The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus with the Elegies of Tyrtaeus, Translated from the Greek into English Verse. To which are Added, Dissertations and Notes. By the Rev. Richard Polwhele |
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| XI. | IDYLLIUM the ELEVENTH. The CYCLOPS. |
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 | The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus |  |
93
IDYLLIUM the ELEVENTH. The CYCLOPS.
Addressed to NICIAS.
Nicias, how vain the Labor, to remove
By Drugs or healing Herbs, the Fire of Love!
'Tis for the Muse alone, tho' rare her Art,
To quench, in lenient Balms, the burning Dart!
Dear to the Muse, 'tis thine full well to know,
We boast no sweeter Remedy below!
By Drugs or healing Herbs, the Fire of Love!
'Tis for the Muse alone, tho' rare her Art,
To quench, in lenient Balms, the burning Dart!
Dear to the Muse, 'tis thine full well to know,
We boast no sweeter Remedy below!
'Twas thus fam'd Polypheme, in elder Days,
Charm'd all his Soul to Rest, with soothing Lays—
When Galatea first inspir'd the Vows
Of Love—and Youth sprung vivid on his Brows!
Yet, tho' the rustic Swains their Passion breathe
O'er braided Tresses, or the rosy Wreath;
With no such Gifts of calm Delight he lov'd—
But all his madd'ning Breast the Furies mov'd.
Oft, as he wander'd on the sedgy Shore,
(Love all his Care—his Flocks review'd no more)
From grass-green Meads his Sheep were wont to roam—
Or seek their Cotes alone, returning Home.
Charm'd all his Soul to Rest, with soothing Lays—
When Galatea first inspir'd the Vows
Of Love—and Youth sprung vivid on his Brows!
Yet, tho' the rustic Swains their Passion breathe
O'er braided Tresses, or the rosy Wreath;
With no such Gifts of calm Delight he lov'd—
But all his madd'ning Breast the Furies mov'd.
94
(Love all his Care—his Flocks review'd no more)
From grass-green Meads his Sheep were wont to roam—
Or seek their Cotes alone, returning Home.
Meantime, his Galatea, all Day long,
The Burthen of his sweet-repeated Song,
He pin'd, with Love's keen Arrow at his Heart,
Yet found a Med'cine for the venom'd Dart;
While from a Rock that o'er the Billows hung,
He view'd the watery Waste, and sighing sung:
The Burthen of his sweet-repeated Song,
He pin'd, with Love's keen Arrow at his Heart,
Yet found a Med'cine for the venom'd Dart;
While from a Rock that o'er the Billows hung,
He view'd the watery Waste, and sighing sung:
‘O soft as Lambkins, than the Curd more white,
‘And as the Vine's unripen'd Fruitage bright—
‘O wanton as the Calf, my snowy Maid,
‘Why thus with Scorn are all my Vows repaid?
‘For tho', in Sleep, I see thy Form so fair,
‘I wake, and all the Vision melts in Air!
‘Ah then thy Beauties vanish from my Eyes!
‘Thus from the hoary Wolf the Lambkin flies.
‘Then first I lov'd (and drank of Love my Fill)
‘When, wandering round the Hyacinthine Hill,
‘Fair Nymph! thy guardion Mother by thy Side,
‘I led thee to its Flowers, a willing Guide.
‘Ah from that hapless Period have I pin'd;
‘Nor felt one Pause of Quiet in my Mind:
‘And yet, proud Maid! my Pangs no Pity move!
‘Nor gain from thee a Moment's Sigh, by Jove!
‘Indeed I guess the Cause of all thy Pride —
‘My Eye-brow stretch'd so shaggy and so wide!
‘One Socket only, where my large Eye glows!
‘And o'er my blubber Lips such Prominence of Nose.
‘Yet, tho' I'm such, I feed a thousand Sheep!
‘Milk the rich Stream, and drink its Beverage deep!
‘And from the Fatness of the o'erflowing Pails,
‘Curdle the softest Cheese that never fails!
‘Still, if the tepid Zephyr fan the Spring,
‘My plenteous Curd lies ready for the Wring!
‘Still, if the Summer scorch, the Winter freeze,
‘My Shelves are loaded with abundant Cheese.
‘No Cyclops, here, outvies my vocal Pipe,
‘Chaunting thy Charms so luscious and so ripe!
‘Yes! Apple of Delight! I sing, with Glee,
‘Oft, at the midnight Hour, myself and thee!
‘For thee ten Does, all mark'd with Moons, I rear;
‘And four fine Cubs—I plunder'd from a Bear!
‘Come then—nor heed the Dashing of the Wave,
‘Repose, each Night, more sweetly in my Cave!
‘Come Nymph! and I will give thee nothing less
‘Than thy own Grotto yields thee, to possess!
‘There, Ivy round my Bays and Cypress twines!
‘There, Grapes delicious load my blushing Vines.
‘There, from deep-shaded Ætna's melting Snows
‘The cooling Spring's ambrosial Beverage flows.
‘And who, my Fair-one, would prefer to these
‘The dull drear Prospect of a Waste of Seas?
‘But if my Beard—my Eye-brows be too rough,
‘I've Oaken Billets, and I've Fire enough:
‘On the red Hearth unquench'd my Embers live;
‘Then to the Flame my Beard—my Eye-brows give.
‘For ev'n to burn my Life-Blood I could bear—
‘Or this far dearer Eye, to please my Fair.
‘O had I sprung (alas! my hapless Doom)
‘With Fins, like Fishes, from my Mother's Womb;
‘Soon for thy Waters I had left the Land,
‘Div'd down, and kiss'd, if not thy Lips—thy Hand!
‘Then had I brought thee Lilies white as Snow;
‘And Poppy-bells, with Leaves that deeply glow!
‘But yet, at once, my Flowers I could not bring;
‘For these in Winter rise, and those in Spring.
‘Now—now—dear Maiden, will I learn to dive,
‘If some kind Sailor at our Coast arrive;
‘That I may see what Bliss is thine below—
‘What Pleasures I would wish thee to forego.
‘Yet come, my charming Galatea, come—
‘Forget (as I on this lone Spot) thy Home!
‘Come, leave the Covert of thy native Rocks!
‘And milk with me, my Love, and feed my Flocks!
‘Mix the sharp Runnet with the curdling Cream,
‘And from the Cheeses press the sourer Stream.
‘And as the Vine's unripen'd Fruitage bright—
‘O wanton as the Calf, my snowy Maid,
‘Why thus with Scorn are all my Vows repaid?
‘For tho', in Sleep, I see thy Form so fair,
‘I wake, and all the Vision melts in Air!
‘Ah then thy Beauties vanish from my Eyes!
‘Thus from the hoary Wolf the Lambkin flies.
‘Then first I lov'd (and drank of Love my Fill)
‘When, wandering round the Hyacinthine Hill,
95
‘I led thee to its Flowers, a willing Guide.
‘Ah from that hapless Period have I pin'd;
‘Nor felt one Pause of Quiet in my Mind:
‘And yet, proud Maid! my Pangs no Pity move!
‘Nor gain from thee a Moment's Sigh, by Jove!
‘Indeed I guess the Cause of all thy Pride —
‘My Eye-brow stretch'd so shaggy and so wide!
‘One Socket only, where my large Eye glows!
‘And o'er my blubber Lips such Prominence of Nose.
‘Yet, tho' I'm such, I feed a thousand Sheep!
‘Milk the rich Stream, and drink its Beverage deep!
‘And from the Fatness of the o'erflowing Pails,
‘Curdle the softest Cheese that never fails!
‘Still, if the tepid Zephyr fan the Spring,
‘My plenteous Curd lies ready for the Wring!
‘Still, if the Summer scorch, the Winter freeze,
‘My Shelves are loaded with abundant Cheese.
‘No Cyclops, here, outvies my vocal Pipe,
‘Chaunting thy Charms so luscious and so ripe!
96
‘Oft, at the midnight Hour, myself and thee!
‘For thee ten Does, all mark'd with Moons, I rear;
‘And four fine Cubs—I plunder'd from a Bear!
‘Come then—nor heed the Dashing of the Wave,
‘Repose, each Night, more sweetly in my Cave!
‘Come Nymph! and I will give thee nothing less
‘Than thy own Grotto yields thee, to possess!
‘There, Ivy round my Bays and Cypress twines!
‘There, Grapes delicious load my blushing Vines.
‘There, from deep-shaded Ætna's melting Snows
‘The cooling Spring's ambrosial Beverage flows.
‘And who, my Fair-one, would prefer to these
‘The dull drear Prospect of a Waste of Seas?
‘But if my Beard—my Eye-brows be too rough,
‘I've Oaken Billets, and I've Fire enough:
‘On the red Hearth unquench'd my Embers live;
‘Then to the Flame my Beard—my Eye-brows give.
‘For ev'n to burn my Life-Blood I could bear—
‘Or this far dearer Eye, to please my Fair.
97
‘With Fins, like Fishes, from my Mother's Womb;
‘Soon for thy Waters I had left the Land,
‘Div'd down, and kiss'd, if not thy Lips—thy Hand!
‘Then had I brought thee Lilies white as Snow;
‘And Poppy-bells, with Leaves that deeply glow!
‘But yet, at once, my Flowers I could not bring;
‘For these in Winter rise, and those in Spring.
‘Now—now—dear Maiden, will I learn to dive,
‘If some kind Sailor at our Coast arrive;
‘That I may see what Bliss is thine below—
‘What Pleasures I would wish thee to forego.
‘Yet come, my charming Galatea, come—
‘Forget (as I on this lone Spot) thy Home!
‘Come, leave the Covert of thy native Rocks!
‘And milk with me, my Love, and feed my Flocks!
‘Mix the sharp Runnet with the curdling Cream,
‘And from the Cheeses press the sourer Stream.
‘Ah! 'tis my Mother I accuse alone—
‘Who, tho' she daily hears my wasting Groan,
‘Ne'er whisper'd thee a Word: But she shall see
‘These Legs—this throbbing Heart—and grieve with me.
‘O Cyclops, where is all thy vanish'd Sense?
‘Go weave thy Baskets—go—and hie thee hence,
‘Where each green Tree its tender Twigs supplies—
‘Fresh Fodder for the Lambs—awake—be wise.
‘Go—milk the first that offers on the Plain:
‘Why thus pursue the flying Sheep in vain?
‘Come—let me give this Fooling to the Wind—
‘Another Girl, still fairer, may be kind.
‘Who, tho' she daily hears my wasting Groan,
98
‘These Legs—this throbbing Heart—and grieve with me.
‘O Cyclops, where is all thy vanish'd Sense?
‘Go weave thy Baskets—go—and hie thee hence,
‘Where each green Tree its tender Twigs supplies—
‘Fresh Fodder for the Lambs—awake—be wise.
‘Go—milk the first that offers on the Plain:
‘Why thus pursue the flying Sheep in vain?
‘Come—let me give this Fooling to the Wind—
‘Another Girl, still fairer, may be kind.
‘Full many a pretty Maid, at dusky Eve,
‘My Smiles and Jokes with frolic Laugh receive;
‘And hail me, as I join their sportive Band:
‘Tho' scorn'd at Sea, I'm some-one on the Land.’
‘My Smiles and Jokes with frolic Laugh receive;
‘And hail me, as I join their sportive Band:
‘Tho' scorn'd at Sea, I'm some-one on the Land.’
Thus could fond Polypheme his Passion calm
Thro' the sweet Influence of the Muse's Balm,
That gave his love-sick Heart more lenient Ease,
Than Med'cines dearly bought by lavish Fees.
Thro' the sweet Influence of the Muse's Balm,
That gave his love-sick Heart more lenient Ease,
Than Med'cines dearly bought by lavish Fees.
| The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus | |