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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| XXI. | IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-FIRST. The FISHERMEN. |
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 | The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus |  |
152
IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-FIRST. The FISHERMEN.
ASPHALION and FRIEND. Addressed to DIOPHANTUS.
'Tis Penury, Diophantus, keeps alive
The various Arts, and bids Invention thrive;
Yet breaks the Laborer's little Share of Rest,
And fills with anxious Thought his throbbing Breast.
For lo—if gentle Sleep his Eye-lids close,
Some Care bursts in, and murders his Repose.
The various Arts, and bids Invention thrive;
Yet breaks the Laborer's little Share of Rest,
And fills with anxious Thought his throbbing Breast.
For lo—if gentle Sleep his Eye-lids close,
Some Care bursts in, and murders his Repose.
Two good old Fishermen in Slumber lay,
On the dry Sea-weed, where the Poplar-spray
Wove to a Hut of artless Texture, spread
Its Leaves umbrageous o'er their shelter'd Bed.
Beside them, many an Instrument of Toil
To lure, or seize, or bear their finny Spoil—
The Hook, the Net that Sedges close entwine,
The Rod, the Basket, and the horse-hair Line;
Skins, gibbous Seins, and Weels of Osier dank,
And Wires; and drawn upon a creaking Plank
(Their Caps upon its Stern) a long-worn Boat;
A Mat their Pillow; and their Rug, a Coat;
All mark'd their Labor great, their Treasure small—
These were their Stores—this little was their all.
Not ev'n a Dog or Pot was theirs: Tho' poor,
And lone without a Neighbour on the Shore,
They pass'd their Hours, with Poverty their Friend;
(To fish—their simple Being's Aim and End)
And deem'd their Shed a Palace; liv'd in Glee;
Nor fear'd the welcome Visit of the Sea,
Whose ripling Waves roll'd round them, every Tide,
And wash'd their little Hovel's tottering Side.
On the dry Sea-weed, where the Poplar-spray
Wove to a Hut of artless Texture, spread
Its Leaves umbrageous o'er their shelter'd Bed.
Beside them, many an Instrument of Toil
To lure, or seize, or bear their finny Spoil—
153
The Rod, the Basket, and the horse-hair Line;
Skins, gibbous Seins, and Weels of Osier dank,
And Wires; and drawn upon a creaking Plank
(Their Caps upon its Stern) a long-worn Boat;
A Mat their Pillow; and their Rug, a Coat;
All mark'd their Labor great, their Treasure small—
These were their Stores—this little was their all.
Not ev'n a Dog or Pot was theirs: Tho' poor,
And lone without a Neighbour on the Shore,
They pass'd their Hours, with Poverty their Friend;
(To fish—their simple Being's Aim and End)
And deem'd their Shed a Palace; liv'd in Glee;
Nor fear'd the welcome Visit of the Sea,
Whose ripling Waves roll'd round them, every Tide,
And wash'd their little Hovel's tottering Side.
Not yet the Moon had travell'd half the Skies,
When Thoughts of friendly Toil unseal'd their Eyes;
And shaking from their Lids the sleepy Dews,
They cheer'd their Bosoms with an artless Muse.
When Thoughts of friendly Toil unseal'd their Eyes;
And shaking from their Lids the sleepy Dews,
They cheer'd their Bosoms with an artless Muse.
154
Sure, Friend, they lie, who say, the Summer-light
Soon brings the Day-spring, and curtails the Night.
For I have seen, this Night, full many a Dream—
Tho' yet far distant from the Morning-beam!
Have I forgot? In Truth, I am not wrong!
The tedious Hours lag heavily along.
FRIEND.
How vain to blame the Summer-sun's Delay!
The Hours unvarying urge their destin'd Way:
'Tis Care that lengthens out the Gloom, more deep
At every tedious Pause of broken Sleep!
ASPHALION.
Pray, hast thou learnt, my Friend, the happy Art
A Dream's mysterious Meaning to impart?
To thee I would unfold my nightly Care,
And, as we share our Fish, the Vision share.
Come then, I tell thee, 'twas a charming Sight,
And trust thy Genius will interpret right.
He seems, my Friend, the shrewdest Judge of Dreams,
In whom the Spirit of Conjecture beams.
155
Of Leaves, the Billows gurgling round our Shed,
What shall we do? Indeed the living Light
In Prytaneum, burns both Day and Night.
FRIEND.
Come then, recite this Vision to thy Friend,
Whose Ear shall every Incident attend.
ASPHALION.
When, weary from our Labors on the Deep,
Last Evening, I had clos'd my Eyes in Sleep;
(Nor was my Stomach full—for supping late
A sparing Meal we hastily had ate)
Methought upon a shelving Rock I stood,
And ey'd the Gambols of the scaly Brood;
Let down, as I was wont, my baited Hook,
And oft the glancing Lure impatient shook.
Then one (in Sleep we image what we wish—
Dogs dream of Bones, and Fishermen of Fish)
A huge one gorg'd the Bait; and flouncing, dy'd
With gushing Crimson the transparent Tide.
156
Loosen'd the Line, and gave him ampler Scope;
Yet, if my bending Rod asunder snapt,
Fear'd the strong Animal was vainly trapt—
Debating, how I could contrive, at all,
To take so large a Fish, with Hook so small.
At length I cried: ‘Doth still thy Vigor brave
‘My Toils?’—as grasping him above the Wave
He prick'd full sorely: Yet o'ercome at last
He faintly struggled, and I held him fast.
But how amaz'd, when all my Labor o'er,
I saw a Fish of Gold upon the Shore!
Fear crept thro' all my Frame. ‘Perchance (thought I)
‘It may be one of Neptune's favorite Fry!
‘Or Amphitrite's Treasure!’—So I took,
And gently loos'd him from my faithful Hook,
Lest from his glistening Mouth a Grain of Gold
Might stick about the Barb: And now, more bold,
With Cords I drew him on the Beach—and swore
‘That I'd set Foot in Fishing-boat no more;
157
‘I'd live, at Home, at Leisure, like a King.’
I strait awoke: But what am I to do?
Tell me—I fear my Oath—and tell me true.
FRIEND.
Fear not: 'Tis all a Phantom of the Brain;
Vain is thy Fish of Gold—thy Oath is vain.
To realize thy Hopes, be thine to take
The finny Fry, not sleeping, but awake.
Go then—for Fish more solid try the Stream,
Nor die, for Hunger, in a golden Dream.
| The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus | |