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71

THE IDYLLIUMS OF BION.

Κεινος δ' ου', πολεμους ου' δακρυα Πανα δεμελπε,
Και βωτας ελιγαινε, δ' αειδων ενομευε,
Και συριγγας ετευχε, δ' αδεα πορτιν αμελγε,
Και παιδων εδιδασκε φιλαματα, [] τα Ερωτα
Ετρεφεν ελποισι, [] ηρεσε τη Αφροδιτη
ΜΟΣΧ.

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Idyllium I. Upon the Death of Adonis.

I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis gone;
The fair Adonis dead the Cupids moan.
Sleeping no more in purple Robes be seen,
But rise, and beat your Breasts fair Cyprian Queen;
Proclaim abroad the fair Adonis dead,
He's dead, and all that's lovely with him fled.
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I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis gone;
The fair Adonis dead the Cupids moan.
Upon the Mountain lies the beauteous Youth,
Slain by an Iv'ry, but a Savage Tooth.
White was his Thigh, white as the falling Snow,
Nor whiter was the Tusk that gave the Blow.
Panting he lies, and near him Beauty's Queen,
Stands weeping by; a lovely mournful Scene!
Round his white Skin behold the Crimson flow;
His once bright Eyes languish beneath the Brow;
His Cheeks no more the bloomy Colour show:
The Ruby from his charming Lips is fled,
Them still she loves, altho' Adonis' dead;
But yet, alas, Adonis not perceives
The melting Kisses which fair Venus gives.
I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis gone;
The fair Adonis dead the Cupids moan.
Deep went the Tusk that caus'd the killing Smart,
But deeper far it went in Venus' Heart.
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The yelling Hounds, around their Master, tell
What Grief for their departed Lord they feel.
The Nymphs bemoan; and with deshevel'd Hair,
Her Tresses loose thrown to the ruffling Air,
Doleful, barefooted, the fair Queen of Love
With sad Complaints fills ev'ry Wood and Grove;
Grief bears her thence thro' uncouth Ways, and Plains,
And still Adonis dead augments her Pains;
As thus she thro' Excess of Woe is led,
Her sacred Blood the cruel Brambles shed.
Mean while extended on the Turf he lies,
And purple Streams flow round his Iv'ry Thighs;
Whose Skin once whiter than the falling Snow,
Stain'd with the Crimson Blood, no longer's so.
Ah! Venus, Ah! the Cupids all bemoan,
With thee, the fair Adonis dead and gone.
Now the fair Youth, the beauteous Boy, is dead,
Each charming Grace is from fair Venus fled;
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Whilst him the Fates preserv'd, and Life remain'd,
Ten thousand Charms fair Venus' Face contain'd;
But since the lovely Youth is dead and gone,
Her daz'ling Beauties from her Face are flow'n.
The Hills, the Groves, and sacred Oaks, complain,
For sweet Adonis on the Mountain slain;
The purling Streams in murm'ring Plaints bemoan,
With Venus, dear Adonis dead and gone.
Each Herb for Grief puts on a deeper Green;
The Goddess most of all forlorn is seen.
Each Grove, and Mountain, with her Grief abounds,
Adonis dead! she cries thro' ev'ry Town;
Adonis dead! sad Echo then resounds.
Who can behold the beauteous Goddess moan,
And not relenting lend a gentle Groan?
Soon as the Fair perceiv'd the grievous Wound,
That in her fair Adonis' Thigh was found;
Soon as the Queen the Crimson Stream survey'd,
With Hands expanded, she lamenting said.
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Stay, my Adonis, stay, my charming Boy,
That I may take my last Farewel, my Joy!
Let us embrace before your Soul does fly,
And take this Kiss, this parting Kiss from me;
'Till Life is fled I'll join my Lips to thine,
And suck thy fleeting Soul, sweet Youth, to mine.
I your last Gasp will catch, and since you fly,
No one shall take this parting Kiss from me.
You to the silent Shades, where Spectres dwell,
Adonis go, to the grim King of Hell.
Ah! wretched I my beauteous Loss survive,
And must a Goddess thus for ever live?
Eternity affords no End to Woe,
Nor can I to my dear Adonis go.
Why was I born a Goddess, thus to live
A Life immortal, and for ever grieve?
Take, Proserpine, my Love, take the dear Boy,
Take him, relentless Goddess, him enjoy;
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Your Pow'r is great, nothing on Earth can be,
Sooner, or later, but devolves to thee.
Unhappy I, Goddess 'tis you I fear,
'Tis you I envy for my lovely Dear.
Thou'rt dead, alas, thou'rt dead, my charming Boy,
Love, as a Dream, to me's a fleeting Joy;
Our Pleasure's pass'd, ne'er to return again;
Alone thou'st left thy Venus to complain.
The Cupids all have thrown their Arrows by,
Their Shafts, and Quivers, now neglected lye.
With thee the Cestus dy'd; I've Charms no more.
Why would you hunt rash Youth the foaming Boar?
So Venus griev'd; the Loves with her deplore
The charming sweet Adonis, now no more.
Venus, alas, dead is the lovely Boy;
Nought now remains but Thought of former Joy.
As many Tears the beauteous Goddess shed,
As Drops of Blood the fair Adonis bled;
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From both the Tears, and Blood, new Flow'rs arise,
Roses from this, from those Anemonies.
I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis gone;
The fair Adonis dead the Cupids moan.
Cease your Complaints, and dry your Tears, fair Queen;
In Woods, and Groves, weeping no more be seen.
No longer mourn for lov'd Adonis slain;
Tho' dead, some Beauties in his Face remain;
Take him and lay him on the Bed of State,
Conscious of all those Joys you had of late;
Garlands and Flow'rs upon his Body strow;
Their Grief with drooping Heads the Lillies show.
With precious Ointments bathe his Body o'er,
Upon his comely Limbs sweet Odours pour;
Odours, and Ointments, now are worthless grow'n,
Since sweet Adonis, her Delight is gone.
Upon the Bed of State Adonis lies,
And mournful Cupids him surround with Cries;
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Their Grief by different Ways the Cupids show;
One clips his Hair, another breaks his Bow;
This pulls the bloody Sandals from his Feet;
Others fresh Water from the Fountain get;
Some bathe his Wound with Water from the Springs
That fans his Body with refreshing Wings.
Thus the kind Loves the sacred Loss bemoan,
The charming sweet Adonis dead and gone.
And Hymen too does the fair Loss deplore;
His nuptial Songs are ceas'd, and heard no more;
To this converted; Ah! Adonis dead!
He's dead, and all that's charming with him fled.
His nuptial Lights to Fun'ral Tapers turn;
And all his wither'd Marriage-Garlands burn.
The Graces too Cinyrades deplore,
Crying among themselves he's now no more;
Sadly they weep, as if they fain would know,
Whether fair Dion can weep more, or no.
The fatal Three with Cytherea grieve,
And try with Songs Adonis to retrieve;
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But all in vain, Songs no Effect can have,
To bring the fair Adonis from the Grave.
Cease, Cytherea, cease, from Tears refrain;
When next Year comes, Venus must weep again.
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Idyllium II.

[A youthful Swain, just taught to draw the Bow]

A youthful Swain, just taught to draw the Bow,
To gain Experience must a Fowling go;
Thirsty for Prey, he hurry'd to the Grove,
There on the Boughs he saw a wanton Love;
Rejoic'd he stopt, among the Leaves he gaz'd,
To see a Bird so large the Youth's amaz'd;
A Shaft he drew, begun his Bow to bend;
But see what Crosses all our Hopes attend!
The sportive Love, to carry on the Jest,
Nestled about, at last sat down to rest;
He draws, the Cupid let him take his Aim;
He then in Thought, almost possess'd the Game;
To rile the Youth, himself divert with Play,
The Wanton starts, and skips from Spray to Spray,
And baulks the Youngster of his hop'd-for Prey.
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The Youth enrag'd, away his Arrows threw,
And straitway to the Swain, his Teacher, flew;
He told him all, then brought him to the Grove,
Shew'd him the Boughs, and pointed to the Love.
Soon as the aged Swain the Cupid spy'd,
He smiling shak'd his Head, at last he said:
Cease your Pursuit, and here no longer stay;
Be gone, for 'tis an evil Beast you see;
Oh! happy you, depriv'd of such a Prey.
Should you approach him near, altho' he fled,
He'd quickly you assault, and nestle on your Head.
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Idyllium III. The Dream.

In downy Sleep I lay, when to my Sight,
Appear'd the pow'rful Goddess of Delight;
In her fair Hand an Infant Love she led,
And as he walk'd to Earth, he bow'd his Head.
The Goddess spoke, and thus she said: Dear Swain,
Go teach this Boy to sing a rural Strain.
She spoke, and fled; I, like a Fool, sung o'er
The rustick Lays I us'd to sing before.
Deceitful he to Learning seem'd inclin'd,
I taught him how Pan first the Syrinx join'd;
Minerva's Flute too did my Breast inspire;
Mercury's Shell; and sweet Apollo's Lyre.
But wanton he begun to sing of Love,
Th'Amours of Mortals, and the Gods above.
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His Mother's Acts so movingly he sung,
On ev'ry Word a dear Infection hung.
My past'ral Lays quick from my Breast were flown,
Cupid's I learn'd, but soon forgot my own.
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Idyllium IV.

[The sacred Nine not cruel Cupid fear]

The sacred Nine not cruel Cupid fear,
His Steps they follow, and the God revere.
You who are Strangers to the Lover's Pain,
Can claim no Place in the Poetic Train;
Your bold Attempts at Verse are all in vain.
But you who dread, yet hug, the killing Dart,
And feel the Anguish of the pleasing Smart;
Whose softer Breasts burn with a generous Fire,
All blest in Song, successful strike the Lyre.
Certain Applause the Lover's Lays attends;
Love, and the Muses, they were always Friends.
Fain, in heroic Numbers, would I tell,
One nobly conquer'd, and he greatly fell;
This I'd have rais'd to an immortal Fame;
But no kind Muse to my Assistance came.
Then I begun with Lycidas, and Love;
The Muses smil'd, and all my Verse approve.
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Idyllium V.

[If Glory, whilst I live, attends my Lays]

If Glory, whilst I live, attends my Lays,
Before the fatal Hour I merit Praise.
If 'tis my Fate to sing, but sing in vain,
And no Applause rewards the Poet's Strain;
Why should I strive by Song to please again?
If 'tis the Will of Jove, and such our Fate,
To change the present for a future State;
If Heav'n is just to all our Pains below,
An Age of Joy succeeds this World of Woe.
But if the Pow'rs assign one Life to Man,
To all, and that contracted to a Span;
Why all this Trouble, why our needless Cares,
In this short Journey of uncertain Years?
In Search of Wealth, Labour, and Arts, we try;
There's no eluding Fate, we yet must die.
Certain we all forget we're Mortals born;
The Thread's but drawn, wound up, and cut, we're gone.
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Idyllium VI. Cleodamus and Myrson.

CLEODAMUS.
Myrson , come tell, which, if you cou'd, you'd bring,
Summer, or Winter; Autumn, or the Spring?
Wou'd you ha't Summer? Then are all Things gay,
Or Winter, Myr, when we leave Work by Day?
And well you know, Swains, in the Summer-Heat,
Have wish'd for Time, that they a Nap might get.
Or Autumn, Boy? Then for the mellow Pear!
Spring wou'd you chuse, when all the Fields are fair?
Come tell me, Myrson, which best pleases you?
For we have Time to chat a little now.

MYRSON.
We mortal Men ought not to judge of these;
They ev'ry one are good, and ought to please.
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But, Cleodamus, since you urge me so,
I'll tell; because I've a Respect for you.
Because 'tis hot, I don't with Summer hold;
Nor with the Winter, then it is too cold;
Nor yet with Autumn, that does Surfeits bring:
There's nothing, Cleodamus, like the Spring;
The Weather then is pleasing to the Swains,
When ev'ry Thing is springing on the Plains;
When nothing is unpleasant in our Way;
But pure refreshing Cool, both Night and Day.

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Idyllium VII. Friendship.

Thrice happy those, who, with a mutual Flame,
Observe the Rev'rence due to Friendship's Name;
Thrice happy Theseus, could undaunted go,
With his Perithous, to the Realms below;
Together both before the Monarch stand,
Nor dread the Terrors of the direful Land;
Orestes, blest in ev'ry toilsome State,
Shar'd with his Pylades one common Fate;
Achilles, in the midst of Battel blest,
Whilst he enjoy'd the Partner of his Breast,
Found his Patroclus, happy in his End;
For when he fell himself, he sav'd his Friend.
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FRAGMENTS.

Upon Hyacinthus.

Before the lovely Hyacinthus dy'd,
No Art the mournful Bion left untry'd;
Grief stopp'd his Voice, and in Excess of Pain,
From Drugs he sought Relief, but all in vain;
Then he, when no Relief from Drugs was found,
With Nectar, and Ambrosia, bath'd the Wound.
Nor Drugs, nor Ointments, could prolong his Breath,
Nor Art avail. Such is the Pow'r of Death.

[I'll to the Shore, there to the Deep I'll turn]

I'll to the Shore, there to the Deep I'll turn,
To cruel Galatea make my Mourn;
There on the Sands I'll murmur out my Pray'r,
And try if I can move th'obdurate Fair.
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With Hope, sweet Hope, I'll mitigate my Pains,
Nor ever cease to hope while Life remains.

[For ev'ry Crack that in your Pipe is made]

For ev'ry Crack that in your Pipe is made,
Ne'er fly directly to the Artist's Aid;
'Tis as unseemly, 'Faith it is, dear Swain,
To borrow of a Neighbour of the Plain;
There's nothing like a Syrinx of your own,
Make it your self, for it is eas'ly done.

[When Love invokes the Nine, the Muse's Friend]

When Love invokes the Nine, the Muse's Friend,
On Love they're always ready to attend;
When with the Love of Verse my Soul's on Fire;
They give a Song, and answer my Desire;
When I their Gift, th'harmonious Song, rehearse,
No Balm is equal to the Sweets of Verse.

[Let not the Bard invoke the Muse in vain]

Let not the Bard invoke the Muse in vain;
Phœbus rewards the Poet's grateful Strain.
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Much 'tis from whom the Present we receive,
The Honour always adds to what they give.

[By frequent Drops of Rain, as it is said]

By frequent Drops of Rain, as it is said,
The hardest Stone in Time is hollow made.

[When first the Gods Beauty to Woman gave]

When first the Gods Beauty to Woman gave,
They bad the Man that would excel, be Brave.
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