by Theocritus
But, looking ever on the ground, went silently my way.
The heifer’s voice, the heifer’s breath, are passing sweet to me;
And sweet is sleep by summer-brooks upon the breezy lea:
As acorns are the green oak’s pride, apples the apple-bough’s;
So the cow glorieth in her calf, the cowherd in his cows.”
Thus the two lads; then spoke the third, sitting his goats among:
GOATHERD.
“O Daphnis, lovely is thy voice, thy music sweetly sung;
Such song is pleasanter to me than honey on my tongue.
Accept this pipe, for thou hast won. And should there be some notes
That thou couldst teach me, as I plod alongside with my goats,
I’ll give thee for thy schooling this ewe, that horns hath none:
Day after day she’ll fill the can, until the milk o’errun.”
Then how the one lad laughed and leaped and clapped his hands for
glee!
A kid that bounds to meet its dam might dance as merrily.
And how the other inly burned, struck down by his disgrace!
A maid first parting from her home might wear as sad a face.
Thenceforth was Daphnis champion of all the country side:
And won, while yet in topmost youth, a Naiad for his bride.
IDYLL IX. Pastorals.
DAPHNIS. MENALCAS. A SHEPHERD.
SHEPHERD.
A song from Daphnis! Open he the lay,
He open: and Menalcas follow next:
While the calves suck, and with the barren kine
The young bulls graze, or roam knee-deep in leaves,
And ne’er play truant. But a song from thee,
Daphnis — anon Menalcas will reply.
DAPHNIS.
Sweet is the chorus of the calves and kine,
And sweet the herdsman’s pipe. But none may vie
With Daphnis; and a rush-strown bed is mine
Near a cool rill, where carpeted I lie
On fair white goatskins. From a hill-top high
The westwind swept me down the herd entire,
Cropping the strawberries: whence it comes that I
No more heed summer, with his breath of fire,
Than lovers heed the words of mother and of sire.
Thus Daphnis: and Menalcas answered thus: —
MENALCAS.
O Ætna, mother mine! A grotto fair,
Scooped in the rocks, have I: and there I keep
All that in dreams men picture! Treasured there
Are multitudes of she-goats and of sheep,
Swathed in whose wool from top to toe I sleep.
The fire that boils my pot, with oak or beech
Is piled — dry beech-logs when the snow lies deep;
And storm and sunshine, I disdain them each
As toothless sires a nut, when broth is in their reach.
I clapped applause, and straight produced my gifts:
A staff for Daphnis— ’twas the handiwork
Of nature, in my father’s acres grown:
Yet might a turner find no fault therewith.
I gave his mate a goodly spiral-shell:
We stalked its inmate on the Icarian rocks
And ate him, parted fivefold among five.
He blew forthwith the trumpet on his shell.
Tell, woodland Muse — and then farewell — what song
I, the chance-comer, sang before those twain.
SHEPHERD.
Ne’er let a falsehood scarify my tongue!
Crickets with crickets, ants with ants agree,
And hawks with hawks: and music sweetly sung,
Beyond all else, is grateful unto me.
Filled aye with music may my dwelling be!
Not slumber, not the bursting forth of Spring
So charms me, nor the flowers that tempt the bee,
As those sweet Sisters. He, on whom they fling
One gracious glance, is proof to Circè’s blandishing.
IDYLL X. The Two Workmen.
MILO. BATTUS.
What now, poor o’erworked drudge, is on thy mind?
No more in even swathe thou layest the corn:
Thy fellow-reapers leave thee far behind,
As flocks a ewe that’s footsore from a thorn.
By noon and midday what will be thy plight
If now, so soon, thy sickle fails to bite?
BATTUS.
Hewn from hard rocks, untired at set of sun,
Milo, didst ne’er regret some absent one?
MILO.
Not I. What time have workers for regret?
BATTUS.
Hath love ne’er kept thee from thy slumbers yet?
MILO.
Nay, heaven forbid! If once the cat taste cream!
BATTUS.
Milo, these ten days love hath been my dream.
MILO.
You drain your wine, while vinegar’s scarce with me.
BATTUS.
— Hence since last spring untrimmed my borders be.
MILO.
And what lass flouts thee?
BATTUS.
She whom we heard play
Amongst Hippocoön’s reapers yesterday.
MILO.
Your sins have found you out — you’re e’en served right:
You’ll clasp a corn-crake in your arms all night.
BATTUS.
You laugh: but headstrong Love is blind no less
Than Plutus: talking big is foolishness.
MILO.
I talk not big. But lay the corn-ears low
And trill the while some love-song — easier so
Will seem your toil: you used to sing, I know.
BATTUS.
Maids of Pieria, of my slim lass sing!
One touch of yours ennobles everything.
[Sings]
Fairy Bombyca! thee do men report
Lean, dusk, a gipsy: I alone nut-brown.
Violets and pencilled hyacinths are swart,
Yet first of flowers they’re chosen for a crown.
As goats pursue the clover, wolves the goat,
And cranes the ploughman, upon thee I dote.
Had I but Croesus’ wealth, we twain should stand
Gold-sculptured in Love’s temple; thou, thy lyre
(Ay or a rose or apple) in thy hand,
I in my brave new shoon and dance-attire.
Fairy Bombyca! twinkling dice thy feet,
Poppies thy lips, thy ways none knows how sweet!
MILO.
Who dreamed what subtle strains our bumpkin wrought?
How shone the artist in each measured verse!
Fie on the beard that I have grown for naught!
Mark, lad, these lines by glorious Lytierse.
[Sings]
O rich in fruit and cornblade: be this field
Tilled well, Demeter, and fair fruitage yield!
Bind the sheaves, reapers: lest one, passing, say —
‘A fig for these, they’re never worth their pay.’
Let the mown swathes look northward, ye who mow,
Or westward — for the ears grow fattest so.
Avoid a noontide nap, ye threshing men:
The chaff flies thickest from the corn-ears then.
Wake when the lark wakes; when he slumbers, close
Your work, ye reapers: and at noontide doze.
Boys, the frogs’ life for me! They need not him
Who fills the flagon, for in drink they swim.
Better boil herbs, thou toiler after gain,
Than, splitting cummin, split thy hand in twain.
Strains such as these, I trow, befit them well
Who toil and moil when noon is at its height:
Thy meagre love-tale, bumpkin, though shouldst tell
Thy grandam as she wakes up ere ’tis light.
IDYLL XI. The Giant’s Wooing
Methinks
all nature hath no cure for Love,
Plaster or unguent, Nicias, saving one;
And this is light and pleasant to a man,
Yet hard withal to compass — minstrelsy.
As well thou wottest, being thyself a leech,
And a prime favourite of those Sisters nine.
’Twas thus our Giant lived a life of ease,
Old Polyphemus, when, the down scarce seen
On lip and chin, he wooed his ocean nymph:
No curlypated rose-and-apple wooer,
But a fell madman, blind to all but love.
Oft from the green grass foldward fared his sheep
Unbid: while he upon the windy beach,
Singing his Galatea, sat and pined
From dawn to dusk, an ulcer at his heart:
Great Aphrodite’s shaft had fixed it there.
Yet found he that one cure: he sate him down
On the tall cliff, and seaward looked, and sang: —
“White Galatea, why disdain thy love?
White as a pressed cheese, delicate as the lamb,
Wild as the heifer, soft as summer grapes!
If sweet sleep chain me, here thou walk’st at large;
If sweet sleep loose me, straightway thou art gone,
Scared like a sheep that sees the grey wolf near.
I loved thee, maiden, when thou cam’st long since,
To pluck the hyacinth-blossom on the fell,
Thou and my mother, piloted by me.
I saw thee, see thee still, from that day forth
For ever; but ’tis naught, ay naught, to thee.
I know, sweet maiden, why thou art so coy:
Shaggy and huge, a single eyebrow spans
From ear to ear my forehead, whence one eye
Gleams, and an o’erbroad nostril tops my lip.
Yet I, this monster, feed a thousand sheep
That yield me sweetest draughts at milking-tide:
In summer, autumn, or midwinter, still
Fails not my cheese; my milkpail aye o’erflows.
Then I can pipe as ne’er did Giant yet,
Singing our loves — ours, honey, thine and mine —
At dead of night: and hinds I rear eleven
(Each with her fawn) and bearcubs four, for thee.
Oh come to me — thou shalt not rue the day —
And let the mad seas beat against the shore!
‘Twere sweet to haunt my cave the livelong night:
Laurel, and cypress tall, and ivy dun,
And vines of sumptuous fruitage, all are there:
And a cold spring that pine-clad Ætna flings
Down from, the white snow’s midst, a draught for gods!
Who would not change for this the ocean-waves?
“But thou mislik’st my hair? Well, oaken logs
Are here, and embers yet aglow with fire.
Burn (if thou wilt) my heart out, and mine eye,
Mine only eye wherein is my delight.
Oh why was I not born a finny thing,
To float unto thy side and kiss thy hand,
Denied thy lips — and bring thee lilies white
And crimson-petalled poppies’ dainty bloom!
Nay — summer hath his flowers and autumn his;
I could not bring all these the selfsame day.
Lo, should some mariner hither oar his road,
Sweet, he shall teach me straightway how to swim,
That haply I may learn what bliss ye find
In your sea-homes. O Galatea, come
Forth from yon waves, and coming forth forget
(As I do, sitting here) to get thee home:
And feed my flocks and milk them, nothing loth,
And pour the rennet in to fix my cheese!
“The blame’s my mother’s; she is false to me;
Spake thee ne’er yet one sweet word for my sake,
Though day by day she sees me pine and pine.
I’ll feign strange throbbings in my head and feet
To anguish her — as I am anguished now.”
O Cyclops, Cyclops, where are flown thy wits?
Go plait rush-baskets, lop the olive-boughs
To feed thy lambkins— ‘twere the shrewder part.
Chase not the recreant, milk the willing ewe:
The world hath Galateas fairer yet.
“ — Many a fair damsel bids me sport with her
The livelong night, and smiles if I give ear.
On land at least I still am somebody.”
Thus did the Giant feed his love on song,
And gained more ease than may be bought with gold.
IDYLL XII. The Comrades
Thou art come, lad, come! Scarce thrice hath dusk to day
Given place — but lovers in an hour grow gray.
As spring’s more sweet than winter, grapes than thorns,
The ewe’s fleece richer than her latest-born’s;
As young girls’ charms the thrice-wed wife’s outshine,
As fawns are lither than the ungainly kine,
Or as the nightingale’s clear notes outvie
The mingled music of all birds that fly;
So at thy coming passing glad was I.
I ran to greet thee e’en as pilgrims run
To beechen shadows from the scorching sun:
Oh if on us accordant Loves would breathe,
And our two names to future years bequeath!
‘These twain’ — let men say— ‘lived in olden days.
This was a yokel (in their country-phrase),
That was his mate (so talked these simple folk):
And lovingly they bore a mutual yoke.
The hearts of men were made of sterling gold,
When troth met troth, in those brave days of old,’
O Zeus, O gods who age not nor decay!
Let e’en two hundred ages roll away,
But at the last these tidings let me learn,
Borne o’er the fatal pool whence none return: —
“By every tongue thy constancy is sung,
Thine and thy favourite’s — chiefly by the young.”
But lo, the future is in heaven’s high hand:
Meanwhile thy graces all my praise demand,
Not false lip-praise, not idly bubbling froth —
For though thy wrath be kindled, e’en thy wrath
Hath no sting in it: doubly I am caressed,
And go my way repaid with interest.
Oarsmen of Megara, ruled by Nisus erst!
Yours be all bliss, because ye honoured first
That true child-lover, Attic Diocles.
Around his gravestone with the first spring-breeze
Flock the bairns all, to win the kissing-prize:
And whoso sweetliest lip to lip applies
Goes crown-clad home to its mother. Blest is he
Who in such strife is named the referee:
To brightfaced Ganymede full oft he’ll cry
To lend his lip the potencies that lie
Within that stone with which the usurers
Detect base metal, and which never errs.
IDYLL XIII. Hylas.
Not for us only, Nicias, (vain the dream,)
Sprung from what god soe’er, was Eros born:
Not to us only grace doth graceful seem,
Frail things who wot not of the coming morn.
No — for Amphitryon’s iron-hearted son,
Who braved the lion, was the slave of one: —
A fair curled creature, Hylas was his name.
He taught him, as a father might his child,
All songs whereby himself had risen to fame;
Nor ever from his side would be beguiled
When noon was high, nor when white steeds convey
Back to heaven’s gates the chariot of the day,
Nor when the hen’s shrill brood becomes aware
Of bed-time, as the mother’s flapping win
gs
Shadow the dust-browned beam. ’Twas all his care
To shape unto his own imaginings
And to the harness train his favourite youth,
Till he became a man in very truth.
Meanwhile, when kingly Jason steered in quest
Of the Gold Fleece, and chieftains at his side
Chosen from all cities, proffering each her best,
To rich Iolchos came that warrior tried,
And joined him unto trim-built Argo’s crew;
And with Alcmena’s son came Hylas too.
Through the great gulf shot Argo like a bird —
And by-and-bye reached Phasis, ne’er o’erta’en
By those in-rushing rocks, that have not stirred
Since then, but bask, twin monsters, on the main.
But now, when waned the spring, and lambs were fed
In far-off fields, and Pleiads gleamed overhead,
That cream and flower of knighthood looked to sail.
They came, within broad Argo safely stowed,
(When for three days had blown the southern gale)
To Hellespont, and in Propontis rode
At anchor, where Cianian oxen now
Broaden the furrows with the busy plough.
They leapt ashore, and, keeping rank, prepared
Their evening meal: a grassy meadow spread
Before their eyes, and many a warrior shared
(Thanks to its verdurous stores) one lowly bed.
And while they cut tall marigolds from their stem
And sworded bulrush, Hylas slipt from them.
Water the fair lad wont to seek and bring
To Heracles and stalwart Telamon,
(The comrades aye partook each other’s fare,)
Bearing a brazen pitcher. And anon,
Where the ground dipt, a fountain he espied,
And rushes growing green about its side.
There rose the sea-blue swallow-wort, and there
The pale-hued maidenhair, with parsley green
And vagrant marsh-flowers; and a revel rare
In the pool’s midst the water-nymphs were seen
To hold, those maidens of unslumbrous eyes
Whom the belated peasant sees and flies.
And fast did Malis and Eunica cling,
And young Nychea with her April face,
To the lad’s hand, as stooping o’er the spring
He dipt his pitcher. For the young Greek’s grace
Made their soft senses reel; and down he fell,
All of a sudden, into that black well.
So drops a red star suddenly from sky
To sea — and quoth some sailor to his mate:
“Up with the tackle, boy! the breeze is high.”
Him the nymphs pillowed, all disconsolate,
