Theocritus, Bion and Moschus, Rendered into English Prose
Chapter 3
Enough has perhaps been said about the social and artistic taste of Alexandria to account for the remarkable differences in manner between the rustic idyls of Theocritus and the epic idyls of himself and his followers Moschus and Bion. In the rural idyls, Theocritus was himself and wrote to please himself. In the epic idyls, as in the Hymn to the Dioscuri, and in the two poems on Heracles, he was writing to please the taste of Alexandria. He had to choose epic topics, but he was warned by the famous saying of Callimachus (‘a great book is a great evil’) not to imitate the length of the epic. {0i} He was also to shun close imitation of what are so easily imitated, the regular recurring _formulae_, the commonplace of Homer. He was to add minute pictorial touches, as in the description of Alcmena’s waking when the serpents attacked her child,—a passage rich in domestic pathos and incident which contrast strongly with Pindar’s bare narrative of the same events. We have noted the same pictorial quality in the _Europa_ of Moschus. Our own age has often been compared to the Alexandrian epoch, to that era of large cities, wealth, refinement, criticism, and science; and the pictorial _Idylls of the King_ very closely resemble the epico-idyllic manner of Alexandria. We have tried to examine the society in which Theocritus lived. But our impressions about the poet are more distinct. In him we find the most genial character; pious as Greece counted piety; tender as became the poet of love; glad as the singer of a happy southern world should be; gifted, above all, with humour, and with dramatic power. ‘His lyre has all the chords’; his is the last of all the perfect voices of Hellas; after him no man saw life with eyes so steady and so mirthful.
About the lives of the three idyllic poets literary history says little. About their deaths she only tells us through the dirge by Moschus, that Bion was poisoned. The lovers of Theocritus would willingly hope that he returned from Alexandria to Sicily, about the time when he wrote the sixteenth idyl, and that he lived in the enjoyment of the friendship and the domestic happiness and honour which he sang so well, through the golden age of Hiero (264 B.C.) No happier fortune could befall him who wrote the epigram of the lady of heavenly love, who worshipped with the noble wife of Nicias under the green roof of Milesian Aphrodite, and who prophesied of the return of peace and of song to Sicily and Syracuse.
THEOCRITUS
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_.
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_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
_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_.
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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_.
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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.