Chapter 4

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!’