in my other hand I held my stout club, well balanced, and wrought, with unstripped bark, from a shady wild olive-tree, that I myself had found, under sacred Helicon, and dragged up the whole tree, with the bushy roots. But when I came to the place whereby the lion abode, even then I grasped my bow and slipped the string up to the curved tip, and straightway laid thereon the bitter arrow.
Then I cast my eyes on every side, spying for the baneful monster, if perchance I might see him, or ever he saw me. It was now midday, and nowhere might I discern the tracks of the monster, nor hear his roaring. Nay, nor was there one man to be seen with the cattle, and the tillage through all the furrowed lea, of whom I might inquire, but wan fear still held them all within the homesteads. Yet I stayed not in my going, as I quested through the deep-wooded hill, till I beheld him, and instantly essayed my prowess. Now early in the evening he was making for his lair, full fed with blood and flesh, and all his bristling mane was dashed with carnage, and his fierce face, and his breast, and still with his tongue he kept licking his bearded chin.
Then instantly I hid me in the dark undergrowth, on the wooded hill, awaiting his approach, and as he came nearer I smote him on the left flank, but all in vain, for naught did the sharp arrow pierce through his flesh, but leaped back, and fell on the green grass. Then quickly he raised his tawny head from the ground, in amaze, glancing all around with his eyes, and with jaws distent he showed his ravenous teeth. Then I launched against him another shaft from the string, in wrath that the former flew vainly from my hand, and I smote him right in the middle of the breast, where the lung is seated, yet not even so did the cruel arrow sink into his hide, but fell before his feet, in vain, to no avail. Then for the third time was I making ready to draw my bow again, in great shame and wrath, but the furious beast glanced his eyes around, and spied me. With his long tail he lashed his flanks, and straightway bethought him of battle. His neck was clothed with wrath, and his tawny hair bristled round his lowering brow, and his spine was curved like a bow, his whole force being gathered up from under towards his flanks and loins.
And as when a wainwright, one skilled in many an art, doth bend the saplings of seasoned fig-tree, having first tempered them in the fire, to make tires for the axles of his chariot, and even then the fig-tree wood is like to leap from his hands in the bending, and springs far away at a single bound, even so the dread lion leaped on me from afar, huddled in a heap, and keen to glut him with my flesh. Then with one hand I thrust in front of me my arrows, and the double folded cloak from my shoulder, and with the other raised the seasoned club above my head, and drove at his crest, and even on the shaggy scalp of the insatiate beast brake my grievous cudgel of wild olive-tree. Then or ever he reached me, he fell from his flight, on to the ground, and stood on trembling feet, with wagging head, for darkness gathered about both his eyes, his brain being shaken in his skull with the violence of the blow.
Then when I marked how he was distraught with the grievous
torment, or ever he could turn and gain breath again, I fell on
him, and seized him by the column of his stubborn neck. To earth
I cast my bow, and woven quiver, and strangled him with all my
force, gripping him with stubborn clasp from the rear, lest he
should rend my flesh with his claws, and I sprang on him and kept
firmly treading his hind feet into the soil with my heels, while
I used his sides to guard my thighs, till I had strained his
shoulders utterly, then lifted him up, all breathless, - and Hell
took his monstrous life.
‘And then at last I took thought how I should strip the
rough hide from the dead beast’s limbs, a right hard
labour, for it might not be cut with steel, when I tried, nor
stone, nor with aught else. {143} Thereon one of
the Immortals put into my mind the thought to cleave the
lion’s hide with his own claws. With these I speedily
flayed it off, and cast it about my limbs, for my defence against
the brunt of wounding war.
‘Friend, lo even thus befel the slaying of the Nemean Lion,
that aforetime had brought many a bane on flocks and
men.’
Idyl XXVI
This idyl narrates the murder of Pentheus, who was torn to
pieces (after the Dionysiac Ritual) by his mother, Agave, and
other Theban women, for having watched the celebration of the
mysteries of Dionysus. It is still dangerous for an Australian
native to approach the women of the tribe while they are
celebrating their savage rites. The conservatism of Greek
religion is well illustrated by Theocritus’s apology for
the truly savage revenge commemorated in the old Theban
legend.
Ino, and Autonoe, and Agave of the apple cheeks, -
three bands of Maenads to the mountain-side they led, these
ladies three. They stripped the wild leaves of a rugged oak, and
fresh ivy, and asphodel of the upper earth, and in an open meadow
they built twelve altars; for Semele three, and nine for
Dionysus. The mystic cakes {144} from the
mystic chest they had taken in their hands, and in silence had
laid them on the altars of new-stripped boughs; so Dionysus ever
taught the rite, and herewith was he wont to be well
pleased.
Now Pentheus from a lofty cliff was watching all, deep hidden in
an ancient lentisk hush, a plant of that land. Autonoe first
beheld him, and shrieked a dreadful yell, and, rushing suddenly,
with her feet dashed all confused the mystic things of Bacchus
the wild. For these are things unbeholden of men profane.
Frenzied was she, and then forthwith the others too were
frenzied. Then Pentheus fled in fear, and they pursued after him,
with raiment kirtled through the belt above the knee.
This much said Pentheus, ‘Women, what would ye?’ and
thus answered Autonoe, ‘That shalt thou straightway know,
ere thou hast heard it.’
The mother seized her child’s head, and cried loud, as is
the cry of a lioness over her cubs, while Ino, for her part, set
her heel on the body, and brake asunder the broad shoulder,
shoulder-blade and all, and in the same strain wrought Autonoe.
The other women tore the remnants piecemeal, and to Thebes they
came, all bedabbled with blood, from the mountains bearing not
Pentheus but repentance. {145}
I care for none of these things, nay, nor let another take
thought to make himself the foe of Dionysus, not though one
should suffer yet greater torments than these, - being but a
child of nine years old or entering, perchance, on his tenth
year. For me, may I be pure and holy, and find favour in the eyes
of the pure!
From aegis-bearing Zeus hath this augury all honour, ‘to
the children of the godly the better fortune, but evil befall the
offspring of the ungodly.’
‘Hail to Dionysus, whom Zeus supreme brought forth in snowy
Dracanus, when he had unburdened his mighty thigh, and hail to
beautiful Semele: and to her sisters, - Cadmeian ladies honoured
of all daughters of heroes, - who did this deed at the behest of
Dionysus, a deed not to be blamed; let no man blame the actions
of the gods.’
Idyl XXVII - THE WOOING OF DAPHNIS
The authenticity of this idyl has been denied, partly
because the Daphnis of the poem is not identical in character
with the Daphnis of the first idyl. But the piece is certainly
worthy of a place beside the work of Theocritus. The dialogue is
here arranged as in the text of Fritzsche.
The Maiden. Helen the wise did Paris, another neatherd,
ravish!
Daphnis. ‘Tis rather this Helen that kisses her
shepherd, even me! {147}
The Maiden. Boast not, little satyr, for kisses they call
an empty favour.
Daphnis. Nay, even in empty kisses there is a sweet
delight.
The Maiden. I wash my lips, I blow away from me thy
kisses!
Daphnis. Dost thou wash thy lips? Then give me them again
to kiss!
The Maiden. ‘Tis for thee to caress thy kine, not a
maiden unwed.
Daphnis. Boast not, for swiftly thy youth flits by thee,
like a dream.
The Maiden. The grapes turn to raisins, not wholly will
the dry rose perish.
Daphnis. Come hither, beneath the wild olives, that I may
tell thee a tale.
The Maiden. I will not come; ay, ere now with a sweet tale
didst thou beguile me.
Daphnis. Come hither, beneath the elms, to listen to my
pipe!
The Maiden. Nay, please thyself, no woful tune delights
me.
Daphnis. Ah maiden, see that thou too shun the anger of
the Paphian.
The Maiden. Good-bye to the Paphian, let Artemis only be
friendly!
Daphnis. Say not so, lest she smite thee, and thou fall
into a trap whence there is no escape.
The Maiden. Let her smite an she will; Artemis again would
be my defender. Lay no hand on me; nay, if thou do more, and
touch me with thy lips, I will bite thee. {148}
Daphnis. From Love thou dost not flee, whom never yet
maiden fled.
The Maiden. Escape him, by Pan, I do, but thou dost ever
bear his yoke.
Daphnis. This is ever my fear lest he even give thee to a
meaner man.
The Maiden. Many have been my wooers, but none has won my
heart.
Daphnis. Yea I, out of many chosen, come here thy
wooer.
The Maiden. Dear love, what can I do? Marriage has much
annoy.
Daphnis. Nor pain nor sorrow has marriage, but mirth and
dancing.
The Maiden. Ay, but they say that women dread their
lords.
Daphnis. Nay, rather they always rule them, - whom do
women fear?
The Maiden. Travail I dread, and sharp is the shaft of
Eilithyia.
Daphnis. But thy queen is Artemis, that lightens
labour.
The Maiden. But I fear childbirth, lest, perchance, I lose
my beauty.
Daphnis. Nay, if thou bearest dear children thou wilt see
the light revive in thy sons.
The Maiden. And what wedding gift dost thou bring me if I
consent?
Daphnis. My whole flock, all my groves, and all my pasture
land shall be thine.
The Maiden. Swear that thou wilt not win me, and then
depart and leave me forlorn.
Daphnis. So help me Pan I would not leave thee, didst thou
even choose to banish me!
The Maiden. Dost thou build me bowers, and a house, and
folds for flocks?
Daphnis. Yea, bowers I build thee, the flocks I tend are
fair.
The Maiden. But to my grey old father, what tale, ah what,
shall I tell?
Daphnis. He will approve thy wedlock when he has heard my
name.
The Maiden. Prithee, tell me that name of thine; in a name
there is often delight.
Daphnis. Daphnis am I, Lycidas is my father, and Nomaea is
my mother.
The Maiden. Thou comest of men well-born, but there I am
thy match.
Daphnis. I know it, thou art of high degree, for thy
father is Menalcas. {150a}
The Maiden. Show me thy grove, wherein is thy
cattle-stall.
Daphnis. See here, how they bloom, my slender
cypress-trees.
The Maiden. Graze on, my goats, I go to learn the
herdsman’s labours.
Daphnis. Feed fair, my bulls, while I show my woodlands to
my lady!
The Maiden. What dost thou, little satyr; why dost thou
touch my breast?
Daphnis. I will show thee that these earliset apples are
ripe. {150b}
The Maiden. By Pan, I swoon; away, take back thy
hand.
Daphnis. Courage, dear girl, why fearest thou me, thou art
over fearful!
The Maiden. Thou makest me lie down by the water-course,
defiling my fair raiment!
Daphnis. Nay, see, ‘neath thy raiment fair I am
throwing this soft fleece.
The Maiden. Ah, ah, thou hast snatched my girdle too; why
hast thou loosed my girdle?
Daphnis. These first-fruits I offer, a gift to the
Paphian.
The Maiden. Stay, wretch, hark; surely a stranger cometh;
nay, I hear a sound.
Daphnis. The cypresses do but whisper to each other of thy
wedding.
The Maiden. Thou hast torn my mantle, and unclad am
I.
Daphnis. Another mantle I will give thee, and an ampler
far than thine.
The Maiden. Thou dost promise all things, but soon thou
wilt not give me even a grain of salt.
Daphnis. Ah, would that I could give thee my very
life.
The Maiden. Artemis, be not wrathful, thy votary breaks
her vow.
Daphnis. I will slay a calf for Love, and for Aphrodite
herself a heifer.
The Maiden. A maiden I came hither, a woman shall I go
homeward.
Daphnis. Nay, a wife and a mother of children shalt thou
be, no more a maiden.
So, each to each, in the joy of their young fresh limbs they were
murmuring: it was the hour of secret love. Then she arose, and
stole to herd her sheep; with shamefast eyes she went, but her
heart was comforted within her. And he went to his herds of kine,
rejoicing in his wedlock.
Idyl XXVIII
This little piece of Aeolic verse accompanied the present
of a distaff which Theocritus brought from Syracuse to Theugenis,
the wife of his friend Nicias, the physician of Miletus. On the
margin of a translation by Longepierre (the famous
book-collector), Louis XIV wrote that this idyl is a model of
honourable gallantry.
O distaff, thou friend of them that spin, gift of
grey-eyed Athene to dames whose hearts are set on housewifery;
come, boldly come with me to the bright city of Neleus, where the
shrine of the Cyprian is green ‘neath its roof of delicate
rushes. Thither I pray that we may win fair voyage and favourable
breeze from Zeus, that so I may gladden mine eyes with the sight
of Nicias my friend, and be greeted of him in turn; - a sacred
scion is he of the sweet-voiced Graces. And thee, distaff, thou
child of fair carven ivory, I will give into the hands of the
wife of Nicias: with her shalt thou fashion many a thing,
garments for men, and much rippling raiment that women wear. For
the mothers of lambs in the meadows might twice be shorn of their
wool in the year, with her goodwill, the dainty-ankled Theugenis,
so notable is she, and cares for all things that wise matrons
love.
Nay, not to houses slatternly or idle would I have given thee,
distaff, seeing that thou art a countryman of mine. For that is
thy native city which Archias out of Ephyre founded, long ago,
the very marrow of the isle of the three capes, a town of
honourable men. {153} But now shalt
thou abide in the house of a wise physician, who has learned all
the spells that ward off sore maladies from men, and thou shalt
dwell in glad Miletus with the Ionian people, to this end, - that
of all the townsfolk Theugenis may have the goodliest distaff and
that thou mayst keep her ever mindful of her friend, the lover of
song.
This proverb will each man utter that looks on thee,
‘Surely great grace goes with a little gift, and all the
offerings of friends are precious.’
Idyl XXIX
This poem, like the preceding one, is written in the Aeolic
dialect. The first line is quoted from Alcaeus. The idyl is
attributed to Theocritus on the evidence of the scholiast on the
Symposium of Plato.
‘Wine and truth,’ dear child, says the
proverb, and in wine are we, and the truth we must tell. Yes, I
will say to thee all that lies in my soul’s inmost chamber.
Thou dost not care to love me with thy whole heart! I know, for I
live half my life in the sight of thy beauty, but all the rest is
ruined. When thou art kind, my day is like the days of the
Blessed, but when thou art unkind, ‘tis deep in darkness.
How can it be right thus to torment thy friend? Nay, if thou wilt
listen at all, child, to me, that am thine elder, happier thereby
wilt thou be, and some day thou wilt thank me. Build one nest in
one tree, where no fierce snake can come; for now thou dost perch
on one branch to-day, and on another to-morrow, always seeking
what is new. And if a stranger see and praise thy pretty face,
instantly to him thou art more than a friend of three
years’ standing, while him that loved thee first thou
holdest no higher than a friend of three days. Thou savourest,
methinks, of the love of some great one; nay, choose rather all
thy life ever to keep the love of one that is thy peer. If this
thou dost thou wilt be well spoken of by thy townsmen, and Love
will never be hard to thee, Love that lightly vanquishes the
minds of men, and has wrought to tenderness my heart that was of
steel. Nay, by thy delicate mouth I approach and beseech thee,
remember that thou wert younger yesteryear, and that we wax grey
and wrinkled, or ever we can avert it; and none may recapture his
youth again, for the shoulders of youth are winged, and we are
all too slow to catch such flying pinions.
Mindful of this thou shouldst be gentler, and love me without
guile as I love thee, so that, when thou hast a manly beard, we
may be such friends as were Achilles and Patroclus!
But, if thou dost cast all I say to the winds to waft afar, and
cry, in anger, ‘Why, why, dost thou torment me?’ then
I, - that now for thy sake would go to fetch the golden apples,
or to bring thee Cerberus, the watcher of the dead, - would not
go forth, didst thou stand at the court-doors and call me. I
should have rest from my cruel love.
FRAGMENT OF THE BERENICE
Athenaeus (vii. 284 A) quotes this fragment, which probably
was part of a panegyric on Berenice, the mother of Ptolemy
Philadelphus.
And if any man that hath his livelihood from the salt
sea, and whose nets serve him for ploughs, prays for wealth, and
luck in fishing, let him sacrifice, at midnight, to this goddess,
the sacred fish that they call ‘silver white,’ for
that it is brightest of sheen of all, - then let the fisher set
his nets, and he shall draw them full from the sea.
Idyl XXX - THE DEAD ADONIS
This idyl is usually printed with the poems of Theocritus,
but almost certainly is by another hand. I have therefore
ventured to imitate the metre of the original.
When Cypris saw Adonis,
In death already lying
With all his locks dishevelled,
And cheeks turned wan and ghastly,
She bade the Loves attendant
To bring the boar before her.
And lo, the winged ones, fleetly
They scoured through all the wild wood;
The wretched boar they tracked him,
And bound and doubly bound him.
One fixed on him a halter,
And dragged him on, a captive,
Another drave him onward,
And smote him with his arrows.
But terror-struck the beast came,
For much he feared Cythere.
To him spake Aphrodite, -
‘Of wild beasts all the vilest,
This thigh, by thee was ‘t wounded?
Was ‘t thou that smote my lover?’
To her the beast made answer -
‘I swear to thee, Cythere,
By thee, and by thy lover,
Yea, and by these my fetters,
And them that do pursue me, -
Thy lord, thy lovely lover
I never willed to wound him;
I saw him, like a statue,
And could not bide the burning,
Nay, for his thigh was naked,
And mad was I to kiss it,
And thus my tusk it harmed him.
Take these my tusks, O Cypris,
And break them, and chastise them,
For wherefore should I wear them,
These passionate defences?
If this doth not suffice thee,
Then cut my lips out also,
Why dared they try to kiss him?’
Then Cypris had compassion;
She bade the Loves attendant
To loose the bonds that bound him.
From that day her he follows,
And flees not to the wild wood
But joins the Loves, and always
He bears Love’s flame unflinching.
EPIGRAMS
The Epigrams of Theocritus are, for the most part, either
inscriptions for tombs or cenotaphs, or for the pedestals of
statues, or (as the third epigram) are short occasional pieces.
Several of them are but doubtfully ascribed to the poet of the
Idyls. The Greek has little but brevity in common with the modern
epigram.
I - For a rustic Altar.
These dew-drenched roses and that tufted thyme are offered to
the ladies of Helicon. And the dark-leaved laurels are thine, O
Pythian Paean, since the rock of Delphi bare this leafage to
thine honour. The altar this white-horned goat shall stain with
blood, this goat that browses on the tips of the terebinth
boughs.
II - For a Herdsman’s Offering.
Daphnis, the white-limbed Daphnis, that pipes on his fair
flute the pastoral strains offered to Pan these gifts, - his
pierced reed-pipes, his crook, a javelin keen, a fawn-skin, and
the scrip wherein he was wont, on a time, to carry the apples of
Love.
III - For a Picture.
Thou sleepest on the leaf-strewn ground, O Daphnis, resting
thy weary limbs, and the stakes of thy nets are newly fastened on
the hills. But Pan is on thy track, and Priapus, with the golden
ivy wreath twined round his winsome head, - both are leaping at
one bound into thy cavern. Nay, flee them, flee, shake off thy
slumber, shake off the heavy sleep that is falling upon
thee.
IV - Priapus.
When thou hast turned yonder lane, goatherd, where the
oak-trees are, thou wilt find an image of fig-tree wood, newly
carven; three-legged it is, the bark still covers it, and it is
earless withal, yet meet for the arts of Cypris. A right holy
precinct runs round it, and a ceaseless stream that falleth from
the rocks on every side is green with laurels, and myrtles, and
fragrant cypress. And all around the place that child of the
grape, the vine, doth flourish with its tendrils, and the merles
in spring with their sweet songs utter their wood-notes wild, and
the brown nightingales reply with their complaints, pouring from
their bills the honey-sweet song. There, prithee, sit down and
pray to gracious Priapus, that I may be delivered from my love of
Daphnis, and say that instantly thereon I will sacrifice a fair
kid. But if he refuse, ah then, should I win Daphnis’s
love, I would fain sacrifice three victims, - and offer a calf, a
shaggy he-goat, and a lamb that I keep in the stall, and oh that
graciously the god may hear my prayer.
V - The rural Concert.
Ah, in the Muses’ name, wilt thou play me some sweet air
on the double flute, and I will take up the harp, and touch a
note, and the neatherd Daphnis will charm us the while, breathing
music into his wax-bound pipe. And beside this rugged oak behind
the cave will we stand, and rob the goat-foot Pan of his
repose.
VI - The Dead are beyond hope.
Ah hapless Thyrsis, where is thy gain, shouldst thou lament
till thy two eyes are consumed with tears? She has passed away, -
the kid, the youngling beautiful, - she has passed away to Hades.
Yea, the jaws of the fierce wolf have closed on her, and now the
hounds are baying, but what avail they when nor bone nor cinder
is left of her that is departed?
VII - For a statue of Asclepius.
Even to Miletus he hath come, the son of Paeon, to dwell with
one that is a healer of all sickness, with Nicias, who even
approaches him day by day with sacrifices, and hath let carve
this statue out of fragrant cedar-wood; and to Eetion he promised
a high guerdon for his skill of hand: on this work Eetion has put
forth all his craft.
VIII - Orthon’s Grave.
Stranger, the Syracusan Orthon lays this behest on thee; go
never abroad in thy cups on a night of storm. For thus did I come
by my end, and far from my rich fatherland I lie, clothed on with
alien soil.
IX - The Death of Cleonicus.
Man, husband thy life, nor go voyaging out of season, for
brief are the days of men! Unhappy Cleonicus, thou wert eager to
win rich Thasus, from Coelo-Syria sailing with thy merchandise, -
with thy merchandise, O Cleonicus, at the setting of the Pleiades
didst thou cross the sea, - and didst sink with the sinking
Pleiades!
X - A Group of the Muses.
For your delight, all ye Goddesses Nine, did Xenocles offer
this statue of marble, Xenocles that hath music in his soul, as
none will deny. And inasmuch as for his skill in this art he wins
renown, he forgets not to give their due to the Muses.
XI - The Grave of Eusthenes.
This is the memorial stone of Eusthenes, the sage; a
physiognomist was he, and skilled to read the very spirit in the
eyes. Nobly have his friends buried him - a stranger in a strange
land - and most dear was he, yea, to the makers of song. All his
dues in death has the sage, and, though he was no great one,
‘tis plain he had friends to care for him.
XII - The Offering of Demoteles.
‘Twas Demoteles the choregus, O Dionysus, who dedicated this tripod, and this statue of thee, the dearest of the blessed gods. No great fame he won when he gave a chorus of boys, but with a chorus of men he bore off the victory, for he knew what was fair and what was seemly.
XIII - For a statue of Aphrodite.
This is Cypris, - not she of the people; nay, venerate the goddess by her name - the Heavenly Aphrodite. The statue is the offering of chaste Chrysogone, even in the house of Amphicles, whose children and whose life were hers! And always year by year went well with them, who began each year with thy worship, Lady, for mortals who care for the Immortals have themselves thereby the better fortune.
XIV - The Grave of Euryrnedon.
An infant son didst thou leave behind, and in the flower of thine own age didst die, Eurymedon, and win this tomb. For thee a throne is set among men made perfect, but thy son the citizens will hold in honour, remembering the excellence of his father.
XV - The Grave of Eurymedon.
Wayfarer, I shall know whether thou dost reverence the good, or whether the coward is held by thee in the same esteem. ‘Hail to this tomb,’ thou wilt say, for light it lies above the holy head of Eurymedon.
XVI - For a statue of Anacreon.
Mark well this statue, stranger, and say, when thou hast
returned to thy home, ‘In Teos I beheld the statue of
Anacreon, who surely excelled all the singers of times
past.’ And if thou dost add that he delighted in the young,
thou wilt truly paint all the man.
XVII - For a statue of Epicharmus.
Dorian is the strain, and Dorian the man we sing; he that
first devised Comedy, even Epicharmus. O Bacchus, here in bronze
(as the man is now no more) they have erected his statue, the
colonists {165} that dwell in Syracuse, to the honour of
one that was their fellow-citizen. Yea, for a gift he gave,
wherefore we should be mindful thereof and pay him what wage we
may, for many maxims he spoke that were serviceable to the life
of all men. Great thanks be his.
XVIII - The Grave of Cleita.
The little Medeus has raised this tomb by the wayside to the memory of his Thracian nurse, and has added the inscription -
HERE LIES CLEITA.
The woman will have this recompense for all her careful nurture of the boy, - and why? - because she was serviceable even to the end.
XIX - The statue of Archilochus.
Stay, and behold Archilochus, him of old time, the maker of
iambics, whose myriad fame has passed westward, alike, and
towards the dawning day. Surely the Muses loved him, yea, and the
Delian Apollo, so practised and so skilled he grew in forging
song, and chanting to the lyre.
XX - The statue of Pisander.
This man, behold, Pisander of Corinth, of all the ancient
makers was the first who wrote of the son of Zeus, the
lion-slayer, the ready of hand, and spake of all the adventures
that with toil he achieved. Know this therefore, that the people
set him here, a statue of bronze, when many months had gone by
and many years.
XXI - The Grave of Hipponax.
Here lies the poet Hipponax! If thou art a sinner draw not
near this tomb, but if thou art a true man, and the son of
righteous sires, sit boldly down here, yea, and sleep if thou
wilt.
XXII - For the Bank of Caicus.
To citizens and strangers alike this counter deals justice. If
thou hast deposited aught, draw out thy money when the
balance-sheet is cast up. Let others make false excuse, but
Caicus tells back money lent, ay, even if one wish it after
nightfall.
XXIII - On his own Poems
{167}
The Chian is another man, but I, Theocritus, who wrote these
songs, am a Syracusan, a man of the people, being the son of
Praxagoras and renowned Philinna. Never laid I claim to any Muse
but mine own.
BION
Πιδακος εξ
ιερης
ολιγη
λιβας
ακρον
αωτον. - Callimachus.
Bion was born at Smyrna, one of the towns which claimed
the honour of being Homer’s birthplace. On the evidence of
a detached verse (94) of the dirge by Moschus, some have thought
that Theocritus survived Bion. In that case Theocritus must have
been a preternaturally aged man. The same dirge tells us that
Bion was poisoned by certain enemies, and that while he left to
others his wealth, to Moschus he left his minstrelsy.
I - THE LAMENT FOR ADONIS
This poem was probably intended to be sung at one of the
spring celebrations of the festival of Adonis, like that
described by Theocritus in his fifteenth idyl.
Woe, woe for Adonis, he hath perished, the beauteous
Adonis, dead is the beauteous Adonis, the Loves join in the
lament. No more in thy purple raiment, Cypris, do thou sleep;
arise, thou wretched one, sable-stoled, and beat thy breasts, and
say to all, ‘He hath perished, the lovely
Adonis!’
Woe, woe for Adonis, the Loves join in the lament!
Low on the hills is lying the lovely Adonis, and his thigh with
the boar’s tusk, his white thigh with the boar’s tusk
is wounded, and sorrow on Cypris he brings, as softly he breathes
his life away.
His dark blood drips down his skin of snow, beneath his brows his
eyes wax heavy and dim, and the rose flees from his lip, and
thereon the very kiss is dying, the kiss that Cypris will never
forego.
To Cypris his kiss is dear, though he lives no longer, but Adonis
knew not that she kissed him as he died.
Woe, woe for Adonis, the Loves join in the lament!
A cruel, cruel wound on his thigh hath Adonis, but a deeper wound
in her heart doth Cytherea bear. About him his dear hounds are
loudly baying, and the nymphs of the wild wood wail him; but
Aphrodite with unbound locks through the glades goes wandering, -
wretched, with hair unbraided, with feet unsandaled, and the
thorns as she passes wound her and pluck the blossom of her
sacred blood. Shrill she wails as down the long woodlands she is
borne, lamenting her Assyrian lord, and again calling him, and
again. But round his navel the dark blood leapt forth, with blood
from his thighs his chest was scarlet, and beneath Adonis’s
breast, the spaces that afore were snow-white, were purple with
blood.
Woe, woe for Cytherea, the Loves join in the lament!
She hath lost her lovely lord, with him she hath lost her sacred
beauty. Fair was the form of Cypris, while Adonis was living, but
her beauty has died with Adonis! Woe, woe for Cypris, the
mountains all are saying, and the oak-trees answer, Woe for
Adonis. And the rivers bewail the sorrows of Aphrodite, and
the wells are weeping Adonis on the mountains. The flowers flush
red for anguish, and Cytherea through all the mountain-knees,
through every dell doth shrill the piteous dirge.
Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath perished, the lovely
Adonis!
And Echo cried in answer, He hath perished, the lovely
Adonis. Nay, who but would have lamented the grievous love of
Cypris? When she saw, when she marked the unstaunched wound of
Adonis, when she saw the bright red blood about his languid
thigh, she cast her arms abroad and moaned, ‘Abide with me,
Adonis, hapless Adonis abide, that this last time of all I may
possess thee, that I may cast myself about thee, and lips with
lips may mingle. Awake Adonis, for a little while, and kiss me
yet again, the latest kiss! Nay kiss me but a moment, but the
lifetime of a kiss, till from thine inmost soul into my lips,
into my heart, thy life-breath ebb, and till I drain thy sweet
love-philtre, and drink down all thy love. This kiss will I
treasure, even as thyself; Adonis, since, ah ill-fated, thou art
fleeing me, thou art fleeing far, Adonis, and art faring to
Acheron, to that hateful king and cruel, while wretched I yet
live, being a goddess, and may not follow thee! Persephone, take
thou my lover, my lord, for thy self art stronger than I, and all
lovely things drift down to thee. But I am all ill-fated,
inconsolable is my anguish, and I lament mine Adonis, dead to me,
and I have no rest for sorrow.
‘Thou diest, O thrice-desired, and my desire hath flown
away as a dream. Nay, widowed is Cytherea, and idle are the Loves
along the halls! With thee has the girdle of my beauty perished.
For why, ah overbold, didst thou follow the chase, and being so
fair, why wert thou thus overhardy to fight with
beasts?’
So Cypris bewailed her, the Loves join in the lament:
Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath perished the lovely
Adonis!
A tear the Paphian sheds for each blood-drop of Adonis, and tears
and blood on the earth are turned to flowers. The blood brings
forth the rose, the tears, the wind-flower.
Woe, woe for Adonis, he hath perished; the lovely
Adonis!
No more in the oak-woods, Cypris, lament thy lord. It is no fair
couch for Adonis, the lonely bed of leaves! Thine own bed,
Cytherea, let him now possess, - the dead Adonis. Ah, even in
death he is beautiful, beautiful in death, as one that hath
fallen on sleep. Now lay him down to sleep in his own soft
coverlets, wherein with thee through the night he shared the holy
slumber in a couch all of gold, that yearns for Adonis, though
sad is he to look upon. Cast on him garlands and blossoms: all
things have perished in his death, yea all the flowers are faded.
Sprinkle him with ointments of Syria, sprinkle him with unguents
of myrrh. Nay, perish all perfumes, for Adonis, who was thy
perfume, hath perished.
He reclines, the delicate Adonis, in his raiment of purple, and
around him the Loves are weeping, and groaning aloud, clipping
their locks for Adonis. And one upon his shafts, another on his
bow is treading, and one hath loosed the sandal of Adonis, and
another hath broken his own feathered quiver, and one in a golden
vessel bears water, and another laves the wound, and another from
behind him with his wings is fanning Adonis.
Woe, woe for Cytherea, the Loves join in the lament!
Every torch on the lintels of the door has Hymenaeus quenched,
and hath torn to shreds the bridal crown, and Hymen no
more, Hymen no more is the song, but a new song is sung of
wailing.
‘Woe, woe for Adonis,’ rather than the nuptial
song the Graces are shrilling, lamenting the son of Cinyras, and
one to the other declaring, He hath perished, the lovely
Adonis.
And woe, woe for Adonis, shrilly cry the Muses,
neglecting Paeon, and they lament Adonis aloud, and songs they
chant to him, but he does not heed them, not that he is loth to
hear, but that the Maiden of Hades doth not let him go.
Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from thy
dirges. Thou must again bewail him, again must weep for him
another year.
II - THE LOVE OF ACHILLES
Lycidas sings to Myrson a fragment about the loves of
Achilles and Deidamia.
Myrson. Wilt thou be pleased now, Lycidas, to sing me sweetly
some sweet Sicilian song, some wistful strain delectable, some
lay of love, such as the Cyclops Polyphemus sang on the sea-banks
to Galatea?
Lycidas. Yes, Myrson, and I too fain would pipe, but what
shall I sing?
Myrson. A song of Scyra, Lycidas, is my desire, - a sweet
love-story, - the stolen kisses of the son of Peleus, the stolen
bed of love how he, that was a boy, did on the weeds of women,
and how he belied his form, and how among the heedless daughters
of Lycomedes, Deidamia cherished Achilles in her bower. {176}
Lycidas. The herdsman bore off Helen, upon a time, and
carried her to Ida, sore sorrow to OEnone. And Lacedaemon waxed
wroth, and gathered together all the Achaean folk; there was
never a Hellene, not one of the Mycenaeans, nor any man of Elis,
nor of the Laconians, that tarried in his house, and shunned the
cruel Ares.
But Achilles alone lay hid among the daughters of Lycomedes, and
was trained to work in wools, in place of arms, and in his white
hand held the bough of maidenhood, in semblance a maiden. For he
put on women’s ways, like them, and a bloom like theirs
blushed on his cheek of snow, and he walked with maiden gait, and
covered his locks with the snood. But the heart of a man had he,
and the love of a man. From dawn to dark he would sit by
Deidamia, and anon would kiss her hand, and oft would lift the
beautiful warp of her loom and praise the sweet threads, having
no such joy in any other girl of her company. Yea, all things he
essayed, and all for one end, that they twain might share an
undivided sleep.
Now he once even spake to her, saying -
‘With one another other sisters sleep, but I lie alone, and
alone, maiden, dost thou lie, both being girls unwedded of like
age, both fair, and single both in bed do we sleep. The wicked
Nysa, the crafty nurse it is that cruelly severs me from thee.
For not of thee have I . . . ’
III - THE SEASONS
Cleodamus and Myrson discuss the charms of the seasons, and
give the palm to a southern spring.
Cleodamus. Which is sweetest, to thee, Myrson, spring, or
winter or the late autumn or the summer; of which dost thou most
desire the coming? Summer, when all are ended, the toils whereat
we labour, or the sweet autumn, when hunger weighs lightest on
men, or even idle winter, for even in winter many sit warm by the
fire, and are lulled in rest and indolence. Or has beautiful
spring more delight for thee? Say, which does thy heart choose?
For our leisure lends us time to gossip.
Myrson. It beseems not mortals to judge the works of God;
for sacred are all these things, and all are sweet, yet for thy
sake I will speak out, Cleodamus, and declare what is sweeter to
me than the rest. I would not have summer here, for then the sun
doth scorch me, and autumn I would not choose, for the ripe
fruits breed disease. The ruinous winter, bearing snow and frost,
I dread. But spring, the thrice desirable, be with me the whole
year through, when there is neither frost, nor is the sun so
heavy upon us. In springtime all is fruitful, all sweet things
blossom in spring, and night and dawn are evenly meted to
men.
IV - THE BOY AND LOVE
A fowler, while yet a boy, was hunting birds in a woodland
glade, and there he saw the winged Love, perched on a box-tree
bough. And when he beheld him, he rejoiced, so big the bird
seemed to him, and he put together all his rods at once, and lay
in wait for Love, that kept hopping, now here, now there. And the
boy, being angered that his toil was endless, cast down his
fowling gear, and went to the old husbandman, that had taught him
his art, and told him all, and showed him Love on his perch. But
the old man, smiling, shook his head, and answered the lad,
‘Pursue this chase no longer, and go not after this bird.
Nay, flee far from him. ‘Tis an evil creature. Thou wilt be
happy, so long as thou dost not catch him, but if thou comest to
the measure of manhood, this bird that flees thee now, and hops
away, will come uncalled, and of a sudden, and settle on thy
head.’
V - THE TUTOR OF LOVE
Great Cypris stood beside me, while still I slumbered, and
with her beautiful hand she led the child Love, whose head was
earthward bowed. This word she spake to me, ‘Dear herdsman,
prithee, take Love, and teach him to sing.’ So said she,
and departed, and I - my store of pastoral song I taught to Love,
in my innocence, as if he had been fain to learn. I taught him
how the cross-flute was invented by Pan, and the flute by Athene,
and by Hermes the tortoise-shell lyre, and the harp by sweet
Apollo. All these things I taught him as best I might; but he,
not heeding my words, himself would sing me ditties of love, and
taught me the desires of mortals and immortals, and all the deeds
of his mother. And I clean forgot the lore I was teaching to
Love, but what Love taught me, and his love ditties, I learned
them all.
The Muses do not fear the wild Love, but heartily they
cherish, and fleetly follow him. Yea, and if any man sing that
hath a loveless heart, him do they flee, and do not choose to
teach him. But if the mind of any be swayed by Love, and sweetly
he sings, to him the Muses all run eagerly. A witness hereto am
I, that this saying is wholly true, for if I sing of any other,
mortal or immortal, then falters my tongue, and sings no longer
as of old, but if again to Love, and Lycidas I sing, then gladly
from my lips flows forth the voice of song.
FRAGMENTS
VII
I know not the way, nor is it fitting to labour at what we
have not learned.
VIII
If my ditties be fair, lo these alone will win me glory, these
that the Muse aforetime gave to me. And if these be not sweet,
what gain is it to me to labour longer?
IX
Ah, if a double term of life were given us by Zeus, the son of
Cronos, or by changeful Fate, ah, could we spend one life in joy
and merriment, and one in labour, then perchance a man might
toil, and in some later time might win his reward. But if the
gods have willed that man enters into life but once (and that
life brief, and too short to hold all we desire), then, wretched
men and weary that we are, how sorely we toil, how greatly we
cast our souls away on gain, and laborious arts, continually
coveting yet more wealth! Surely we have all forgotten that we
are men condemned to die, and how short in the hour, that to us
is allotted by Fate. {181}
X
Happy are they that love, when with equal love they are
rewarded. Happy was Theseus, when Pirithous was by his side, yea,
though he went down to the house of implacable Hades. Happy among
hard men and inhospitable was Orestes, for that Pylades chose to
share his wanderings. And he was happy, Achilles
Æacides, while his darling lived, - happy was he in his
death, because he avenged the dread fate of Patroclus.
XI
Hesperus, golden lamp of the lovely daughter of the foam, dear
Hesperus, sacred jewel of the deep blue night, dimmer as much
than the moon, as thou art among the stars pre-eminent, hail,
friend, and as I lead the revel to the shepherd’s hut, in
place of the moonlight lend me thine, for to-day the moon began
her course, and too early she sank. I go not free-booting, nor to
lie in wait for the benighted traveller, but a lover am I, and
‘tis well to favour lovers.
XII
Mild goddess, in Cyprus born, - thou child, not of the sea,
but of Zeus, - why art thou thus vexed with mortals and
immortals? Nay, my word is too weak, why wert thou thus bitterly
wroth, yea, even with thyself, as to bring forth Love, so mighty
a bane to all, - cruel and heartless Love, whose spirit is all
unlike his beauty? And wherefore didst thou furnish him with
wings, and give him skill to shoot so far, that, child as he is,
we never may escape the bitterness of Love.
XIII
Mute was Phoebus in this grievous anguish. All herbs he
sought, and strove to win some wise healing art, and he anointed
all the wound with nectar and ambrosia, but remedeless are all
the wounds of Fate.
XIV
But I will go my way to yon sloping hill; by the sand and the
sea-banks murmuring my song, and praying to the cruel Galatea.
But of my sweet hope never will I leave hold, till I reach the
uttermost limit of old age.
XV
It is not well, my friend, to run to the craftsman, whatever
may befall, nor in every matter to need another’s aid, nay,
fashion a pipe thyself, and to thee the task is easy.
XVI
May Love call to him the Muses, may the Muses bring with them
Love. Ever may the Muses give song to me that yearn for it, -
sweet song, - than song there is no sweeter charm.
XVII
The constant dropping of water, says the proverb, it wears a
hole in a stone.
XVIII
Nay, leave me not unrewarded, for even Phoebus sang for his
reward. And the meed of honour betters everything.
XIX
Beauty is the glory of womankind, and strength of
men.
XX
All things, god-willing, all things may be achieved by
mortals. From the hands of the blessed come tasks most easy, and
that find their accomplishment.
MOSCHUS
Our only certain information about Moschus is contained in his
own Dirge for Bion. He speaks of his verse as ‘Ausonian
song,’ and of himself as Mion’s pupil and successor.
It is plain that he was acquainted with the poems of
Theocritus.
Idyl I - LOVE THE RUNAWAY
Cypris was raising the hue and cry for Love, her child, -
‘Who, where the three ways meet, has seen Love wandering?
He is my runaway, whosoever has aught to tell of him shall win
his reward. His prize is the kiss of Cypris, but if thou bringest
him, not the bare kiss, O stranger, but yet more shalt thou win.
The child is most notable, thou couldst tell him among twenty
together, his skin is not white, but flame coloured, his eyes are
keen and burning, an evil heart and a sweet tongue has he, for
his speech and his mind are at variance. Like honey is his voice,
but his heart of gall, all tameless is he, and deceitful, the
truth is not in him, a wily brat, and cruel in his pastime. The
locks of his hair are lovely, but his brow is impudent, and tiny
are his little hands, yet far he shoots his arrows, shoots even
to Acheron, and to the King of Hades.
‘The body of Love is naked, but well is his spirit hidden,
and winged like a bird he flits and descends, now here, now
there, upon men and women, and nestles in their inmost hearts. He
hath a little bow, and an arrow always on the string, tiny is the
shaft, but it carries as high as heaven. A golden quiver on his
back he bears, and within it his bitter arrows, wherewith full
many a time he wounds even me.
‘Cruel are all these instruments of his, but more cruel by
far the little torch, his very own, wherewith he lights up the
sun himself.
‘And if thou catch Love, bind him, and bring him, and have
no pity, and if thou see him weeping, take heed lest he give thee
the slip; and if he laugh, hale him along.
‘Yea, and if he wish to kiss thee, beware, for evil is his
kiss, and his lips enchanted.
‘And should he say, “Take these, I give thee in free
gift all my armoury,” touch not at all his treacherous
gifts, for they all are dipped in fire.’
Idyl II - EUROPA AND THE BULL
To Europa, once on a time, a sweet dream was sent by Cypris,
when the third watch of the night sets in, and near is the
dawning; when sleep more sweet than honey rests on the eyelids,
limb-loosening sleep, that binds the eyes with his soft bond,
when the flock of truthful dreams fares wandering.
At that hour she was sleeping, beneath the roof-tree of her home,
Europa, the daughter of Phoenix, being still a maid unwed. Then
she beheld two Continents at strife for her sake, Asia, and the
farther shore, both in the shape of women. Of these one had the
guise of a stranger, the other of a lady of that land, and closer
still she clung about her maiden, and kept saying how ‘she
was her mother, and herself had nursed Europa.’ But that
other with mighty hands, and forcefully, kept haling the maiden,
nothing loth; declaring that, by the will of Ægis-bearing
Zeus, Europa was destined to be her prize.
But Europa leaped forth from her strown bed in terror, with
beating heart, in such clear vision had she beheld the dream.
Then she sat upon her bed, and long was silent, still beholding
the two women, albeit with waking eyes; and at last the maiden
raised her timorous voice
‘Who of the gods of heaven has sent forth to me these
phantoms? What manner of dreams have scared me when right sweetly
slumbering on my strown bed, within my bower? Ah, and who was the
alien woman that I beheld in my sleep? How strange a longing for
her seized my heart, yea, and how graciously she herself did
welcome me, and regard me as it had been her own child.
‘Ye blessed gods, I pray you, prosper the fulfilment of the
dream.’
Therewith she arose, and began to seek the dear maidens of her
company, girls of like age with herself, born in the same year,
beloved of her heart, the daughters of noble sires, with whom she
was always wont to sport, when she was arrayed for the dance, or
when she would bathe her bright body at the mouths of the rivers,
or would gather fragrant lilies on the leas.
And soon she found them, each bearing in her hand a basket to
fill with flowers, and to the meadows near the salt sea they set
forth, where always they were wont to gather in their company,
delighting in the roses, and the sound of the waves. But Europa
herself bore a basket of gold, a marvel well worth gazing on, a
choice work of Hephaestus. He gave it to Libya, for a
bridal-gift, when she approached the bed of the Shaker of the
Earth, and Libya gave it to beautiful Telephassa, who was of her
own blood; and to Europa, still an unwedded maid, her mother,
Telephassa, gave the splendid gift.
Many bright and cunning things were wrought in the basket:
therein was Io, daughter of Inachus, fashioned in gold; still in
the shape of a heifer she was, and had not her woman’s
shape, and wildly wandering she fared upon the salt sea-ways,
like one in act to swim; and the sea was wrought in blue steel.
And aloft upon the double brow of the shore, two men were
standing together and watching the heifer’s sea-faring.
There too was Zeus, son of Cronos, lightly touching with his
divine hand the cow of the line of Inachus, and her, by Nile of
the seven streams, he was changing again, from a horned heifer to
a woman. Silver was the stream of Nile, and the heifer of bronze
and Zeus himself was fashioned in gold. And all about, beneath
the rim of the rounded basket, was the story of Hermes graven,
and near him lay stretched out Argus, notable for his sleepless
eyes. And from the red blood of Argus was springing a bird that
rejoiced in the flower-bright colour of his feathers, and
spreading abroad his tail, even as some swift ship on the sea
doth spread all canvas, was covering with his plumes the lips of
the golden vessel. Even thus was wrought the basket of the lovely
Europa.
Now the girls, so soon as they were come to the flowering
meadows, took great delight in various sorts of flowers, whereof
one would pluck sweet-breathed narcissus, another the hyacinth,
another the violet, a fourth the creeping thyme, and on the
ground there fell many petals of the meadows rich with spring.
Others again were emulously gathering the fragrant tresses of the
yellow crocus; but in the midst of them all the princess culled
with her hand the splendour of the crimson rose, and shone
pre-eminent among them all like the foam-born goddess among the
Graces. Verily she was not for long to set her heart’s
delight upon the flowers, nay, nor long to keep untouched her
maiden girdle. For of a truth, the son of Cronos, so soon as he
beheld her, was troubled, and his heart was subdued by the sudden
shafts of Cypris, who alone can conquer even Zeus. Therefore,
both to avoid the wrath of jealous Hera, and being eager to
beguile the maiden’s tender heart, he concealed his
godhead, and changed his shape, and became a bull. Not such an
one as feeds in the stall nor such as cleaves the furrow, and
drags the curved plough, nor such as grazes on the grass, nor
such a bull as is subdued beneath the yoke, and draws the
burdened wain. Nay, but while all the rest of his body was bright
chestnut, a silver circle shone between his brows, and his eyes
gleamed softly, and ever sent forth lightning of desire. From his
brow branched horns of even length, like the crescent of the
horned moon, when her disk is cloven in twain. He came into the
meadow, and his coming terrified not the maidens, nay, within
them all wakened desire to draw nigh the lovely bull, and to
touch him, and his heavenly fragrance was scattered afar,
exceeding even the sweet perfume of the meadows. And he stood
before the feet of fair Europa, and kept licking her neck, and
cast his spell over the maiden. And she still caressed him, and
gently with her hands she wiped away the deep foam from his lips,
and kissed the bull. Then he lowed so gently, ye would think ye
heard the Mygdonian flute uttering a dulcet sound.
He bowed himself before her feet, and, bending back his neck, he
gazed on Europa, and showed her his broad back. Then she spake
among her deep-tressed maidens, saying -
‘Come, dear playmates, maidens of like age with me, let us
mount the bull here and take our pastime, for truly, he will bear
us on his back, and carry all of us; and how mild he is, and
dear, and gentle to behold, and no whit like other bulls. A mind
as honest as a man’s possesses him, and he lacks nothing
but speech.’
So she spake, and smiling, she sat down on the back of the bull,
and the others were about to follow her. But the bull leaped up
immediately, now he had gotten her that he desired, and swiftly
he sped to the deep. The maiden turned, and called again and
again to her dear playmates, stretching out her hands, but they
could not reach her. The strand he gained, and forward he sped
like a dolphin, faring with unwetted hooves over the wide waves.
And the sea, as he came, grew smooth, and the sea-monsters
gambolled around, before the feet of Zeus, and the dolphin
rejoiced, and rising from the deeps, he tumbled on the swell of
the sea. The Nereids arose out of the salt water, and all of them
came on in orderly array, riding on the backs of sea-beasts. And
himself, the thund’rous Shaker of the World, appeared above
the sea, and made smooth the wave, and guided his brother on the
salt sea path; and round him were gathered the Tritons, these
hoarse trumpeters of the deep, blowing from their long conches a
bridal melody.
Meanwhile Europa, riding on the back of the divine bull, with one
hand clasped the beast’s great horn, and with the other
caught up the purple fold of her garment, lest it might trail and
be wet in the hoar sea’s infinite spray. And her deep robe
was swelled out by the winds, like the sail of a ship, and
lightly still did waft the maiden onward. But when she was now
far off from her own country, and neither sea-beat headland nor
steep hill could now be seen, but above, the air, and beneath,
the limitless deep, timidly she looked around, and uttered her
voice, saying -
‘Whither bearest thou me, bull-god? What art thou? how dost
thou fare on thy feet through the path of the sea-beasts, nor
fearest the sea? The sea is a path meet for swift ships that
traverse the brine, but bulls dread the salt sea-ways. What drink
is sweet to thee, what food shalt thou find from the deep? Nay,
art thou then some god, for godlike are these deeds of thine? Lo,
neither do dolphins of the brine fare on land, nor bulls on the
deep, but dreadless dost thou rush o’er land and sea alike,
thy hooves serving thee for oars.
‘Nay, perchance thou wilt rise above the grey air, and flee
on high, like the swift birds. Alas for me, and alas again, for
mine exceeding evil fortune, alas for me that have left my
father’s house, and following this bull, on a strange
sea-faring I go, and wander lonely. But I pray thee that rulest
the grey salt sea, thou Shaker of the Earth, propitious meet me,
and methinks I see thee smoothing this path of mine before me.
For surely it is not without a god to aid, that I pass through
these paths of the waters!’
So spake she, and the horned bull made answer to her again
-
‘Take courage, maiden, and dread not the swell of the deep.
Behold I am Zeus, even I, though, closely beheld, I wear the form
of a bull, for I can put on the semblance of what thing I will.
But ‘tis love of thee that has compelled me to measure out
so great a space of the salt sea, in a bull’s shape. Lo,
Crete shall presently receive thee, Crete that was mine own
foster-mother, where thy bridal chamber shall be. Yea, and from
me shalt thou bear glorious sons, to be sceptre-swaying kings
over earthly men.
So spake he, and all he spake was fulfilled. And verily Crete
appeared, and Zeus took his own shape again, and he loosed her
girdle, and the Hours arrayed their bridal bed. She that before
was a maiden straightway became the bride of Zeus, and she bare
children to Zeus, yea, anon she was a mother.
Idyl III - THE LAMENT FOR BION
Wail, let me hear you wail, ye woodland glades, and thou
Dorian water; and weep ye rivers, for Bion, the well beloved! Now
all ye green things mourn, and now ye groves lament him, ye
flowers now in sad clusters breathe yourselves away. Now redden
ye roses in your sorrow, and now wax red ye wind-flowers, now
thou hyacinth, whisper the letters on thee graven, and add a
deeper ai ai to thy petals; he is dead, the beautiful
singer.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Ye nightingales that lament among the thick leaves of
the trees, tell ye to the Sicilian waters of Arethusa the tidings
that Bion the herdsman is dead, and that with Bion song too has
died, and perished hath the Dorian minstrelsy.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Ye Strymonian swans, sadly wail ye by the waters, and
chant with melancholy notes the dolorous song, even such a song
as in his time with voice like yours he was wont to sing. And
tell again to the Œagrian maidens, tell to all the Nymphs
Bistonian, how that he hath perished, the Dorian Orpheus.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
No more to his herds he sings, that beloved herdsman,
no more ‘neath the lonely oaks he sits and sings, nay, but
by Pluteus’s side he chants a refrain of oblivion. The
mountains too are voiceless: and the heifers that wander by the
bulls lament and refuse their pasture.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Thy sudden doom, O Bion, Apollo himself lamented, and
the Satyrs mourned thee, and the Priapi in sable raiment, and the
Panes sorrow for thy song, and the fountain fairies in the wood
made moan, and their tears turned to rivers of waters. And Echo
in the rocks laments that thou art silent, and no more she mimics
thy voice. And in sorrow for thy fall the trees cast down their
fruit, and all the flowers have faded. From the ewes hath flowed
no fair milk, nor honey from the hives, nay, it hath perished for
mere sorrow in the wax, for now hath thy honey perished, and no
more it behoves men to gather the honey of the bees.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Not so much did the dolphin mourn beside the sea-banks,
nor ever sang so sweet the nightingale on the cliffs, nor so much
lamented the swallow on the long ranges of the hills, nor
shrilled so loud the halcyon o’er his sorrows;
(Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.)
Nor so much, by the grey sea-waves, did ever the sea-bird sing,
nor so much in the dells of dawn did the bird of Memnon bewail
the son of the Morning, fluttering around his tomb, as they
lamented for Bion dead.
Nightingales, and all the swallows that once he was wont to
delight, that he would teach to speak, they sat over against each
other on the boughs and kept moaning, and the birds sang in
answer, ‘Wail, ye wretched ones, even ye!’
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Who, ah who will ever make music on thy pipe, O thrice
desired Bion, and who will put his mouth to the reeds of thine
instrument? who is so bold?
For still thy lips and still thy breath survive, and Echo, among
the reeds, doth still feed upon thy songs. To Pan shall I bear
the pipe? Nay, perchance even he would fear to set his mouth to
it, lest, after thee, he should win but the second prize.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Yea, and Galatea laments thy song, she whom once thou
wouldst delight, as with thee she sat by the sea-banks. For not
like the Cyclops didst thou sing - him fair Galatea ever fled,
but on thee she still looked more kindly than on the salt water.
And now hath she forgotten the wave, and sits on the lonely
sands, but still she keeps thy kine.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
All the gifts of the Muses, herdsman, have died with
thee, the delightful kisses of maidens, the lips of boys; and
woful round thy tomb the loves are weeping. But Cypris loves thee
far more than the kiss wherewith she kissed the dying
Adonis.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
This, O most musical of rivers, is thy second sorrow,
this, Meles, thy new woe. Of old didst thou lose Homer, that
sweet mouth of Calliope, and men say thou didst bewail thy goodly
son with streams of many tears, and didst fill all the salt sea
with the voice of thy lamentation - now again another son thou
weepest, and in a new sorrow art thou wasting away.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Both were beloved of the fountains, and one ever drank
of the Pegasean fount, but the other would drain a draught of
Arethusa. And the one sang the fair daughter of Tyndarus, and the
mighty son of Thetis, and Menelaus Atreus’s son, but that
other, - not of wars, not of tears, but of Pan, would he sing,
and of herdsmen would he chant, and so singing, he tended the
herds. And pipes he would fashion, and would milk the sweet
heifer, and taught lads how to kiss, and Love he cherished in his
bosom and woke the passion of Aphrodite.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Every famous city laments thee, Bion, and all the
towns. Ascra laments thee far more than her Hesiod, and Pindar is
less regretted by the forests of Boeotia. Nor so much did
pleasant Lesbos mourn for Alcaeus, nor did the Teian town so
greatly bewail her poet, while for thee more than for Archilochus
doth Paros yearn, and not for Sappho, but still for thee doth
Mytilene wail her musical lament;
[Here seven verses are lost.]
And in Syracuse Theocritus; but I sing thee the dirge
of an Ausonian sorrow, I that am no stranger to the pastoral
song, but heir of the Doric Muse which thou didst teach thy
pupils. This was thy gift to me; to others didst thou leave thy
wealth, to me thy minstrelsy.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Ah me, when the mallows wither in the garden, and the
green parsley, and the curled tendrils of the anise, on a later
day they live again, and spring in another year; but we men, we,
the great and mighty, or wise, when once we have died, in hollow
earth we sleep, gone down into silence; a right long, and
endless, and unawakening sleep. And thou too, in the earth wilt
be lapped in silence, but the nymphs have thought good that the
frog should eternally sing. Nay, him I would not envy, for
‘tis no sweet song he singeth.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Poison came, Bion, to thy mouth, thou didst know
poison. To such lips as thine did it come, and was not sweetened?
What mortal was so cruel that could mix poison for thee, or who
could give thee the venom that heard thy voice? surely he had no
music in his soul.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
But justice hath overtaken them all. Still for this
sorrow I weep, and bewail thy ruin. But ah, if I might have gone
down like Orpheus to Tartarus, or as once Odysseus, or Alcides of
yore, I too would speedily have come to the house of Pluteus,
that thee perchance I might behold, and if thou singest to
Pluteus, that I might hear what is thy song. Nay, sing to the
Maiden some strain of Sicily, sing some sweet pastoral lay.
And she too is Sicilian, and on the shores by Aetna she was wont
to play, and she knew the Dorian strain. Not unrewarded will the
singing be; and as once to Orpheus’s sweet minstrelsy she
gave Eurydice to return with him, even so will she send thee too,
Bion, to the hills. But if I, even I, and my piping had aught
availed, before Pluteus I too would have sung.
Idyl IV
A sad dialogue between Megara the wife and Alcmena the
mother of the wandering Heracles. Megara had seen her own
children slain by her lord, in his frenzy, while Alcmena was
constantly disquieted by ominous dreams.
My mother, wherefore art thou thus smitten in thy soul
with exceeding sorrow, and the rose is no longer firm in thy
cheeks as of yore? why, tell me, art thou thus disquieted? Is it
because thy glorious son is suffering pains unnumbered in bondage
to a man of naught, as it were a lion in bondage to a fawn? Woe
is me, why, ah why have the immortal gods thus brought on me so
great dishonour, and wherefore did my parents get me for so ill a
doom? Wretched woman that I am, who came to the bed of a man
without reproach and ever held him honourable and dear as mine
own eyes, - ay and still worship and hold him sacred in my heart
- yet none other of men living hath had more evil hap or tasted
in his soul so many griefs. In madness once, with the bow
Apollo’s self had given him - dread weapon of some Fury or
spirit of Death - he struck down his own children, and took their
dear life away, as his frenzy raged through the house till it
swam in blood. With mine own eyes, I saw them smitten, woe is me,
by their father’s arrows - a thing none else hath suffered
even in dreams. Nor could I aid them as they cried ever on their
mother; the evil that was upon them was past help. As a bird
mourneth for her perishing little ones, devoured in the thicket
by some terrible serpent while as yet they are fledglings, and
the kind mother flutters round them making most shrill lament,
but cannot help her nestlings, yea, and herself hath great fear
to approach the cruel monster; so I unhappy mother, wailing for
my brood, with frenzied feet went wandering through the house.
Would that by my children’s side I had died myself, and
were lying with the envenomed arrow through my heart. Would that
this had been, O Artemis, thou that art queen chief of power to
womankind. Then would our parents have embraced and wept for us
and with ample obsequies have laid us on one common pyre, and
have gathered the bones of all of us into one golden urn, and
buried them in the place where first we came to be. But now they
dwell in Thebes, fair nurse of youth, ploughing the deep soil of
the Aonian plain, while I in Tiryns, rocky city of Hera, am ever
thus wounded at heart with many sorrows, nor is any respite to me
from tears. My husband I behold but a little time in our house,
for he hath many labours at his hand, whereat he laboureth in
wanderings by land and sea, with his soul strong as rock or steel
within his breast. But thy grief is as the running waters, as
thou lamentest through the nights and all the days of Zeus.
Nor is there any one of my kinsfolk nigh at hand to cheer me: for
it is not the house wall that severs them, but they all dwell far
beyond the pine-clad Isthmus, nor is there any to whom, as a
woman all hapless, I may look up and refresh my heart, save only
my sister Pyrrha; nay, but she herself grieves yet more for her
husband Iphicles thy son: for methinks ‘tis thou that hast
borne the most luckless children of all, to a God, and a mortal
man. {205}
Thus spake she, and ever warmer the tears were pouring from her
eyes into her sweet bosom, as she bethought her of her children
and next of her own parents. And in like manner Alcmena bedewed
her pale cheeks with tears, and deeply sighing from her very
heart she thus bespoke her dear daughter with thick-coming
words:
‘Dear child, what is this that hath come into the thoughts
of thy heart? How art thou fain to disquiet us both with the tale
of griefs that cannot be forgotten? Not for the first time are
these woes wept for now. Are they not enough, the woes that
possess us from our birth continually to our day of death? In
love with sorrow surely would he be that should have the heart to
count up our woes; such destiny have we received from God.
Thyself, dear child, I behold vext by endless pains, and thy
grief I can pardon, yea, for even of joy there is satiety. And
exceedingly do I mourn over and pity thee, for that thou hast
partaken of our cruel lot, the burden whereof is hung above our
heads. For so witness Persephone and fair-robed Demeter (by whom
the enemy that wilfully forswears himself, lies to his own hurt),
that I love thee no less in my heart than if thou hadst been born
of my womb, and wert the maiden darling of my house: nay, and
methinks that thou knowest this well. Therefore say never, my
flower, that I heed thee not, not even though I wail more
ceaselessly than Niobe of the lovely locks. No shame it is for a
mother to make moan for the affliction of her son: for ten months
I went heavily, even before I saw him, while I bare him under my
girdle, and he brought me near the gates of the warden of Hell;
so fierce the pangs I endured in my sore travail of him. And now
my son is gone from me in a strange land to accomplish some new
labour; nor know I in my sorrow whether I shall again receive him
returning here or no. Moreover in sweet sleep a dreadful dream
hath fluttered me; and I exceedingly fear for the ill-omened
vision that I have seen, lest something that I would not be
coming on my children.
It seemed to me that my son, the might of Heracles, held in both
hands a well-wrought spade, wherewith, as one labouring for hire,
he was digging a ditch at the edge of a fruitful field, stripped
of his cloak and belted tunic. And when he had come to the end of
all his work and his labours at the stout defence of the
vine-filled close, he was about to lean his shovel against the
upstanding mound and don the clothes he had worn. But suddenly
blazed up above the deep trench a quenchless fire, and a
marvellous great flame encompassed him. But he kept ever giving
back with hurried feet, striving to flee the deadly bolt of
Hephaestus; and ever before his body he kept his spade as it were
a shield; and this way and that he glared around him with his
eyes, lest the angry fire should consume him. Then brave
Iphicles, eager, methought, to help him, stumbled and fell to
earth ere he might reach him, nor could he stand upright again,
but lay helpless, like a weak old man, whom joyless age
constrains to fall when he would not; so he lieth on the ground
as he fell, till one passing by lift him up by the hand,
regarding the ancient reverence for his hoary beard. Thus lay on
the earth Iphicles, wielder of the shield. But I kept wailing as
I beheld my sons in their sore plight, until deep sleep quite
fled from my eyes, and straightway came bright morn. Such dreams,
beloved, flitted through my mind all night; may they all turn
against Eurystheus nor come nigh our dwelling, and to his hurt be
my soul prophetic, nor may fate bring aught otherwise to
pass.
Idyl V
When the wind on the grey salt sea blows softly, then my weary
spirits rise, and the land no longer pleases me, and far more
doth the calm allure me. {208} But when the
hoary deep is roaring, and the sea is broken up in foam, and the
waves rage high, then lift I mine eyes unto the earth and trees,
and fly the sea, and the land is welcome, and the shady wood well
pleasing in my sight, where even if the wind blow high the
pine-tree sings her song. Surely an evil life lives the
fisherman, whose home is his ship, and his labours are in the
sea, and fishes thereof are his wandering spoil. Nay, sweet to me
is sleep beneath the broad-leaved plane-tree; let me love to
listen to the murmur of the brook hard by, soothing, not
troubling the husbandman with its sound.
Idyl VI
Pan loved his neighbour Echo; Echo loved
A gamesome Satyr; he, by her unmoved,
Loved only Lyde; thus through Echo, Pan,
Lyde, and Satyr, Love his circle ran.
Thus all, while their true lovers’ hearts they
grieved,
Were scorned in turn, and what they gave received.
O all Love’s scorners, learn this lesson true;
Be kind to Love, that he be kind to you.
Idyl VII
Alpheus, when he leaves Pisa and makes his way through beneath
the deep, travels on to Arethusa with his waters that the wild
olives drank, bearing her bridal gifts, fair leaves and flowers
and sacred soil. Deep in the waves he plunges, and runs beneath
the sea, and the salt water mingles not with the sweet. Nought
knows the sea as the river journeys through. Thus hath the
knavish boy, the maker of mischief, the teacher of strange ways -
thus hath Love by his spell taught even a river to
dive.
Idyl VIII
Leaving his torch and his arrows, a wallet strung on his
back,
One day came the mischievous Love-god to follow the
plough-share’s track:
And he chose him a staff for his driving, and yoked him a sturdy
steer,
And sowed in the furrows the grain to the Mother of Earth most
dear.
Then he said, looking up to the sky: ‘Father Zeus, to my
harvest be good,
Lest I yoke that bull to my plough that Europa once rode through
the flood!’
Idyl IX
Would that my father had taught me the craft of a keeper of
sheep,
For so in the shade of the elm-tree, or under the rocks on the
steep,
Piping on reeds I had sat, and had lulled my sorrow to sleep.
{210}
Footnotes
{6} Or reading
Αιολικον=Aeolian,
cf. Thucyd. iii. 102.
{9} These are places famous in the oldest
legends of Arcadia.
{11} Reading,
καταδησομαι
. Cf. Fritzsche’s note and Harpocration, s.v.
{13} On the word
ραμβος, see Lobeck,
Aglaoph. p. 700; and ‘The Bull Roarer,’ in the
translator’s Custom and Myth.
{19} Reading
καταδησομαι
. Cf. line 3, and note.
{21} He refers to a piece of folk-lore.
{24} The shovel was used for tossing the sand
of the lists; the sheep were food for Aegon’s great
appetite.
{26} Reading
ερισδεις.
{34} Melanthius was the treacherous goatherd
put to a cruel death by Odysseus.
{36} Ameis and Fritzsche take νιν
(as here) to be the dog, not Galatea. The sex of the
Cyclops’s sheep-dog makes the meaning obscure.
{40} Or, δομον
Ωρομεδοντος.
Hermann renders this domum Oromedonteam a gigantic
house.’ Oromedon or Eurymedon was the king of the Gigantes,
mentioned in Odyssey vii. 58.
{41} εσχατα.
This is taken by some to mean algam infimam, ‘the
bottom weeds of the deepest seas’, by others, the sea-weed
highest on the shore, at high watermark.
{42} Comatas was a goatherd who devoutly served
the Muses, and sacrificed to them his masters goats. His master
therefore shut him up in a cedar chest, opening which at the
year’s end he found Comatas alive, by miracle, the bees
having fed him with honey. Thus, in a mediaeval legend, the
Blessed Virgin took the place, for a year, of the frail nun who
had devoutly served her.
{43} Sneezing in Sicily, as in most countries,
was a happy omen.
{50} A superfluous and apocryphal line is here
omitted.
{53} An allusion to the common superstition
(cf. Idyl xii. 24) that perjurers and liars were punished by
pimples and blotches. The old Irish held that blotches showed
themselves on the faces of Brehons who gave unjust
judgments.
{54} Spring in the south, like Night in the
tropics, comes ‘at one stride’; but Wordsworth finds
the rendering distasteful ‘neque sic redditum valde
placet.’
{57} ‘Quant à ta manière,
je ne puis la rendre.’ - SAINTE-BEUVE.
{61} Reading
μηνοφορως.
{70} Cf. Wordsworth’s proposed conjecture
-
μεταρσι',
ετων
παρεοντων.
Meineke observes ‘tota haec carminis pars luxata et
foedissime depravata est’. There seems to be a rude early
pun in lines 73, 74.
{72} The reading -
ου φθεγξη;
λυκον
ειδες;
επαιξε τις,
ως σοφος,
ειπε, - makes good sense. ως
σοφος is put in the mouth of the
girl, and would mean ‘a good guess’! The allusion of
a guest to the superstition that the wolf struck people dumb is
taken by Cynisca for a reference to young Wolf, her secret
lover.
{73} Or, as Wordsworth suggests, reading
δακρυσι, ‘for him
your cheeks are wet with tears.’
{74a} Shaving in the bronze, and still more,
of course, in the stone age, was an uncomfortable and difficult
process. The backward and barbarous Thracians were therefore
trimmed in the roughest way, like Aeschines, with his long gnawed
moustache.
{74b} The Megarians having inquired of the
Delphic oracle as to their rank among Greek cities, were told
that they were absolute last, and not in the reckoning at
all.
{77} Our Lady, here, is Persephone. The
ejaculation served for the old as well as for the new religion of
Sicily. The dialogue is here arranged as in Fritzsche’s
text, and in line 8 his punctuation is followed.
{78a} If cats are meant, the proverb is
probably Alexandrian. Common as cats were in Egypt, they were
late comers in Greece.
{78b} Most of the dialogue has been
distributed as in the text of Fritzsche.
{82} Reading
περυσιν.
{89} I.e. Syracuse, a colony of the
Ephyraeans or Corinthians. The Maiden is Persephone, the Mother
Demeter.
{93} Deipyle, daughter of Adrastus.
{98} Reading -
πιειρα ατε
λαον
ανεδραμε
κοσμος
αρουρα. See also
Wordsworth’s note on line 26.
{104} For αδεα
Wordsworth and Hermann conjecture
‘Αρεα. The sense would be that
Eunica, who thinks herself another Cypris, or Aphrodite is, in
turn, to be rejected by her Ares, her soldier-lover, as she has
rejected the herdsman.
{105} Reading
επιμυσσησι.
{106a} Reading τα
φυκιοεντα
τε λαιφη.
{106b} κωπα.
{106c}
ουδος δ'
ουχι θυραν
ειχ', and in the next line α
γαρ πενια
σφας
ετηρει.
{106d}
αυδαν.
{107} Reading, with Fritzsche -
αλλ' ονος
εν ραμνω, το
τε λυχνιον
εν
πρυτανειω
φαντι γαρ
αγρυπνιαν
τοδ' εχειν
The lines seem to contain two popular saws, of which it is
difficult to guess the meaning. The first saw appears to express
helplessness; the second, to hint that such comforts as lamps lit
all night long exist in towns, but are out of the reach of poor
fishermen.
{108a} Reading ηρεμ'
ενυξα και
νυξας
εχαλαξα. Asphalion first
hooked his fish, which ran gamely, and nearly doubled up the rod.
Then the fish sulked, and the angler half despaired of landing
him. To stir the sullen fish, he reminded him of his wound,
probably, as we do now, by keeping a tight line, and tapping the
butt of the rod. Then he slackened, giving the fish line in case
of a sudden rush; but as there was no such rush, he took in line,
or perhaps only showed his fish the butt (for it is not probable
that Asphalion had a reel), and so landed him. The Mediterranean
fishers generally toss the fish to land with no display of
science, but Asphalion’s imaginary capture was a
monster.
{108b} It is difficult to understand this
proceeding. Perhaps Asphalion had some small net fastened with
strings to his boat, in which he towed fish to shore, that the
contact with the water might keep them fresher than they were
likely to be in the bottom of the coble. On the other hand,
Asphalion was fishing from a rock. His dream may have been
confused.
{111} πυρεια
appear to have been ‘fire sticks,’ by rubbing which
together the heroes struck a light.
{118} Or εγχεα
λουσαι, ‘wash the
spears,’ as in the Zulu idiom.
{124} In line 57 for
τηλε read Wordsworth’s conjecture
τηδε =
ενταυθα.
{127} Odyssey. xix. 36 seq. (Reading
απερ not ατερ.)
‘Father, surely a great marvel is this that I behold with
mine eyes meseems, at least, that the walls of the hall . . . are
bright as it were with flaming fire’ . . . ‘Lo! this
is the wont of the gods that hold Olympus.’
{128} ξηρον, prae
timore non lacrymantem (Paley).
{129} Reading, after Fritzsche,
ρωγαδος
εκ πετρας. We
should have expected the accursed ashes (like those of Wyclif) to
be thrown into the river; cf. Virgil, Ecl. viii. 101,
‘Fer cineres, Amarylli, foras, rivoque fluenti transque
caput lace nec respexeris.’ Virgil’s knowledge of
these observances was not inferior to that of Theocritus.
{130} Reading
εστεμμενω. If
εστεμμνον is read,
the phrase will mean ‘pure brimming water.’
{135} Reading
οσσον.
{143} Reading αλλη, as
in Wordsworth’s conjecture, instead of
υλη.
{144} Reading
ποπανευματα.
{145} Πενθημα
και ου
πενθηα, a play on words difficult
to retain in English. Compare Idyl xiii. line 74.
{147} The conjecture εμα
δ' gives a good sense, mea vero Helena me potius ultra
petit.
{148} Reading, as in Wordsworth’s
conjecture, μη
'πιβαλης ταν
χειρα, και
ει γ' ετι
χειλος,
αμυξω.
{150a} Reading οιδ',
ακρατιμιη
εσσι, with Fritzsche. Compare the
conjecture of Wordsworth, ‘Ουδ'
ακρα τι μη
εσσι.
{150b} See Wordsworth’s
explanation.
{153} Syracuse.
{165} Reading,
πεδοικισται
(that is, the Corinthian founders of Syracuse), and following
Wordsworth’s other conjectures.
{167} This epigram may have been added by the
first editor of Theocritus, Artemidorus the Grammarian.
{176} This conjecture of Meineke’s
offers, at least, a meaning.
{181} Les hommes sont tous condamnés
à mort, avec des sursis indéfinis. - VICTOR
HUGO.
{205} Alcmena bore Iphicles to Amphictyon,
Hercules to Zeus.
{208} Reading, with Weise,
ποταγει δε
πολυ πλεον
αμμε
γαλανα.
{210} For the translations into verse I have
to thank Mr. Ernest Myers.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THEOCRITUS, BION AND
MOSCHUS ***