Theocritus, translated into English Verse

Excerpt

IDYLL I.

THYRSIS.

Sweet are the whispers of yon pine that makes

Low music o'er the spring, and, Goatherd, sweet

Thy piping; second thou to Pan alone.

Is his the horned ram? then thine the goat.

Is his the goat? to thee shall fall the kid;

And toothsome is the flesh of unmilked kids.

GOATHERD.

Shepherd, thy lay is as the noise of streams

Falling and falling aye from yon tall crag.

If for their meed the Muses claim the ewe,

Be thine the stall-fed lamb; or if they choose

The lamb, take thou the scarce less-valued ewe.

THYRSIS.

Pray, by the Nymphs, pray, Goatherd, seat thee here

Against this hill-slope in the tamarisk shade,

And pipe me somewhat, while I guard thy goats.

GOATHERD.

I durst not, Shepherd, O I durst not pipe

At noontide; fearing Pan, who at that hour

Rests from the toils of hunting. Harsh is he;

Wrath at his nostrils aye sits sentinel.

But, Thyrsis, thou canst sing of Daphnis' woes;

High is thy name for woodland minstrelsy:

Then rest we in the shadow of the elm

Fronting Priapus and the Fountain-nymphs.

There, where the oaks are and the Shepherd's seat,

Sing as thou sang'st erewhile, when matched with him

Of Libya, Chromis; and I'll give thee, first,

To milk, ay thrice, a goat—she suckles twins,

Yet ne'ertheless can fill two milkpails full;—

Next, a deep drinking-cup, with sweet wax scoured,

Two-handled, newly-carven, smacking yet

0' the chisel. Ivy reaches up and climbs

About its lip, gilt here and there with sprays

Of woodbine, that enwreathed about it flaunts

Her saffron fruitage. Framed therein appears

A damsel ('tis a miracle of art)

In robe and snood: and suitors at her side

With locks fair-flowing, on her right and left,

Battle with words, that fail to reach her heart.

She, laughing, glances now on this, flings now

Her chance regards on that: they, all for love

Wearied and eye-swoln, find their labour lost.

Carven elsewhere an ancient fisher stands

On the rough rocks: thereto the old man with pains

Drags his great casting-net, as one that toils

Full stoutly: every fibre of his frame

Seems fishing; so about the gray-beard's neck

(In might a youngster yet) the sinews swell.

Hard by that wave-beat sire a vineyard bends

Beneath its graceful load of burnished grapes;

A boy sits on the rude fence watching them.

Near him two foxes: down the rows of grapes

One ranging steals the ripest; one assails

With wiles the poor lad's scrip, to leave him soon

Stranded and supperless. He plaits meanwhile

With ears of corn a right fine cricket-trap,

And fits it on a rush: for vines, for scrip,

Little he cares, enamoured of his toy.

The cup is hung all round with lissom briar,

Triumph of Æolian art, a wondrous sight.

It was a ferryman's of Calydon:

A goat it cost me, and a great white cheese.

Ne'er yet my lips came near it, virgin still

It stands. And welcome to such boon art thou,

If for my sake thou'lt sing that lay of lays.

I jest not: up, lad, sing: no songs thou'lt own

In the dim land where all things are forgot....