University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
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
  

collapse section 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
IDYLLIUM the TWELFTH. To a FRIEND.
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
collapse section 
 1. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VIII. 
  
collapse section 
 II. 


99

IDYLLIUM the TWELFTH. To a FRIEND.

Say, art thou come, now three long Days are past—
To crown the Wishes of my Heart, at last?
Far as the Apple's Pulp outvies the Sloe;
Or vernal Meads the wintery Wastes of Snow;
Far as the milky Mothers of the Plain
Bear Wool more weighty than their Lambs sustain;
Far as the Virgin, in the Prime of Life,
Excells the Matron, three Times dubb'd a Wife;
Or the light Fawn the Calf—or Nightingales
Surpass the rival Minstrels of the Vales;
So far thy Converse cheers! To thee I run,
As Travellers to the Beech that screens the Sun.
O that our Fame of Friendship long may live—
And to recording Bards new Lustre give!

100

O may we, thro' a deathless Being, prove
The golden Joys of harmonizing Love!
Then, after many an Age hath roll'd away,
May some-one meet my Shade, and sweetly say:
‘Your Friendship blooms, the Theme of every Tongue,
‘And prompts the Shepherd's Tune—the Poet's Song.’
Such are my Prayers! May such the Fate dispose—
While, no dishonest Pimple on my Nose,
I with a firm-ton'd Energy maintain:
‘The Joy I've felt with thee, outweighs the Pain.’
Ye Megarensians, who, in equal Time,
The Music of your Oars so softly chime;
Blest may ye flourish; since the Athenian's Cause
Gain'd, at his closing Hour, your just Applause—
Above all Strangers honour'd, since ye pay
Due Rites to Diocles, each festal Day.
Then sprightly Boys, when Spring begins to bloom,
Sport, in soft Contest, at their Hero's Tomb;
And who the sweetest Kiss hath Power to breathe,
Bears to his Mother many a rosy Wreath.

101

Blest is the Man, with more than vulgar Bliss,
Whoe'er he be, that judges of the Kiss!
Fair Ganymede—who makes the Thunderer bow;
Whose lenient Smile can smooth his angry Brow;
His Fury with a magic Power command,
And stop his Lightning, in his lifted Hand—
Had such a Lip (or Fame hath often ly'd—
And Fame errs seldom on the better Side)
As, a true Touchstone, tried the proffer'd Joy,
And the pure Ore distinguish'd from Alloy.