University of Virginia Library

ECHOES FROM THEOCRITUS

I
BATTUS

O sun-browned shepherd, whose untutored grace
Awoke the singer of that southern isle,
What time he lingered in his father's place,
And bore not yet his music to the Nile:
How soon we make in life a tranquil space
Whenas, our foolish cares forgot the while,
We read the legend of thy classic face,
And catch the lustre of thy lyric smile.
Sing to us still in songs of tourney-type,
As if the jealous Milon loitered near,
Or let thy fingers twinkle o'er the pipe,
And breathe a mellow cadence sweet and clear,
Till all thy browsing lambs forego the ripe
Arbutus buds, and circle round to hear.

II
A SHEPHERD MAIDEN

On shores of Sicily a shape of Greece!
Dear maid, what means this lonely communing
With winds and waves? What fancy, what caprice,
Has drawn thee from thy fellows? Do they fling
Rude jests at thee? Or seekest thou surcease
Of drowsy toil in noonday shepherding?
Enough: our questions cannot break thy peace;
Thou art a shade,—a long-entombèd thing.
But still we see thy sun-lit face, O sweet,
Shining eternal where it shone of yore;
Still comes a vision of blue-veinèd feet
That stand for ever on a pebbly shore;
While round, the tidal waters flow and fleet
And ripple, ripple, ripple, evermore.

III
DAPHNIS

When Daphnis comes adown the purple steep
From out the rolling mists that wrap the dawn,
Leaving aloft his crag-encradled sheep,
Leaving the snares that vex the dappled fawn,
He gives the signal for the flight of sleep,
And hurls a windy blast from hunter's horn
At rose-hung lattices, whence maidens peep
To glimpse the young glad herald of the morn.
Then haply one will rise and bid him take
A brimming draught of new-drawn milk a-foam;
But fleet his feet and fain; he will not break
His patient fast at any place but home,
Where his fond mother waits him with a cake
And lucent honey dripping from the comb.

IV
A SICILIAN NIGHT

Come, stand we here within this cactus-brake,
And let the leafy tangle cloak us round.
It is the spot whereof the Seer spake—
To nymph and faun a nightly trysting-ground.
How still the scene! No zephyr stirs to shake
The listening air. The trees are slumber-bound
In soft repose. There's not a bird awake
To witch the silence with a silver sound.
Now haply shall the vision trance our eyes,
By heedless mortals all too rarely scanned,
Of mystic maidens in immortal guise,
Who mingle shadowy hand with shadowy hand,
And moving o'er the lilies circle-wise,
Beat out with naked feet a saraband.

V
A SUMMER DAY IN OLD SICILY

Gods, what a sun! I think the world's aglow.
This garment irks me. Phœbus, it is hot!
'T were sad if Glycera should find me shot
By flame-tipped arrows from the Archer's bow.
Perchance he envies me,—the villain! O
For one tree's shadow or a cliff-side grot!
Where shall I shelter that he slay me not?
In what cool air or element? I know.
The sea shall save me from the sweltering land.
Far out I'll wade, till creeping up and up,
The cold green water quenches every limb.
Then to the jealous god with lifted hand
I'll pour libation from a rosy cup,
And leap, and dive, and see the tunnies swim.

VI
SIMAETHA, I

Go pluck me laurel-leaves, dear Thestylis,
From any bough that shimmers in the moon;
To dread Selene pray the while, and miss
No single word of all the magic rune.
She, only she, can grant the lover's boon,
She, only she, restore a maiden's bliss;
He comes not now, my sweet, but soon, O soon,
He will be waiting, watching, for my kiss
Twelve days; ah! is it twelve, since last we met?
Quick wind about the bowl the ruddy skein!
He has forgotten: cruel to forget!
But this red wool shall rouse him into pain,
This charm of charms shall wake his passion yet.
O good my goddess, bring my Love again!

VII
SIMAETHA, II

Now take the barley grains, sweet Thestylis,
And fling them right and left upon the floor;
If still he lingers, Delphis' bones like this
Shall be disjoined upon a wreck-strewn shore.
See how I burn the laurel shoots. They hiss
And curl and crackle, blasted to the core;
And Delphis' flesh shall wither up like this
Unless he quickly seeks my shamèd door.
In brazen pans the wax is melting fast:
O gracious goddess, bid thy work begin!
So melt young Delphis, till he speeds at last,
Beneath my window wails his bitter sin,—
Begs me to pardon all his folly past
And of my clemency to let him in.

VIII
THE GOATHERD IN LOVE

Good Tityrus, attend these goats awhile,
And let me seek where Amaryllis hides,
Crannied, I guess, beneath that rocky pile
With fern atop and ivy-mantled sides.
'Tis there most days the merry girl abides,
And flashes from her cave a sudden smile,
Which like a pharos-flame her lover guides
And makes him hope he looks not wholly vile.
If thou canst guard the flock while I am gone,
I will but notice how my lady fares,
Then hasten back and take the crook anon.
The goats are tame—the least of all my cares,
Save one, that tawny thief; keep watch upon
His bearing, lest he butt thee unawares.

IX
THE LOVE-SPELL

I thought upon my lady as I strode
Last night from labour, and bemoaned my lot,
Uncertain if she loves or loves me not,
Who gives no sign or token; till the road
Bent round and took me past my Love's abode.
And then some happy chance, I know not what,
Moved me to try a spell long time forgot,
By which love's issue may be clear foreshowed.
I plucked a poppy from the wayside grass
And struck it sharply on my naked arm,
Striving to burst its inner heart. Alas!
The petals only clung in painless calm.
And then I knew how this could never be,
That my dear Love's dear heart should break for me.

X
SIMICHIDAS

Simichidas, thou love-demented loon!
What haste is this, when no man's need doth call?
Surely the gods have witched thee. 'Tis high noon.
No creature else hath any strength at all;
The spotted lizard sleeps upon the wall;
The skiey larks drop earthward for the boon
Of one still hour; the ants forget to crawl.
Naught stirs except the stones beneath thy shoon.
Nay, but I know; not love impels thee thus;
Thy journey's end will bring a baser gain.
Some burgher's feast or vintner's overplus
Of trodden grapes—for these thy feet are fain.
Well, go thy way; be fortunate. But us
This pleasant shade retains and shall retain.

XI
AGEANAX

Dear voyager, a lucky star be thine,
To Mytilenè sailing over sea,
Or foul or fair the constellations shine,
Or east or west the wind-blown billows flee.
May halcyon-birds that hover o'er the brine
Diffuse abroad their own tranquillity,
Till ocean stretches stilly as the wine
In this deep cup which now we drain to thee.
From lip to lip the merry circle through
We pass the tankard and repeat thy name;
And having pledged thee once, we pledge anew,
Lest in thy friends' neglect thou suffer shame.
God-speed to ship, good health to pious crew,
Peace by the way, and port of noble fame!

XII
COMATAS

In the great cedar chest for one whole year
The pious goatherd by his lord confined,
Because he reckoned not his flock more dear
Than the dear Muse he served with loyal mind,
Was fed by ministers whom none can bind—
The blunt-faced bees that came from far and near,
Spreading the Muse's signal on the wind,
And found a crevice, and distilled the clear
Sweet juice of flowers to feed the prisoned thrall,
Till the slow months went round and he was free.
Then, tuneful herds, spare not the fold and stall
For sacrifice, nor fear your lord may see;
The Muse can save her servants when they call—
The Muse who sped that long captivity.

XIII
AT THE SHRINE OF PAN

O goatish god, I pray you! Grant my prayer,
And in my view great Zeus is less divine:
Reject it,—at your peril,—if you dare!
And look no more for any gift of mine.
And who will then support this paltry shrine?
Though you yourself subsist on frugal fare,
Others have wants, and as the wise opine,
'Tis never well to leave the cupboard bare.
Few thieves will quite good-humouredly forego
Their wonted booty from the sacred sod;
And herb-whips sting; I think at least you know
With what effect some boys can wield the rod.
Observe in time how thick these nettles grow,
And flee the shame that waits a pauper god.

XIV
AT THE FARM OF PHRASIDAMUS

Where elm and poplar branch to branch have grown,
In cool deep shade the shepherds take their rest
On beds of fragrant vine-leaves newly strown,
Till the great sun declineth in the west.
From thorny thickets round, as if opprest
By secret care, the ring-dove maketh moan;
With sudden cry from some remoter nest
The nooning owlet hunts in dreams alone;
A merry noise the burnt cicalas make,
While honeyed horns are droning every where;
The fruit-trees bend as though foredoomed to break
With burden heavier than their strength can bear,
And if the faintest zephyr seem to shake,
Drop down an apple now, and now a pear.

XV
THE SINGING-MATCH, I

From upland pastures, where the flocks are wending
Slow-footed ways through heather-bells and fern,
Comes down a sound with sea-born murmurs blending
Of lips that make sweet melody in turn.
'Tis Daphnis with Menalcas sharp-contending
For the bright flute which both are keen to earn;
While hard at hand a goatherd tarries, bending
Rapt ears of judgment while the singers burn.
Menalcas, first, hymns Love and all the blessing
Which haps to field and fold where Love's feet stray;
He tells of dearth and leanness clear confessing
What ills befall, should Love despised betray;
Ah, poor the man, though land and gold possessing,
In whose demesne no Love consents to stay.

XVI
THE SINGING-MATCH, II

Then Daphnis strikes the note of one that plaineth,
Whose Love is not the Love he hoped to find;
A Love which after blandishment disdaineth
To bless the heart too readily resigned.
Slight snares indeed are they which Eros feigneth,
For well he knows that lover's eyes are blind,
But none the captured beast more keenly paineth
Than Love's entrapment cruelly unkind.
All things have grief at times. When high winds shake it,
The grove is grieved with plaintive murmurings;
So grieves the woodland bird when fowlers take it,
To feel the net encompassing its wings;
And so the heart when peace and joy forsake it
At Love's enravishment. Thus Daphnis sings.

XVII
THE SINGING-MATCH, III

And last the goatherd, like as one awoken
From sylvan slumbers on a summer day,
Whose sleep is filled with birds, and only broken
Because the thrushes all have flown away,—
Uplifts his head, and with a word soft-spoken
Declares the victor in the bloodless fray:
“Thine is the flute, O Daphnis! Take the token,
For thou hast conquered with the crowning lay.
And, O, if thou wilt teach to carol brightly
This mouth of mine, as through the fields we go,
To thee shall fall a monster goat that nightly
Makes every milking-bowl to overflow.”
Then clapped the lad his hands, and leapt as lightly
As weanling fawns that leap around the doe.

XVIII
MENALCAS

With limbs out-stretched along the thymy ground
The dog Lampùrus slumbers in the shade,
While tender ewes unchecked by warning sound
Go wandering idly through the sylvan glade,
In guileless ignorance all undismayed
By cruel beasts that hold the copse around
And make the herd Menalcas half-afraid—
The boyish herd who cries: “O heedless hound,
Is this thy helping of my timorous youth—
To let the flock disperse the woods among,
With no preventing feet, no faithful tongue?
The very wolves might show a deeper ruth,
And spare to raven with ensanguined tooth,
Seeing the shepherd of the sheep is young.”

XIX
THE TOMB OF DIOCLES

Here, stranger, pause, and take a moment's ease
With pleasant thinking on a good man dead.
This marble marks the tomb of Diocles;
Say not that virtue sleeps unhallowèd!
The grateful tribes delight with arts like these
To deck the pillow of a noble head.
Nor are these all; beneath yon arching trees
The merriest chorus of the spring is led.
For on a day from country cots around
Come troops of ruddy children fair of face,
And forming rings about this holy ground,
Contest the guerdon of a bright embrace;
And whoso kisseth with the deftest grace
Goes homeward to his mother, happy, crowned.

XX
HYLAS

What pool is this by galingale surrounded,
With parsley and tall iris overgrown?
It is the pool whose wayward nymphs confounded
The quest of Heracles to glut their own
Desire of love. Its depths hath no man sounded
Save the young Mysian argonaut alone,
When round his drooping neck he felt, astounded,
The cruel grasp that sank him like a stone.
Through all the land the Hero wandered, crying
“Hylas!” and “Hylas!” till the close of day,
And thrice there came a feeble voice replying
From watery caverns where the prisoner lay;
Yet to his ear it seemed but as the sighing
Of zephyrs through the forest far away.

XXI
THE TUNNY-FISHERS

In rude log-cabin by the lone sea-shore
Two aged fishers slept the sleep of toil.
Rough was their life, and scant their household store,
Scarce aught but hooks and nets and seamen's coil.
To one of these came visions of strange spoil;
He caught a fish—such fish as none before
Caught ever, bright with sheen and glittering foil,
A golden fish; and made high vows no more
To sail the seas, but spend the troven gold;
Then woke and wept to starve or be forsworn.
To whom his fellow: “Surely, being old,
Thou drivellest. Vow and vision both are born
Of air. Catch living fish or die.” And cold
Through eastern windows crept the ashy dawn.

XXII
THE YOUTH OF HERACLES

As when in flowerful gardens, lofty-girt
With thicket-hedge of ilex, oak, and vine,
Where northern breezes do no mortal hurt,
And warmer suns have constant leave to shine,
A tender sapling, be it larch or pine,
Shoots always upwards with a daily spirt,
Thanks to the woven boughs that round it twine,
Thanks to the shelter of its leafy skirt:
So in a tranquil and secluded place,
Where never pierced the faintest note of harm,
The Argive hero grew and waxed apace,
Enclosed and compassed by Alcmena's arm;
And knew not as he watched the mother's-face
The mother's-love that fenced him from alarm.

XXIII
THE FLUTE OF DAPHNIS

I am the flute of Daphnis. On this wall
He nailed his tribute to the great god Pan,
What time he grew from boyhood, shapely, tall,
And felt the first deep ardours of a man.
Through adult veins more swift the song-tide ran,—
A vernal stream whose swollen torrents call
For instant ease in utterance. Then began
That course of triumph reverenced by all.
Him the gods loved, and more than other men
Blessed with the flower of beauty, and endowed
His soul of music with the strength of ten.
Now on a festal day I see the crowd
Look fondly at my resting-place, and when
I think whose lips have pressed me, I am proud.

XXIV
A SACRED GROVE

I know a spot where love delights to dream,
Because he finds his fancies happen true.
Within its fence no myrtle ever grew
That failed in wealth of flower; no sunny beam
Has used its vantage vainly. You might deem
Yourself a happy plant and blossom too,
Or be a bird and sing as thrushes do,
So sweet in that fair place doth nature seem.
A matted vine invests the rocks above,
And tries to kiss a runlet leaping through
With endless laughter. Hither at noon comes Love
And woos the god who is not hard to woo,
Taking his answer from the nested dove
That ever hymneth skies for ever blue.

XXV
A SYLVAN REVEL

What ho! my shepherds, sweet it were
To fill with song this leafy glade.
Bring harp and flute. The gods have made
An hour for music. Daphnis there
Shall give the note a jocund blare
From out his horn. The rest will aid
Wiih fifes and drums, and charm the shade,
And rout the dusky wings of care.
We'll pipe to fox and wolf and bear.
We'll wake the wood with rataplan,
Fetch every beast from every lair,
Make every creature dance who can,
Set every Satyr's hoof in air,
And tickle both the feet of Pan!

XXVI
THYRSIS

Sad Thyrsis weeps till his blue eyes are dim,
Because the wolf has torn his pride away,—
The little kid so apt for sport and play,
Which knew his voice and loved to follow him.
Who would not weep that cruel fate and grim
Should end her pranks on this unhappy day,
And give her tender innocence a prey
For savage jaws to harry limb from limb?
Yet think, O shepherd, how thy tears are vain
To rouse the dead or bring the slain again;
Beyond all hope her body lies, alack!
Devoured she is; no bones of her remain.
The leaping hounds are on the murderer's track,
But will they, can they, bear thy darling back?

XXVII
CLEONICUS

Let sailors watch the waning Pleiades,
And keep the shore. This man, made over-bold
By godless pride, and too much greed of gold,
Setting his gains before his health and ease,
Ran up his sails to catch the whistling breeze:
Whose corpse, ere now, the restless waves have rolled
From deep to deep, while all his freight, unsold,
Is tossed upon the tumult of the seas.
Such fate had one whose avaricious eyes
Lured him to peril in a mad emprise.
Yea, from the Syrian coast to Thasos bound,
He slipped his anchor with rich merchandise,
While the wet stars were slipping from the skies,
And with the drowning stars untimely drowned.

XXVIII
THE EPITAPH OF EUSTHENES

A Bard is buried here, not strong, but sweet;
A Teacher too, not great, but gently wise;
This modest stone (the burghers thought it meet)
May tell the world where so much virtue lies.
His happy skill it was in mart and street
To scan men's faces with a true surmise,
Follow the spirit to its inmost seat,
And read the soul reflected in the eyes.
No part had he in catholic renown,
Which none but god-inspirèd poets share;
Not his to trail the philosophic gown,
That only sages of the School may wear;
But his at least to fill an alien town
With friends, who make his tomb their loving care.

XXIX
THE MONUMENT OF CLEITA

Here Cleita sleeps. You ask her life and race?
Read on, and learn a simple tale and true.
A nurse she was from the far land of Thrace,
Who tended little Medëus while he grew
A healthy, happy child, and did imbue
His nascent mind with godliness and grace;
So fencing him from evil that he knew
No word of what is impious or base.
And when at length, her tale of years all told,
She came to lie in this reposeful spot,
Young Medëus, still a child, but sagely old,
Upreared this monument, that unforgot
The care beyond his recompense of gold
Might live a memory and perish not.

XXX
THE GRAVE OF HIPPONAX

Here lies a bard, Hippònax—honoured name!
Sweet were the songs that won him endless praise,
And yet his life was sweeter than his lays.
Traveller, a question fronts thee: Canst thou claim
Kinship with such in conduct void of blame?
If not, forbear this precinct; go thy ways;
Lest some bright watcher of the tomb should raise
A jealous hand to cover thee with shame.
But if thy soul is free from shade of guilt,
Or, having sinned, hath been at length forgiven,
To thee all rights of common kin belong;
Lay down thy weary limbs, and, if thou wilt,
Let slumber wrap them round, nor fear that Heaven
Will suffer any sprite to do thee wrong.