 | Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson |  |
PALAEMON—DAMOETAS—MENALCAS
Menalcas.Whose flock is that, Damoetas? Meliboeus'?
Damoetas.
No, Argon lately placed them in my care.
M.
O sheep! forever an unhappy flock!
While, fearful of my own supremacy,
Argon himself the fair Naera courts,
The guard Damoetas drains them twice an hour
And robs the lambs and mothers of their milk.
D.
Less freedom, sir, in dealing words to men;
For well we know both who corrupted you
And what the goats with sidelong glances saw;
And more, we know the cave wherein 'twas done—
The kindly Dryads laughing all the while.
(“And the good-natured Nymphs etc.”)
4
And doubtless, too, they saw me with my knife
To cut the vines and tender shoots of Ulycon.
D.
Or rather when amidst this ancient wood
You broke the arrows and the bow of Daphne's
Which you, Menalcas, grieved to see returned
And would have died but for the pain you gave him.
M.
Where are the masters while their raging slaves
Dare to address me thus! O wicked one,
Did I not see you trap the goat of Damon,
Lycisca barking madly all the time?
And when I called out, “Tityrus, where goes he?
Collect your flock!”—you hid among the sedge.
D.
And should he not yield up the goat to me,
Since with my voice and reed I conquered him?
If you would know it, sir, the goat is mine:
Damon himself confessed as much to me,
Yet says he cannot pay one what is due.
M.
You won a prize at singing! as if you
Could play a waxen reed! Why clown, 'tis yours
To blow your murderous note upon the highway.
D.
Lo! shall we have a contest here between us?
I'll take this heifer, and, lest you refuse
I'll say she comes to milking twice a day,
And feeds two calves besides. Now, my good friend,
What pawn will you advance to cover mine?
M.
I dare not meet thy wager from the flock:
My father is at home, and worse than that,
A crabbed step-dame: both count twice a day
The sheep, and one the kids. But I will pledge—
Since 'tis your will to carry out this folly—
5
These beechen cups wrought for Alcimedon
On which the ivy, exquisitely carved
With facile chisel, sweetly intermingles
Its scattered fruit and pallid foliage.
Two figures are engravéd in the center:
The one is Conon, and—who was the other?—
Who with his rod marks out the world for man—
The time for ploughing and for harvesting?
These are kept hidden; lips have never touched them.
D.
Alcimedon has made for me two bowls
And wound the handles round with acanthus;
With Orpheus graven in a woodland scene.
These two are hidden; lips have never touched them.
Yet if you will but look upon my heifer
The cups are nothing to deserve your praise.
M.
Let there be no delay, for I will come
Wherever you may call. Or let the one
Who now approaches hear us—look—Palaemon.
And I will take good care that in the future
Damoetas tortures no man with his voice.
D.
Begin, if you have anything to sing;
You'll find me ready, nor will I dispute
The judgment; therefore, my good friend Palaemon,
This contest; 'tis no trifling affair.
Palaemon
Sing, as we sit amid the tufted grass:
Now all the field and all the wood is blooming;
The trees are green, the year is in its glory,
Begin, Damoetas, and Menalcas follow;
Alternately—the way the muses love.
D.
Begin with Jove, O Ulysses! all things are full of Jove:
'Tis he that loves the earth; 'tis he that loves my song.
6
Phoebus loves me; for him I ever keep close by
His chosen gifts; the laurel and blushing hyacinth.
D.
Galatea, playful maiden, seeks me with an apple;
Then flies, but wishes to be seen before she hides.
M.
My flame Amyntas comes of his own will to me,
And Delia to my dogs is now no better known.
D.
I'll make my love a gift: for I have found the spot
Where the high-soaring pigeons rear their tender young.
M.
I've sent my love ten apples all ruddy from the woodland—
As many as I could: I'll send ten more tomorrow.
D.
How many and how sweet the words of Galatea!
Bear them aloft ye winds, so may th'immortals hear them.
M.
Where is my joy, although you hold me dear, Amyntas,
While you pursue the goats for me to tend the toils?
D.
Bid Phyllis come to me, Iolas; 'tis my birthday.
I offer sacrifices ere long; then you may come.
M.
But I love Phyllis more: she weeps at separation;
And cries “Farewell! Farewell! a long farewell!”—Iolas.
D.
Wolves to the flock are fatal; showers to ripened grain;
Wind to the trees; to me the wrath of Amaryllis.
M.
Rain cheers the crops; arbutus is sweet to tender kids;
Osier to laden sheep, to me none save Amyntas.
7
Great Pollis loves to hear the rustic song I sing;
O, mountain Muses, rear a heifer to your lover.
M.
He writes a wondrous song—Oh, feed the bull that now
Lifts high his head and spurns the sand beneath his feet.
D.
Who loves thee, Pollis, may win they cherished fame:
For him may honey flow and bramble bear amomum.
M.
Who hates not Bavius must love thy song, O Maevius!
And he would milk a butting goat, or yoke his foxes.
D.
O boys, who gather flowers and growing fruits of earth,
Flee hence!—a long cold snake is lying in the grass.
M.
My sheep, go not too near! you cannot trust the bank;
For even now the rain shakes out his dripping fleece.
D.
O Tityrus, from the stream call back your feeding flock:
Ere long I'll wash them all myself, in yonder spring.
M.
O boys, collect the sheep—if summer's burning heat,
As formerly, destroys the milk we work in vain.
D.
Alas! how lank and lean my bull stands in the field!
The love that kills the herd will kill the keeper too.
M.
But love is not in mine—their bones scarce held together:
I cannot tell the eye that charms my tender lambs.
D.
Oh, tell me in what land, and be my great Apollo,
Only three ells of sky lie open to the sight.
8
Oh, tell me in what land the written names of kings
Are born with blooming flowers and Phyllis shall be thine.
Pal.
'Tis not for me to judge so fine a matter;
The prize belongs to one as to the other:
To any one who sings of love so sweet,
Or labors through such sorrow.—Now, my boys,
The rivers close—the fields have drunk their fill.
| Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson | |