Poems By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes |
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| PASTORAL PIECES. |
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 | Poems |  |
118
PASTORAL PIECES.
THYRSIS.
FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. I.
THYRSIS.Yon breezy pine, that shades the limpid springs,
In many a vocal whisper sweetly sings:
Sweet too the warblings of thy breathing reed:
Thine, Goatherd, next to Pan, is music's meed!
For, if the god receive a horn'd he-goat,
The female shall attend thy Dorian oat:
But if the rights of Sylvan Pan forbid,
And he the female claim, be thine a kid.
GOATHERD.
Sweeter thy music, than the streams that roll
In liquid murmur down yon rocky knoll!
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A stall-fed lamb awaits the shepherd-swain:
But if the gentler lambkin please the Nine,
Melodious Thyrsis, then the ewe be thine.
THYRSIS.
Come, where these tamarisks cool the fervid air,
Rest on this bank—the vocal reed thy care!
Come, wilt thou tune, to charm the nymphs, thy lay?
I'll feed thy goats, if thou consent to play.
GOATHERD.
We dare not, shepherd, at the hour of noon,
Our pipes to rustic melodies attune:
'Tis Pan we fear: from hunting he returns,
As all in silence hush'd, the noon-day burns;
120
Whilst on his nostrils sits a bitter spleen.
But come, (since Daphnis' woes to thee are known;
And well we deem the rural Muse thine own,)
Let us, at ease, beneath that elm recline,
Where sculptur'd Naïds o'er their fountains shine;
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And oaks, wide-branching, shade yon pastoral seat.
And, Thyrsis, if thou sing so soft a strain
As erst contending with the Libyan Swain;
Thrice shalt thou milk that goat for such a lay;
Two kids she rears, yet fills two pails a day.
With this, I'll stake (o'erlaid with wax it stands,
And smells just recent from the graver's hands)
My large two-handled cup, rich-wrought and deep;
Around whose brim pale ivy seems to creep,
With helichryse entwin'd: small tendrils hold
Its saffron fruit in many a clasping fold.
Within, high-touch'd, a female figure shines;—
Her cawl—her vest—how soft the waving lines!
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Breathe in alternate strife their amorous vows!
On each, by turns, the faithless fair-one smiles,
And views the rival pair with wanton wiles.
Brimful, thro' passion, swell their twinkling eyes;
And their full bosoms heave with fruitless sighs!
Amidst the scene, a fisher, grey with years,
On the rough summit of a rock appears;
And labouring, with one effort, as he stands,
To throw his large net, drags it with both hands!
So muscular his limbs attract the sight—
You'd swear the fisher stretch'd with all his might.
Round his hoar neck, each swelling vein displays
A vigour worthy youth's robuster days!
Next, red ripe grapes in bending clusters glow:
A boy, to watch the vineyard, sits below!
Two foxes round him skulk: this slily gapes,
To catch a luscious morsel of the grapes;
But that, in ambush, aiming at the scrip,
Thinks 'tis too sweet a moment to let slip—
And cries: “It suits my tooth—the little dunce—
“I'll send him dinnerless away, for once!”
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Weaves locust-traps; nor scrip nor vineyard heeds.
Flexile around its sides the acanthus twin'd,
Strikes as a miracle of art the mind.
This cup (from Calydon it cross'd the seas)
I bought for a she-goat, and new-made cheese!
As yet unsoil'd, nor touch'd by lip of mine,
My friend, this masterpiece of wood be thine,
For thy lov'd hymn so sweet, a willing meed!
Sure sweeter flows not from the pastoral reed!
And yet I envy not thy proudest boast—
Thy music cannot reach oblivion's coast.
THYRSIS.
Begin, sweet Muses, your bucolic woe,
Lo, Etna's swain! 'tis Thyrsis' notes that flow!
Where stray'd ye, nymphs, when Daphnis pin'd with love?
Thro' Peneus' vale, or Pindus' steepy grove?
For not Anapus' flood your steps delay'd—
Or Acis' sacred wave, or Etna's shade!
Lo, Etna's swain! 'tis Thyrsis' notes that flow!
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Thro' Peneus' vale, or Pindus' steepy grove?
For not Anapus' flood your steps delay'd—
Or Acis' sacred wave, or Etna's shade!
Begin, sweet Muses, your bucolic woe,
In melting cadence may the numbers flow.
Gaunt wolves and pards deplor'd his parting breath;
And e'en the forest-lion mourn'd his death.
In melting cadence may the numbers flow.
Gaunt wolves and pards deplor'd his parting breath;
And e'en the forest-lion mourn'd his death.
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Begin, &c.
Bulls, cows, and steers, stood drooping at his side,
And wail'd, in sorrow, as the shepherd died.
Bulls, cows, and steers, stood drooping at his side,
And wail'd, in sorrow, as the shepherd died.
Begin, &c.
First, the wing'd Hermes from the mountain came:
“Whence, Daphnis, whence, he cried, this fatal flame?”
First, the wing'd Hermes from the mountain came:
“Whence, Daphnis, whence, he cried, this fatal flame?”
Begin, &c.
The Goatherds, Hinds, and Shepherds, all enquir'd—
“What ail'd the Herdsman? and what fever fir'd?”
Priapus came—and cried—‘Ah, Daphnis, say,
‘Does Love, poor Daphnis, steal thy soul away?
‘She with bare feet, thro' woods and fountains roves—
‘Exclaiming, “Hah, too thoughtless in thy loves!
“Hah! what tho' Herdsman be thy purer name,
“Sure, all the Goatherd marks thy lawless flame.
“He views with leering eyes his goats askance,
“Notes their keen sport, and pines in every glance!
“Thus, while the virgin-train, fleet bounding by,
“Weave the gay dance, and titter at thy sigh;
“Perfidious man! each laugh lights up desire,
“That wastes thy gloting eyes with wanton fire!”
Silent he sat—and burning every vein
Throbb'd thro' dire love, 'till Death extinguish'd pain.
The Goatherds, Hinds, and Shepherds, all enquir'd—
“What ail'd the Herdsman? and what fever fir'd?”
Priapus came—and cried—‘Ah, Daphnis, say,
‘Does Love, poor Daphnis, steal thy soul away?
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‘Exclaiming, “Hah, too thoughtless in thy loves!
“Hah! what tho' Herdsman be thy purer name,
“Sure, all the Goatherd marks thy lawless flame.
“He views with leering eyes his goats askance,
“Notes their keen sport, and pines in every glance!
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“Weave the gay dance, and titter at thy sigh;
“Perfidious man! each laugh lights up desire,
“That wastes thy gloting eyes with wanton fire!”
Silent he sat—and burning every vein
Throbb'd thro' dire love, 'till Death extinguish'd pain.
Begin, &c.
Next Venus' self the hapless youth addrest,
(With faint, forc'd smiles, yet anger at her breast)
‘Well, Daphnis, art thou still a match for Love?
‘Say, does not Cupid now the victor prove?’
Next Venus' self the hapless youth addrest,
(With faint, forc'd smiles, yet anger at her breast)
‘Well, Daphnis, art thou still a match for Love?
‘Say, does not Cupid now the victor prove?’
Begin, &c.
But he: ‘Too true, thou say'st, that Love hath won!
‘Too sure thy triumphs mark my setting sun!’
But he: ‘Too true, thou say'st, that Love hath won!
‘Too sure thy triumphs mark my setting sun!’
Begin, &c.
‘Fly, where Anchises—to his arms away—
‘And screen your pleasures from the garish day,
‘On Ida's hill: there spread o'er-arching groves;
‘There many an oak will hide your covert loves;
‘There the broad rush, in matted verdure, thrives;
‘There bees, in busy swarms, hum round their hives.
‘Fly, where Anchises—to his arms away—
‘And screen your pleasures from the garish day,
‘On Ida's hill: there spread o'er-arching groves;
‘There many an oak will hide your covert loves;
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‘There bees, in busy swarms, hum round their hives.
Begin, &c.
‘Adonis too—tho' delicately fair—
‘He feeds his flocks, and hunts the flying hare.
‘Adonis too—tho' delicately fair—
‘He feeds his flocks, and hunts the flying hare.
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Begin, &c.
‘Say,—if arm'd Diomed should meet thy sight—
‘I've conquer'd Daphnis—come, renew the fight!
‘Say,—if arm'd Diomed should meet thy sight—
‘I've conquer'd Daphnis—come, renew the fight!
Begin, &c.
‘Ye wolves and bears and panthers of the woods;
‘Ye glens and copses and ye foaming floods;
‘Ye waters, who your waves of silver roll
‘Near Thymbris' towers, that once cou'd soothe my soul—
‘And thou, dear—dear auspicious Arethuse!
‘O once the sweet inspirer of my Muse,
‘Farewell:—no more, alas! shall Daphnis rove
‘Amidst your haunts; for Daphnis dies of love!
‘Ye wolves and bears and panthers of the woods;
‘Ye glens and copses and ye foaming floods;
‘Ye waters, who your waves of silver roll
‘Near Thymbris' towers, that once cou'd soothe my soul—
‘And thou, dear—dear auspicious Arethuse!
‘O once the sweet inspirer of my Muse,
‘Farewell:—no more, alas! shall Daphnis rove
‘Amidst your haunts; for Daphnis dies of love!
Begin, &c.
‘I—I am he, who lowing oxen fed;
‘Who to their well-known brook my heifers led.
‘I—I am he, who lowing oxen fed;
‘Who to their well-known brook my heifers led.
Begin, &c.
‘Pan—Pan—of all our woodlands the delight,
‘Whether thou rovest on Lycæum's height,
‘Or o'er the mighty Mænalus, O deign
‘To visit sweet Sicilia's pastoral plain.
‘Leave Lycaonian Helicas' high tomb,
‘Tho' gods revere the monumental gloom!
‘Pan—Pan—of all our woodlands the delight,
‘Whether thou rovest on Lycæum's height,
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‘To visit sweet Sicilia's pastoral plain.
‘Leave Lycaonian Helicas' high tomb,
‘Tho' gods revere the monumental gloom!
Close, heavenly Muse, the tale of pastoral woe!
Ah! let the melting cadence cease to flow!
‘O Pan, my reeds so close-compacted take,
‘And call forth all their tones for Daphnis' sake!
‘Bent for thy lip this pipe be thine to play—
‘To the drear grave love hurries me away!
Ah! let the melting cadence cease to flow!
‘O Pan, my reeds so close-compacted take,
‘And call forth all their tones for Daphnis' sake!
‘Bent for thy lip this pipe be thine to play—
‘To the drear grave love hurries me away!
Close, &c.
‘Ye thorns and brambles the pale vi'let bear—
‘Ye junipers, produce narcissus fair!
‘Ye pines, with fruitage from the pear-tree crown'd,
‘Mark Daphnis' death, while all things change around—
‘Let stags pursue the beagles o'er the plain,
‘And screech-owls rival Philomela's strain.’
‘Ye thorns and brambles the pale vi'let bear—
‘Ye junipers, produce narcissus fair!
‘Ye pines, with fruitage from the pear-tree crown'd,
‘Mark Daphnis' death, while all things change around—
‘Let stags pursue the beagles o'er the plain,
‘And screech-owls rival Philomela's strain.’
Close, &c.
He ceas'd—and Venus would have rais'd his head—
But Fate had spun his last-remaining thread;
And Daphnis past the lake! The o'erwhelming tide
Buried the nymphs' delight—the Muse's pride!
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But Fate had spun his last-remaining thread;
And Daphnis past the lake! The o'erwhelming tide
Buried the nymphs' delight—the Muse's pride!
Close, &c.
Now, fairly, friend, I claim the cup and goat—
Her milk, a sweet libation, I devote
To you, ye Niue, inspirers of my lay!
Be mine a loftier song, some future day.
Now, fairly, friend, I claim the cup and goat—
Her milk, a sweet libation, I devote
To you, ye Niue, inspirers of my lay!
Be mine a loftier song, some future day.
GOATHERD.
Thyrsis! thy mouth may figs Ægilean fill;
And luscious honey on thy lips distil!
For sweeter, shepherd, is thy charming song,
Than ev'n Cicadas sing the boughs among.
Behold thy cup, so scented, that it seems
Imbued with fragrance at the fountain streams,
Where sport the Hours!—Come, Ciss! May Thyrsis' pail
Bespeak the richness of thy pasture-vale!
132
THE HARVEST-FEAST;
OR, THE VERNAL VOYAGE.
FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. VII.
Twas at the time when reigns the rural joke,
That Eucritus and I, from city-smoke,
(Join'd by our friend Amyntas) pac'd our way
To the fresh fields that green round Halys lay
There Lycops' sons their harvest-offerings paid,
And the rich honours of the feast display'd—
Great Lycops' generous sons—if any good
Flow down, transmitted with illustrious blood!
From Clytia's and from Chalcon's line they came,
Ev'n Chalcon shining in the rolls of fame;
From whose strong knee imprest upon the rock,
In sudden springs the Burine fountain broke!
Elms, rising round, in various verdure glow'd;
And the dim poplar's quivering foliage flow'd!
That Eucritus and I, from city-smoke,
(Join'd by our friend Amyntas) pac'd our way
To the fresh fields that green round Halys lay
There Lycops' sons their harvest-offerings paid,
And the rich honours of the feast display'd—
Great Lycops' generous sons—if any good
Flow down, transmitted with illustrious blood!
From Clytia's and from Chalcon's line they came,
Ev'n Chalcon shining in the rolls of fame;
From whose strong knee imprest upon the rock,
In sudden springs the Burine fountain broke!
Elms, rising round, in various verdure glow'd;
And the dim poplar's quivering foliage flow'd!
133
Scarce half the journey measur'd, (ere our eyes
Could see the tomb of Brasylas arise,)
Glad we o'ertook young Lycidas of Crete,
Whose Muse could warble many a ditty sweet!
His rustic trade might easily be seen,
For all could read the goatherd in his mien.
A goat's white skin that smelt as newly flay'd,
His shoulders loosely with its shag array'd:
His wide-wove girdle brac'd around his breast
A cloak, whose tatter'd shreds its age confest!
His right hand held a rough wild olive-crook,
And as we join'd, he cast a leering look
From his arch hazle-eye—while laughter hung
Upon his lips, and pleasure mov'd his tongue:
‘Where—where my friend Simichidas so fast,
‘Ere now the heats of sultry noon are past,
‘While sleeping in each hedge the lizard lies,
‘And not a crested lark swims o'er the skies?
‘Hah! thou art trudging for some dainty bit;
‘Or tread'st, besure, the wine-press for a cit!
‘Struck by thy hurrying clogs, the pebbles leap!
‘And, I'll be sworn, they ring at every step!’
Could see the tomb of Brasylas arise,)
Glad we o'ertook young Lycidas of Crete,
Whose Muse could warble many a ditty sweet!
His rustic trade might easily be seen,
For all could read the goatherd in his mien.
A goat's white skin that smelt as newly flay'd,
His shoulders loosely with its shag array'd:
His wide-wove girdle brac'd around his breast
A cloak, whose tatter'd shreds its age confest!
His right hand held a rough wild olive-crook,
And as we join'd, he cast a leering look
From his arch hazle-eye—while laughter hung
Upon his lips, and pleasure mov'd his tongue:
‘Where—where my friend Simichidas so fast,
‘Ere now the heats of sultry noon are past,
‘While sleeping in each hedge the lizard lies,
‘And not a crested lark swims o'er the skies?
‘Hah! thou art trudging for some dainty bit;
‘Or tread'st, besure, the wine-press for a cit!
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‘And, I'll be sworn, they ring at every step!’
‘Well met, dear Lycidas, (I strait replied)
‘No shepherd-swain, or reaper, e'er outvied
‘The music of thy pipe, as stories tell;—
‘I'm glad on't—Yet, I hope, I pipe as well!
‘Invited by our liberal friends, we go
‘Where the rich first-fruits of the harvest flow
‘To bless the fair-veil'd goddess, who with stores
‘Of ripen'd corn high-heap'd their groaning floors.
‘But let us carol the bucolic lay,
‘Since ours one common sun, one common way:
‘Alternate transport may our songs infuse—
‘The “honey'd mouth”—all name me—of the Muse!
‘All praise, in rapture, my poetic worth:
‘But I'm incredulous, I swear by earth!
‘I rival (conscious of my humbler strain)
‘Philetas or Sicelidas, in vain!
‘And tho' my melodies may soothe a friend,
‘A croaking frog with locusts, I contend!’
‘No shepherd-swain, or reaper, e'er outvied
‘The music of thy pipe, as stories tell;—
‘I'm glad on't—Yet, I hope, I pipe as well!
‘Invited by our liberal friends, we go
‘Where the rich first-fruits of the harvest flow
‘To bless the fair-veil'd goddess, who with stores
‘Of ripen'd corn high-heap'd their groaning floors.
‘But let us carol the bucolic lay,
‘Since ours one common sun, one common way:
‘Alternate transport may our songs infuse—
‘The “honey'd mouth”—all name me—of the Muse!
‘All praise, in rapture, my poetic worth:
‘But I'm incredulous, I swear by earth!
‘I rival (conscious of my humbler strain)
‘Philetas or Sicelidas, in vain!
‘And tho' my melodies may soothe a friend,
‘A croaking frog with locusts, I contend!’
135
Thus, artful, I.—But with arch smiles the youth
Exclaim'd, ‘Thou art a sprig of Jove, in truth!
‘And need'st not, sure, from just applauses shrink—
‘This crook be thine, to witness what I think.
‘I scorn the builder, as of mean account,
‘Whose lofty fabric would o'ertop the mount
‘Of proud Oromedon! Thus idly vie
‘The muse-cocks, who the Chian bird defy.
‘But let's begin, since time is on the wing;
‘And each, in turn, some sweet bucolic sing!
‘I'll chaunt (your ear with pleasure may they fill)
‘The strains I lately labour'd, on the hill.
Exclaim'd, ‘Thou art a sprig of Jove, in truth!
‘And need'st not, sure, from just applauses shrink—
‘This crook be thine, to witness what I think.
‘I scorn the builder, as of mean account,
‘Whose lofty fabric would o'ertop the mount
‘Of proud Oromedon! Thus idly vie
‘The muse-cocks, who the Chian bird defy.
‘But let's begin, since time is on the wing;
‘And each, in turn, some sweet bucolic sing!
‘I'll chaunt (your ear with pleasure may they fill)
‘The strains I lately labour'd, on the hill.
“O may the ship that wafts my Daphne, glide
“To Mitylene, o'er a favouring tide!
“Tho' southern winds their watery pinions spread,
“And stern Orion broods o'er Ocean's bed.
“So may her smile a lenient med'cine prove,
“To cool the fever of consuming love!
“And may the bleak south-east no longer rave,
“But gentle Halcyons smooth the ripling wave—
“Sweet Halcyons, lov'd by all the Nereid train
“Above each bird that skims, for food, the main.
“O may my fair-one reach the quiet bay;
“And every blessing speed her destin'd way!
“Then with white vi'lets shall my brows be crown'd
“With anise-wreaths, or rosy garlands bound!
“Then, at my hearth, the Ptelean bowl be quaff'd—
“And the parch'd bean add flavour to the draught!
“Then, as my elbows high my couch shall swell,
“Of parsley form'd, and golden asphodel;
“Then to my Daphne's health I'll drink, at ease,
“The sparkling juice, and drain it to the lees!
“Whilst with their pipes two swains delight my ear;
“And Tityrus sweetly sings, reclining near,
“How herdsman Daphnis lov'd the frowning maid;
“And, with vain sighs, o'er many a mountain stray'd:—
“How the rough oaks, where Himera's waters flow,
“Told to the passing stream, his tale of woe.
“For as on Caucasus, or Athos brow,
“Or Rhodope's, he breath'd the fruitless vow—
“Or Hœmus' hill; he sunk, thro' love, away,
“Like snows dissolving in the solar ray.
“Next shall he sing—how tyranny opprest
“The goatherd, prison'd in his ample chest!
“And how the bees from flowery meadows bore
“Their balms, and fed him with the luscious store!
“For on his lips the favour of the Muse
“Distill'd the nectar of her sweetest dews!
“To thee, Comates, tho' confin'd so fast,
“Sure, with quick pace, the vernal season past;
“Happy, amid thy prison, all day long,
“While honey dropp'd delicious on thy tongue!
“O hadst thou liv'd with us, a brother swain,
“How oft my charmed ears had caught thy strain!
“Thy goats upon the mountains had I fed,
“Or o'er the tufted vales, with pleasure led!
“Then had thy voice its sweetest powers display'd,
“Beneath the embowering oak, or pine-tree shade.”
“To Mitylene, o'er a favouring tide!
“Tho' southern winds their watery pinions spread,
“And stern Orion broods o'er Ocean's bed.
“So may her smile a lenient med'cine prove,
“To cool the fever of consuming love!
“And may the bleak south-east no longer rave,
“But gentle Halcyons smooth the ripling wave—
136
“Above each bird that skims, for food, the main.
“O may my fair-one reach the quiet bay;
“And every blessing speed her destin'd way!
“Then with white vi'lets shall my brows be crown'd
“With anise-wreaths, or rosy garlands bound!
“Then, at my hearth, the Ptelean bowl be quaff'd—
“And the parch'd bean add flavour to the draught!
“Then, as my elbows high my couch shall swell,
“Of parsley form'd, and golden asphodel;
“Then to my Daphne's health I'll drink, at ease,
“The sparkling juice, and drain it to the lees!
“Whilst with their pipes two swains delight my ear;
“And Tityrus sweetly sings, reclining near,
“How herdsman Daphnis lov'd the frowning maid;
“And, with vain sighs, o'er many a mountain stray'd:—
“How the rough oaks, where Himera's waters flow,
“Told to the passing stream, his tale of woe.
137
“Or Rhodope's, he breath'd the fruitless vow—
“Or Hœmus' hill; he sunk, thro' love, away,
“Like snows dissolving in the solar ray.
“Next shall he sing—how tyranny opprest
“The goatherd, prison'd in his ample chest!
“And how the bees from flowery meadows bore
“Their balms, and fed him with the luscious store!
“For on his lips the favour of the Muse
“Distill'd the nectar of her sweetest dews!
“To thee, Comates, tho' confin'd so fast,
“Sure, with quick pace, the vernal season past;
“Happy, amid thy prison, all day long,
“While honey dropp'd delicious on thy tongue!
“O hadst thou liv'd with us, a brother swain,
“How oft my charmed ears had caught thy strain!
“Thy goats upon the mountains had I fed,
“Or o'er the tufted vales, with pleasure led!
“Then had thy voice its sweetest powers display'd,
“Beneath the embowering oak, or pine-tree shade.”
138
He ceas'd—and thus alternate I replied:
‘Sweet Lycidas, of goatherd-youths the pride!
‘What time I drove my herds, the hills along,
‘The charming Wood-Nymphs taught me many a song:
‘Then hear (since thou hast gain'd the Muse's love)
‘Strains, whose high fame hath reach'd the throne of Jove!
‘Then hear the choicest of the lays I know—
‘In honour of thy name the numbers flow.
‘Sweet Lycidas, of goatherd-youths the pride!
‘What time I drove my herds, the hills along,
‘The charming Wood-Nymphs taught me many a song:
‘Then hear (since thou hast gain'd the Muse's love)
‘Strains, whose high fame hath reach'd the throne of Jove!
‘Then hear the choicest of the lays I know—
‘In honour of thy name the numbers flow.
“On me the Cupids sneez'd, who Myrta love
“As kids the verdure of the vernal grove!
“With the same fires my dear Aratus glows;
“And this full well the soft Aristis knows—
“Aristis, who can Phœbus' self inspire,
“In sweet accordance, ev'n with Phœbus' lyre!
“O Pan, for whom fair Omole displays
“Its green abodes, attend Aratus' lays!
“O bid her fly uncall'd into his arms,
“Whether dear Myrta, or Philina charms!
“So shall no more Arcadian youths deface
“With scaly squills thy form, tho' vain the chace!
“But if thou smile not on the lover's cause,
“Be stung by nettles—torn by harpy-claws;
“Freeze, in mid winter, near the torpid pole,
“On Edon, where the streams of Hebrus roll;
“And as an Æthiop burn, while summer glows,
“Where the hot Blemyan rocks o'er Nilus close.
“Ye Loves, whose cheeks the apple's bloom outvie—
“Come—from your Byblis' favourite murmurs fly!
“Leave—leave the waves of Hyetis; and bless
“The yellow-hair'd Dione's sweet recess!
“Shoot, with unerring aim, the tinctur'd dart;
“And pierce Philina's yet unwounded heart!
“But—‘as the melting pear’—(the rival maids
“Exclaim)—‘Philina's mellow beauty fades!”
“Then, dear Aratus! let us watch no more,
“Nor wear, with nightly toil, the bolted door!
“Some other, as the morn begins to peep,
“May the cock's clarion give to broken sleep!
“His limbs in listless languor may he stretch,
“And so we rest, a halter end the wretch!
“Ours be repose—and some enchantress wait,
“To ward, far off, each evil from our gate.”
“As kids the verdure of the vernal grove!
“With the same fires my dear Aratus glows;
“And this full well the soft Aristis knows—
139
“In sweet accordance, ev'n with Phœbus' lyre!
“O Pan, for whom fair Omole displays
“Its green abodes, attend Aratus' lays!
“O bid her fly uncall'd into his arms,
“Whether dear Myrta, or Philina charms!
“So shall no more Arcadian youths deface
“With scaly squills thy form, tho' vain the chace!
“But if thou smile not on the lover's cause,
“Be stung by nettles—torn by harpy-claws;
“Freeze, in mid winter, near the torpid pole,
“On Edon, where the streams of Hebrus roll;
“And as an Æthiop burn, while summer glows,
“Where the hot Blemyan rocks o'er Nilus close.
“Ye Loves, whose cheeks the apple's bloom outvie—
“Come—from your Byblis' favourite murmurs fly!
“Leave—leave the waves of Hyetis; and bless
“The yellow-hair'd Dione's sweet recess!
“Shoot, with unerring aim, the tinctur'd dart;
“And pierce Philina's yet unwounded heart!
“But—‘as the melting pear’—(the rival maids
“Exclaim)—‘Philina's mellow beauty fades!”
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“Nor wear, with nightly toil, the bolted door!
“Some other, as the morn begins to peep,
“May the cock's clarion give to broken sleep!
“His limbs in listless languor may he stretch,
“And so we rest, a halter end the wretch!
“Ours be repose—and some enchantress wait,
“To ward, far off, each evil from our gate.”
I sung, and (as presenting me his crook
He smil'd) the hospitable token took!
Then, parting, to the left, for Pyxa's towers
He turn'd; while we to Phrasidamus' bowers
Slop'd o'er the right-hand path our speedy way,
And hail'd the pleasures of the festal day.
There, in kind courtesy, our host had spread
Of vine and lentisk the refreshing bed!
Their breezy coolness elms and poplars gave,
And rills their murmur, from the Naïds cave!
Cicadas now retiring from the sun,
Amid the shady shrubs, their song begun.
From the thick copse we heard, far off, and lone,
The mellow'd shrillness of the woodlark's tone!
Warbled the linnet and the finch more near,
And the soft-sighing turtle sooth'd the ear!
The yellow bees humm'd pleasant in the shade,
And round the fountain's flowery margin play'd.
All breath'd of every summer-smell, that greets
The sense—all breath'd of ripe autumnal sweets—
Here pears, and thick-strown apples, there the glow
Of bending plums, that kiss'd the turf below!
Our wines four years had mellow'd in the cask—
And could Alcides boast so rich a flask,
(Say nymphs of Castaly) when Chiron gave
The generous juice, in Pholus' stony cave!
Or did such nectar, at Anapus' stream,
Rouse to the dance the Cyclops Polypheme
(Who hurls the mountain-rocks across the brine)
As, nymphs, ye mix'd at Ceres' glowing shrine?
He smil'd) the hospitable token took!
Then, parting, to the left, for Pyxa's towers
He turn'd; while we to Phrasidamus' bowers
Slop'd o'er the right-hand path our speedy way,
And hail'd the pleasures of the festal day.
There, in kind courtesy, our host had spread
Of vine and lentisk the refreshing bed!
Their breezy coolness elms and poplars gave,
And rills their murmur, from the Naïds cave!
Cicadas now retiring from the sun,
Amid the shady shrubs, their song begun.
141
The mellow'd shrillness of the woodlark's tone!
Warbled the linnet and the finch more near,
And the soft-sighing turtle sooth'd the ear!
The yellow bees humm'd pleasant in the shade,
And round the fountain's flowery margin play'd.
All breath'd of every summer-smell, that greets
The sense—all breath'd of ripe autumnal sweets—
Here pears, and thick-strown apples, there the glow
Of bending plums, that kiss'd the turf below!
Our wines four years had mellow'd in the cask—
And could Alcides boast so rich a flask,
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The generous juice, in Pholus' stony cave!
Or did such nectar, at Anapus' stream,
Rouse to the dance the Cyclops Polypheme
(Who hurls the mountain-rocks across the brine)
As, nymphs, ye mix'd at Ceres' glowing shrine?
O! may I fix the purging fan, again,
Delightful task! amid her heaps of grain;
And, in each hand, the laughing goddess hold
The poppy's vivid red—the ears of gold!
Delightful task! amid her heaps of grain;
And, in each hand, the laughing goddess hold
The poppy's vivid red—the ears of gold!
144
EUNICA;
OR, THE NEATHERD.
FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XX.
Lord! when to kiss the city-maid I tried,
How proud she look'd; and flouted me, and cried,
‘Away, thou rustic! nor my lips profane—
‘Dost think I ever learnt to kiss a swain?
‘No—I delight in city-lips alone—
‘Thou should'st not kiss me in a dream—begone.
‘No—Caitiff—hands so tawny—lips so thick—
‘And such a smell! Begone! for I am sick!’
She spoke—and spitting thrice, the saucy slut
Titter'd, and ey'd me o'er from head to foot;
And frown'd, and winc'd about to shew her shape,
And laugh'd aloud, and mutter'd—‘What an ape!’
Wild as she flung away, I speechless stood:
In anger boil'd the current of my blood!
Quick to my face the flushing crimson flew,
And like a rose I look'd o'ercharg'd with dew!
Still—still resentment in my breast I bear—
That she should scorn a youth so passing fair!
How proud she look'd; and flouted me, and cried,
‘Away, thou rustic! nor my lips profane—
‘Dost think I ever learnt to kiss a swain?
‘No—I delight in city-lips alone—
‘Thou should'st not kiss me in a dream—begone.
‘No—Caitiff—hands so tawny—lips so thick—
‘And such a smell! Begone! for I am sick!’
She spoke—and spitting thrice, the saucy slut
Titter'd, and ey'd me o'er from head to foot;
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And laugh'd aloud, and mutter'd—‘What an ape!’
Wild as she flung away, I speechless stood:
In anger boil'd the current of my blood!
Quick to my face the flushing crimson flew,
And like a rose I look'd o'ercharg'd with dew!
Still—still resentment in my breast I bear—
That she should scorn a youth so passing fair!
But say, my comrade-swains, and tell me truth—
Am not I bright in all the bloom of youth?
Or else what god hath fashion'd me anew?
Erst my fair form shone lovely to the view!
My beard, soft spread, like clasping ivy, clung;
My locks, like parsley, down my temples hung!
White o'er my sable eye-brows—snowy-white—
My open forehead seem'd one lustrous light!
My eyes, a living azure as they stream'd,
Than bright Minerva's more divinely beam'd.
My lips, like cream, with dulcet sounds replete,
Dropp'd music than the honey-comb more sweet;
And all enchanting flow'd the liquid note,
Or from my pipe, or flute, or Dorian oat!
The girls upon the hills confess my charms,
And, sighing, long to clasp me in their arms!
But for this flirt—so tinctur'd with the town—
Who scorns, forsooth, the proffers of a clown;
She never knew that Bacchus, tho' divine,
Pastur'd, amidst the vales, his lowing kine;
That Venus ev'n to cits a swain preferr'd,
And help'd him, on the hill, to feed his herd;
Or, fir'd by fair Adonis, that in groves
The Paphian Queen enjoy'd and mourn'd her loves.
Am not I bright in all the bloom of youth?
Or else what god hath fashion'd me anew?
Erst my fair form shone lovely to the view!
My beard, soft spread, like clasping ivy, clung;
My locks, like parsley, down my temples hung!
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My open forehead seem'd one lustrous light!
My eyes, a living azure as they stream'd,
Than bright Minerva's more divinely beam'd.
147
Dropp'd music than the honey-comb more sweet;
And all enchanting flow'd the liquid note,
Or from my pipe, or flute, or Dorian oat!
The girls upon the hills confess my charms,
And, sighing, long to clasp me in their arms!
But for this flirt—so tinctur'd with the town—
Who scorns, forsooth, the proffers of a clown;
She never knew that Bacchus, tho' divine,
Pastur'd, amidst the vales, his lowing kine;
That Venus ev'n to cits a swain preferr'd,
And help'd him, on the hill, to feed his herd;
Or, fir'd by fair Adonis, that in groves
The Paphian Queen enjoy'd and mourn'd her loves.
And was not sweet Endymion's self a swain—
Whom Luna lov'd, descending to the plain,
Whilst for the Latmian lawn she left her sphere?
And did not Rhea hold a herdsman dear?
Nay—'twas thy will thro' woodland haunts to rove
Ev'n for a little herdsboy, Father Jove!
Whom Luna lov'd, descending to the plain,
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And did not Rhea hold a herdsman dear?
Nay—'twas thy will thro' woodland haunts to rove
Ev'n for a little herdsboy, Father Jove!
And yet a neatherd's love Eunica thinks
Beneath her notice—the conceited minx!
And vaunts her graceful air—unmatch'd, I ween,
By Rhea, Cynthia, or the Cyprian Queen!
Bewitching beauty! Tho', besure, we see
A second Cytherea bloom in thee,
O may'st thou sigh, for aye—and sigh in vain—
To kiss thy lover of the town again!
Despis'd by every cit, be thine to prove
The hill's rude breezes for a herdsman's love;
But may the rustic's scorn thy crime atone,
And slighted, may'st thou sleep all night—alone!
Beneath her notice—the conceited minx!
And vaunts her graceful air—unmatch'd, I ween,
By Rhea, Cynthia, or the Cyprian Queen!
Bewitching beauty! Tho', besure, we see
A second Cytherea bloom in thee,
O may'st thou sigh, for aye—and sigh in vain—
To kiss thy lover of the town again!
Despis'd by every cit, be thine to prove
The hill's rude breezes for a herdsman's love;
But may the rustic's scorn thy crime atone,
And slighted, may'st thou sleep all night—alone!
149
DAPHNIS AND SHEPHERDESS.
FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XXVII.
DAPHNIS.Young Paris the Trojan, who tended his herd,
To the fair-ones of Troy a Greek beauty preferr'd.
He stole the gay charmer, an amorous felon;
I boast a free kiss from a sweeter than Helen!
SHEPHERDESS.
A kiss is so empty: You satyr!—Poh! poh!
DAPHNIS.
And yet there's some pleasure in kissing, I trow!
[Kisses her.
SHEPHERDESS.
I wipe then my mouth, and your kisses disdain!
DAPHNIS.
Do you wipe? Come, I'm ready for bussing again—
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Kiss your heifers; nor worry a virgin, you lout!
DAPHNIS.
Indeed! but remember, tho' now you may flout,
That your beauty, however 'tis held in esteem,
Will fade, haughty girl, and be gone, like a dream.
SHEPHERDESS.
The grape, when it's dried, is delicious in taste,
And the rose is still sweet when its blushes are past.
DAPHNIS.
Come hither; I've something to whisper, my maid—
These wild olives form an agreeable shade.
SHEPHERDESS.
No—no—Mr. Wag! 'tis a little too soon
To be dup'd so again!
DAPHNIS.
Then I'll play you a tune
Beneath yonder elms!
151
Go, and play to yourself!
I cannot attend to so wretched an elf!
DAPHNIS.
Ah, maiden, of Venus's anger beware!
SHEPHERDESS.
Her anger! Diana alone is my care!
DAPHNIS.
Take heed, lest the goddess, whom thus you defy,
Should rivet a knot you may never untie!
SHEPHERDESS.
No fear, while Diana continues to watch;
Be quiet—hands off—or, I swear, I will scratch.
DAPHNIS.
You may vaunt, as you like, your slim delicate shape—
But the fate of your sex you can never escape!
SHEPHERDESS.
Believe me, by Pan, I'll be never a wife;
But may you bear the yoke all the days of your life!
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In the end, I much fear you will marry some brute.
SHEPHERDESS.
Many wooers I've had, but no wooer would suit!
DAPHNIS.
What think you of me?
SHEPHERDESS.
Why, my friend, without jest,
I think Hymen's yoke is a burthen at best.
DAPHNIS.
No: marriage is nothing but pleasure—
SHEPHERDESS.
When wives
By their husbands are terrified out of their lives!
DAPHNIS.
No, maiden! the fact is, that wives domineer:
Whom was ever a woman discover'd to fear?
SHEPHERDESS.
I'm most of the perils of child-birth afraid—
153
Your guardian Diana's a midwife by trade.
SHEPHERDESS.
Yet I tremble! it ruins, at last, the complexion!
DAPHNIS.
Your children will make up the loss in affection!
SHEPHERDESS.
But where is my jointure, if I should consent?
DAPHNIS.
My fields and my woodlands, in all their extent,
With my flocks and my herds—
SHEPHERDESS.
Then an oath you shall take
That you love me with truth, and will never forsake.
DAPHNIS.
Yes, tho' you endeavour to force me away,
By Pan, whom we worship, I swear I will stay.
SHEPHERDESS.
Will you build me a lodging, and sheep-cote, and bed?
154
Yes all—and my pastures with flocks are o'erspread.
SHEPHERDESS.
But how shall I tell my old father my love?
DAPHNIS.
No fear: If you mention my name, he'll approve.
SHEPHERDESS.
Pray what are you call'd? There are charms in a name—
DAPHNIS.
I'm Daphnis: my father of musical fame,
Old Lycid: my mother, Nomea.
SHEPHERDESS.
The blood
Runs rich in your veins; and yet mine is as good.
DAPHNIS.
Not better, besure; for your father I know—
Menalcas, who lives in the valley below.
SHEPHERDESS.
Then shew me your groves; and the cote where it lies.
155
Come hither; and mark how my cypresses rise!
SHEPHERDESS.
Browse yonder, my goats, while I haste to the grove!
DAPHNIS.
And feed, my brave bulls—while I wanton in love!
156
THE COTTAGE GIRL.
WRITTEN ON MIDSUMMER-EVE, 1786.
“Thrice hail with magic song this hallow'd hour!”
Theocritus, Idyl. ii.
Theocritus, Idyl. ii.
Sweet to the fond poetic eye
The evening-cloud that wanders by;
Its transitory shadow pale
Brushing, so still, the purpled vale!
And sweet, beyond the misty stream,
The wild wood's scatter'd tuftings gleam,
(Where the horizon steals from sight)
Cool-tinctur'd in the fainting light!
Yet, sweeter than the silent scene,
The manners of yon cottag'd green;
Where nature breathes the genuine heart,
Unvarnish'd by the gloss of art!
The evening-cloud that wanders by;
Its transitory shadow pale
Brushing, so still, the purpled vale!
And sweet, beyond the misty stream,
The wild wood's scatter'd tuftings gleam,
(Where the horizon steals from sight)
Cool-tinctur'd in the fainting light!
Yet, sweeter than the silent scene,
The manners of yon cottag'd green;
Where nature breathes the genuine heart,
Unvarnish'd by the gloss of art!
Now glimmer scarce the hill-tops near,
As village murmurs catch mine ear:
And now yon cot, beside the lea,
(Whence oft I hear the peasant's glee)
Fades to the glimpse of twilight grey,
And, in the gloom, slow sinks away!
There, as her light of frugal rush
Twinkles thro' the white-thorn bush,
Reflected from the scanty pane,
The rustic maid invokes her swain;
And hails, to pensive damsels dear,
This eve, tho' direst of the year!
As village murmurs catch mine ear:
157
(Whence oft I hear the peasant's glee)
Fades to the glimpse of twilight grey,
And, in the gloom, slow sinks away!
There, as her light of frugal rush
Twinkles thro' the white-thorn bush,
Reflected from the scanty pane,
The rustic maid invokes her swain;
And hails, to pensive damsels dear,
This eve, tho' direst of the year!
Oft on the shrub she casts her eye,
That spoke her true-love's secret sigh;
Or else, alas! too plainly told,
Her true-love's faithless heart was cold.
That spoke her true-love's secret sigh;
Or else, alas! too plainly told,
Her true-love's faithless heart was cold.
The moss-rose that, at fall of dew,
(Ere eve its duskier curtain drew)
Was freshly gather'd from its stem,
She values as the ruby gem;
And, guarded from the piercing air,
With all an anxious lover's care,
She bids it, for her shepherd's sake,
Await the new-year's frolic wake—
When, faded, in its alter'd hue
She reads—the rustic is untrue!
But, if its leaves the crimson paint,
Her sickening hopes no longer faint.
The rose upon her bosom worn,
She meets him at the peep of morn:
And lo! her lips with kisses prest,
He plucks it from her panting breast.
(Ere eve its duskier curtain drew)
Was freshly gather'd from its stem,
She values as the ruby gem;
158
With all an anxious lover's care,
She bids it, for her shepherd's sake,
Await the new-year's frolic wake—
When, faded, in its alter'd hue
She reads—the rustic is untrue!
But, if its leaves the crimson paint,
Her sickening hopes no longer faint.
The rose upon her bosom worn,
She meets him at the peep of morn:
And lo! her lips with kisses prest,
He plucks it from her panting breast.
Dearer than seas of glowing pearl,
The illusion soothes the cottage girl,
Whilst, on this thrice-hallow'd eve,
Her wishes and her fears believe
All that the credulous have taught
To stir the quivering pulse of thought.
The illusion soothes the cottage girl,
Whilst, on this thrice-hallow'd eve,
Her wishes and her fears believe
All that the credulous have taught
To stir the quivering pulse of thought.
Now, to relieve her growing fear,
That feels the haunted moment near
When ghosts in chains the church-yard walk,
She tries to steal the time by talk.
But hark! the church-clock swings around
With a dead pause each sullen sound,
And tells, the midnight hour is come
That wraps the groves in spectred gloom!
That feels the haunted moment near
159
She tries to steal the time by talk.
But hark! the church-clock swings around
With a dead pause each sullen sound,
And tells, the midnight hour is come
That wraps the groves in spectred gloom!
To issue from beneath the thatch,
With trembling hand she lifts the latch,
And steps, as creaks the feeble door,
With cautious feet her threshold o'er;
Lest, stumbling on the horse-shoe dim,
Dire spells unsinew every limb.
With trembling hand she lifts the latch,
And steps, as creaks the feeble door,
With cautious feet her threshold o'er;
Lest, stumbling on the horse-shoe dim,
Dire spells unsinew every limb.
Lo, shuddering at the solemn deed,
She scatters round the magic seed,
And thrice repeats, “The seed I sow;
“My true-love's scythe the crop shall mow.”
Strait, as her frame fresh horrors freeze,
Her true-love with his scythe she sees!
She scatters round the magic seed,
And thrice repeats, “The seed I sow;
“My true-love's scythe the crop shall mow.”
Strait, as her frame fresh horrors freeze,
Her true-love with his scythe she sees!
160
And next, she seeks the yew-tree shade,
Where he who died for love is laid;
There binds upon the verdant sod
(By many a moon-light faery trod)
The cowslip and the lily wreath
She wove, her hawthorn-hedge beneath:
And, whispering, “Ah, may Colin prove
“As constant, as thou wast, to love—”
Kisses with pale lip, full of dread,
The turf that hides his clay-cold head!
Then homeward, as thro' rustling trees
She hears a shriek in every breeze,
In forms her flutter'd spirits give
Each shivering leaf appears to live.
At length, her love-sick projects tried,
She gains her cot the lea beside;
And on her pillow sinks to rest,
With dreams of constant Colin blest;
While, east-along, the ruddy streak
Colours the shadows at day-break!
Where he who died for love is laid;
There binds upon the verdant sod
(By many a moon-light faery trod)
The cowslip and the lily wreath
She wove, her hawthorn-hedge beneath:
And, whispering, “Ah, may Colin prove
“As constant, as thou wast, to love—”
Kisses with pale lip, full of dread,
The turf that hides his clay-cold head!
Then homeward, as thro' rustling trees
She hears a shriek in every breeze,
In forms her flutter'd spirits give
Each shivering leaf appears to live.
At length, her love-sick projects tried,
She gains her cot the lea beside;
And on her pillow sinks to rest,
With dreams of constant Colin blest;
While, east-along, the ruddy streak
Colours the shadows at day-break!
161
Such are the phantoms love can raise;
As first his gradual ardour strays
O'er the young virgin's thrilling frame;
A sweet delirium in the flame!
Her bosom's gently rising swell,
And purple light, the tumult tell—
The melting blush upon her cheek,
The sigh, the glance, her passion speak!
And now, some favourite object near,
She feels the throbs of hope and fear;
And, all unknowing to conceal
The ingenuous soul by fashion's veil,
Tries every art to feed her fires
That fond credulity inspires.
As first his gradual ardour strays
O'er the young virgin's thrilling frame;
A sweet delirium in the flame!
Her bosom's gently rising swell,
And purple light, the tumult tell—
The melting blush upon her cheek,
The sigh, the glance, her passion speak!
And now, some favourite object near,
She feels the throbs of hope and fear;
And, all unknowing to conceal
The ingenuous soul by fashion's veil,
Tries every art to feed her fires
That fond credulity inspires.
Nor love alone, in vernal youth,
Bids airy fancy mimic truth.
The cottager, or maid, or wife,
Each dear deception owns thro' life:
Whether, as superstitions sway,
O'er upland dews she slopes her way,
Hailing, on Easter's holy morn,
The spotless lamb thro' ether borne,
Which her adoring eyes behold,
Mid orient skies of molten gold;
Or whether, if disease assail
In shape of shivering tertian pale,
For Tray, what time the fit began,
She breaks the salted cake of bran,
Transferring with the charmed bit
To fawning Tray her ague fit;
Or, as the recent grave she delves,
(Ere dawn dissolve the circling elves)
Where the last youth was lock'd in sleep,
The sacred salt she buries deep—
Thus nine times (no companion nigh
To cheer the night-envelop'd sky)
Revisiting the charnel ground,
“Her tongue chain'd up without a sound.”
Bids airy fancy mimic truth.
The cottager, or maid, or wife,
Each dear deception owns thro' life:
Whether, as superstitions sway,
O'er upland dews she slopes her way,
162
The spotless lamb thro' ether borne,
Which her adoring eyes behold,
Mid orient skies of molten gold;
Or whether, if disease assail
In shape of shivering tertian pale,
For Tray, what time the fit began,
She breaks the salted cake of bran,
Transferring with the charmed bit
To fawning Tray her ague fit;
Or, as the recent grave she delves,
(Ere dawn dissolve the circling elves)
Where the last youth was lock'd in sleep,
The sacred salt she buries deep—
Thus nine times (no companion nigh
To cheer the night-envelop'd sky)
Revisiting the charnel ground,
“Her tongue chain'd up without a sound.”
'Tis thus fantastic visions rise,
To cheat the unweeting damsel's eyes.
Nor bending age, nor pining want,
The faery prospect disenchant:
But, stor'd with many a trancing charm,
A thousand phantoms round her swarm;
'Till now the villagers, o'eraw'd,
Her various feats in wonder laud;
And, arm'd with her associate switch,
She dwindles to—a wither'd witch!
To cheat the unweeting damsel's eyes.
163
The faery prospect disenchant:
But, stor'd with many a trancing charm,
A thousand phantoms round her swarm;
'Till now the villagers, o'eraw'd,
Her various feats in wonder laud;
And, arm'd with her associate switch,
She dwindles to—a wither'd witch!
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