Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

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

_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 sward_, _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_.

* * * * *