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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| III. | IDYLLIUM the THIRD. AMARYLLIS. |
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 | The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus |  |
41
IDYLLIUM the THIRD. AMARYLLIS.
GOATHERD.
Behold! I hasten, on the Wings of Love,
To meet my Amaryllis, in the Grove!
Meantime, my Goats shall crop this Pasture-Hill;
And, Tityrus, guide them to their wonted Rill.
Yet, whether Stream or Pasturage be thy Care,
That Libyan Ram, with butting Head, beware.
To meet my Amaryllis, in the Grove!
Meantime, my Goats shall crop this Pasture-Hill;
And, Tityrus, guide them to their wonted Rill.
Yet, whether Stream or Pasturage be thy Care,
That Libyan Ram, with butting Head, beware.
Say, lovely Amaryllis, why, no more,
As thou wert wont, thy charming Accents pour;
Near yonder Cave recline, at Close of Day,
And sunk in soft Endearments, melt away?
Say, am I hated? Do my Looks offend?
Thy Scorn, alas! will bring me to my End!
Yet lo! (too fondly I remember thee)
Ten Apples, gather'd from thy favorite Tree!
Ten more, dear Maid, To-morrow will I give—
Ah! soothe my aching Heart, and let me live!
As thou wert wont, thy charming Accents pour;
Near yonder Cave recline, at Close of Day,
And sunk in soft Endearments, melt away?
Say, am I hated? Do my Looks offend?
Thy Scorn, alas! will bring me to my End!
Yet lo! (too fondly I remember thee)
Ten Apples, gather'd from thy favorite Tree!
Ten more, dear Maid, To-morrow will I give—
Ah! soothe my aching Heart, and let me live!
42
O were a little Bee's my happier Lot!
Then would I waft me to thy shady Grot;
Unheeded, thro' its Fern and Ivy creep;
And with soft Murmurs, lull my Love to sleep!
Then would I waft me to thy shady Grot;
Unheeded, thro' its Fern and Ivy creep;
And with soft Murmurs, lull my Love to sleep!
I know thee, Cupid! thee, (whose subtle Flame
With thrilling Ardors shoots thro' all my Frame)
A Lioness, besmear'd with human Gore,
Amid the Wildness of the Forest bore;
Nurs'd thee, dire God, familiar to her Den,
And form'd thee savage as the howling Glen!
With thrilling Ardors shoots thro' all my Frame)
A Lioness, besmear'd with human Gore,
Amid the Wildness of the Forest bore;
Nurs'd thee, dire God, familiar to her Den,
And form'd thee savage as the howling Glen!
Sweet-smiling Nymph, whose ebon Eye-brows own
Beauty's soft Touch, tho' all thy Heart be Stone;
Come, clasp me in thy languishing Embrace,
That I may kiss at least thy lovely Face!
For ev'n such empty Kisses lull to Rest
The fever'd Fury of the throbbing Breast!
Ah no! thy proud Disdain will bid me tear
This Garland—scatter'd to the breezing Air—
This Wreath, of Ivy pale and Parsley wove,
With unblown Roses—as the Pledge of Love!
Beauty's soft Touch, tho' all thy Heart be Stone;
Come, clasp me in thy languishing Embrace,
That I may kiss at least thy lovely Face!
For ev'n such empty Kisses lull to Rest
The fever'd Fury of the throbbing Breast!
Ah no! thy proud Disdain will bid me tear
This Garland—scatter'd to the breezing Air—
43
With unblown Roses—as the Pledge of Love!
Alas! what Sorrows press! What Power can save
A Wretch undone—I'll rush into the Wave,
Where, yonder, Olpis, on the rocky Steep,
His Tunnies marks, reflected from the Deep:
Tho' buoyant on the Surge my Body lie,
At least, 'twill please thee, that I meant to die.
A Wretch undone—I'll rush into the Wave,
Where, yonder, Olpis, on the rocky Steep,
His Tunnies marks, reflected from the Deep:
Tho' buoyant on the Surge my Body lie,
At least, 'twill please thee, that I meant to die.
Soon by the withering Orpine-Leaf, I found
Some Change: struck hollow, yet it gave no Sound!
Ah! not in vain (I could not but believe)
Mutter'd the wrinkled Hag, and turn'd her Sieve:
Too true she sung, prophetic of my Fate,
Passion, but ill requited by thy Hate!
Some Change: struck hollow, yet it gave no Sound!
Ah! not in vain (I could not but believe)
Mutter'd the wrinkled Hag, and turn'd her Sieve:
Too true she sung, prophetic of my Fate,
Passion, but ill requited by thy Hate!
The Goat so snowy-white, that Kidlings bears,
(Since now I'm slighted by thy haughty Airs)
I give Erithacis: 'Tis true, she's brown—
And yet, she will not meet me with a Frown!
(Since now I'm slighted by thy haughty Airs)
I give Erithacis: 'Tis true, she's brown—
And yet, she will not meet me with a Frown!
44
My right-Eye itches! Shall I see her still?
I'll sit me down beneath the wildwood Hill;
And, haply, as I pipe, the wandering Maid
May hear my Music from the Pine-Tree Shade!
And she may look on me, perchance; and grant
My Prayer: For sure, she is not Adamant!
I'll sit me down beneath the wildwood Hill;
And, haply, as I pipe, the wandering Maid
May hear my Music from the Pine-Tree Shade!
And she may look on me, perchance; and grant
My Prayer: For sure, she is not Adamant!
Hippomanes, to catch the Virgin's Eyes,
Threw out the golden Lure, and won the Prize:
How Atalanta felt the trancing Spell,
And, down the Depths of Love, in Frenzy, fell:
From Othrys' Top, the Seer Melampus drove
His Herds, to Pylian Plains, impell'd by Love:
The beauteous Mother of a wiser Maid
To melting Bias all her Charms display'd:
And could not, on his Hills, Adonis fire
The raving Goddess with such wild Desire,
That to her Breast she drew his quivering Breath,
And lock'd his Limbs in her's, tho' chill'd by Death?
Tho' Cynthia's Favors were Endymion's Boast,
'Tis his eternal Sleep I envy most!
And such high Transports blest Jasion knew—
A Tale too hallow'd for the vulgar Crew!
Threw out the golden Lure, and won the Prize:
How Atalanta felt the trancing Spell,
And, down the Depths of Love, in Frenzy, fell:
From Othrys' Top, the Seer Melampus drove
His Herds, to Pylian Plains, impell'd by Love:
The beauteous Mother of a wiser Maid
To melting Bias all her Charms display'd:
And could not, on his Hills, Adonis fire
The raving Goddess with such wild Desire,
That to her Breast she drew his quivering Breath,
And lock'd his Limbs in her's, tho' chill'd by Death?
45
'Tis his eternal Sleep I envy most!
And such high Transports blest Jasion knew—
A Tale too hallow'd for the vulgar Crew!
My faint Head throbbs! Yet what avails the Sigh?
No Tear of Pity melts thy scornful Eye!
Here then, I throw my vain—vain Pipe away,
And lay me down to ravening Wolves a Prey;
While my torn Limbs, asunder as they part,
Shall please, like Honey to the Taste, thy Heart!
No Tear of Pity melts thy scornful Eye!
Here then, I throw my vain—vain Pipe away,
And lay me down to ravening Wolves a Prey;
While my torn Limbs, asunder as they part,
Shall please, like Honey to the Taste, thy Heart!
| The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus | |