The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus ::

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

Polwhele, Richard (1760-1838)

[dedication]

THE IDYLLIA and EPIGRAMS OF THEOCRITUS.

[subsection]

EPIGRAMS.

THE IDYLLIA and FRAGMENTS OF BION.

THE IDYLLIA OF MOSCHUS.

THE ELEGIES OF TYRTÆUS.

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THE IDYLLIA and EPIGRAMS OF THEOCRITUS.

ΤΟΙς ΒΟΥΚΟΛΙΚΟΙς, ΠΛΗΝ ΟΛΙΓΩΝ ΤΩΝ ΕΞΩΘΕΝ, Ο ΘΕΟΚΡΙΤΟς ΕΠΙΤΥΧΕΣΤΑΤΟς.

Longinus.

ADMIRABILIS IN SUO GENERE THEOCRITUS: SED MUSA ILLA RUSTICA ET PASTORALIS NON FORUM MODO, VERUM ETIAM URBEM REFORMIDAT. Quintilian.

QUINETIAM RITUS PASTORUM, ET PANA SONANTEM
IN CALAMOS, SICULA MEMORAT TELLURE CREATUS:
NEC SYLVIS SYLVESTRE CANIT; PERQUE HORRIDA MOTUS
RURA SERIT DULCES; MUSAMQUE INDUCIT IN AURAS.
Manilius.

IDYLLIUM the FIRST. THYRSIS,

or The ODE.

THYRSIS and GOATHERD.
THYRSIS.
Yon' breezy Pine, whose Foliage shades the Springs,
In many a vocal Whisper, sweetly sings!
Sweet too the Murmurs of thy breathing Reed:
Thine, Goatherd, next to Pan, is Music's Meed!
For, if the God receive a horn'd He-Goat,
The Female shall attend thy Dorian Oat!
But if the Rights of sylvan Pan forbid,
And He the Female claim, be thine a Kid!
Full udder'd, ere we stroke its flowing Teat,
We hold the tender Kid, delicious Meat.

GOATHERD.
Sweeter thy Warblings, than the Streams that glide
Down the smooth Rock, so musical a Tide!
If one white Ewe reward the Muse's Strain,
A stall-fed Lamb awaits the Shepherd-Swain:
But if the gentler Lambkin please the Nine,
Then, tuneful Thyrsis, shall the Ewe be thine.

THYRSIS.
Say, wilt thou rest thee, on this shelving Bed,
By the cool Tamarisk's shady Bower o'erspread?
Come, wilt thou charm the Wood-Nymphs with thy Lay?
I'll feed thy Goats, if thou consent to play.

GOATHERD.
I dare not, Shepherd, at the Hour of Noon,
My Pipe to rustic Melodies attune:
'Tis Pan we fear: From Hunting he returns,
As all in Silence hush'd the Noonday burns;

And, tir'd, reposes 'mid the Woodland Scene,
Whilst on his Nostrils fits a bitter Spleen.
But come, (since Daphnis' Woes to thee are known;
And well we deem the rural Muse thine own)
Let us, at Ease, beneath that Elm recline,
Where sculptur'd Naids o'er their Fountains shine;
While gay Priapus guards the sweet Retreat,
And Oaks, wide-branching, shade yon' past'ral Seat.
And Thyrsis if thou sing so soft a Strain,
As erst, contending with the Libyan Swain;
Thrice shalt thou milk that Goat, for such a Lay;
Two Kids she rears, yet fills two Pails a Day.
With this, I'll stake (o'erlaid with Wax it stands,
And smells just recent from the Graver's Hands)
My large two-handled Cup, rich wrought and deep;
Around whose Brim, pale Ivy seems to creep,
With Helichryse entwin'd: Small Tendrils hold
Its Saffron Fruit, in many a clasping Fold.
Within, high-touch'd, a female Figure shines,—
Her Cawl—her Vest—how soft the waving Lines!

And near, two Youths (bright Ringlets grace their Brows)
Breathe, in alternate Strife, their amorous Vows!
On each, by Turns, the faithless Fair-one smiles,
And views the rival Pair with wanton Wiles.
Brimful, thro' Passion, swell their twinkling Eyes!
And their full Bosoms heave with fruitless sighs!
Amidst the Scene, a Fisher, grey with Years,
On the rough Summit of a Rock appears;
And laboring, with one Effort, as he stands,
To throw his large Net, drags it with both Hands!
So muscular his Limbs attract the Sight—
You'd swear the Fisher stretch'd with all his Might.
Round his hoar Neck, each swelling Vein displays
A Vigor worthy Youth's robuster Days!
Next red ripe Grapes, in bending Clusters glow:
A Boy to watch the Vineyard, sits below!
Two Foxes round him skulk: This slyly gapes,
To catch a luscious Morsel of the Grapes;
But that, in Ambush, aiming at the Scrip,
Thinks 'tis too sweet a Moment to let slip—

And cries: “It suits my Tooth—the little Dunce—
“I'll send him dinnerless away, for once!”
He, idly-busy, with his rush-bound Reeds
Weaves Locust-Traps; nor Scrip nor Vineyard heeds.
Flexile around its Sides, the Acanthus twin'd,
Strikes, as a Miracle of Art, the Mind.
This Cup (from Calydon it cross'd the Seas)
I bought for a She-Goat, and new-made Cheese!
As yet unsoil'd, nor touch'd by Lip of mine,
My Friend, this Masterpiece of Wood be thine,
For thy lov'd Hymn so sweet, a willing Meed!
Sure sweeter flows not from the pastoral Reed!
And yet I envy not thy proudest Boast—
Thy Song will never reach Oblivion's Coast.

THYRSIS.
Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
Lo, Ætna's Swain! 'tis Thyrsis' Notes that flow!
Where stray'd ye, Nymphs, when Daphnis pin'd with Love?
Thro' Peneus' Vale, or Pindus' steepy Grove?

For not Anapus' Flood your Steps delay'd—
Or Acis' sacred Wave, or Ætna's Shade!

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
Gaunt Wolves and Pards deplor'd his parting Breath;
And ev'n the Forest-Lion mourn'd his Death.

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
Bulls, Cows, and Steers stood drooping at his Side,
And wail'd, in Sorrow, as the Shepherd died.

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
First, winged Hermes from the Mountain came:
‘Whence, Daphnis, whence he cried, this fatal Flame?’

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
The Goatherds, Hinds, and Shepherds all enquir'd—
‘What ail'd the Herdsman? and what Fever fir'd?’

Priapus came—and cried—‘Ah, Daphnis, say,
‘Does Love, poor Daphnis, steal thy Soul away?
‘She with bare Feet, thro' Woods and Fountains roves—
‘Exclaiming: “Hah, too thoughtless in thy Loves!
“Hah! what tho' Herdsman be thy purer Name,
“Sure, all the Goatherd marks thy lawless Flame.
“He views with leering Eyes his Goats askance,
“Notes their keen Sport, and pines in every Glance!
“Thus, while the Virgin-Train, fleet bounding by,
“Weave the gay Dance, and titter at thy Sigh;
“Perfidious Man! each Laugh lights up Desire,
“That wastes thy gloting Eyes with wanton Fire!”
Silent he sat—still burning every Vein
Throbb'd thro' dire Love, 'till Death extinguish'd Pain.

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
Next Venus' self the hapless Youth addrest,
(With faint-forc'd Smiles, yet Anger at her Breast)
‘Well, Daphnis, art thou still a Match for Love?
‘Say, does not Cupid now the Victor prove?’

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
But he: ‘Too true thou say'st, that Love hath won!
‘Too sure thy Triumphs mark my setting Sun!

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
‘Fly, where Anchises—to his Arms away—
‘And screen your Pleasures from the garish Day,
‘On Ida's Hill: There spread o'er-arching Groves;
‘There many an Oak will hide your covert Loves;
‘There the broad Rush, in matted Verdure, thrives;
‘There Bees, in busy Swarms, hum round their Hives.

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
‘Adonis too—tho' delicately-fair—
‘He feeds his Flocks, and hunts the flying Hare!

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.

‘Say,—if arm'd Diomed should meet thy Sight—
‘I've conquer'd Daphnis—come renew the Fight!

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
‘Ye Wolves and Bears and Panthers of the Woods;
‘Ye Glens and Copses and ye foaming Floods;
‘Ye Waters, who your Waves of Silver roll
‘Near Thymbris' Towers, that once cou'd soothe my Soul—
‘And thou, dear—dear auspicious Arethuse!
‘O once the sweet Inspirer of my Muse,
‘Farewell!—no more alas! shall Daphnis rove
‘Amidst your Haunts; for Daphnis dies of Love!

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.
‘I—I am he, who lowing Oxen fed;
‘Who to their well-known Brook my Heifers led.

Begin, dear Muse, the Strain of pastoral Woe,
In melting Cadence may the Numbers flow.

‘Pan—Pan—of all our Woodlands the Delight,
‘Whether thou rovest on Lycæum's Height,
‘Or o'er the mighty Mænalus, O deign
‘To visit sweet Sicilia's pastoral Plain.
‘Leave Lycaonian Helicas' high Tomb,
‘Tho' Gods revere the monumental Gloom!

Close, heavenly Muse, the Tale of pastoral Woe!
Ah! let the melting Cadence cease to flow!
‘O Pan, my Reeds so close-compacted take,
‘And call forth all their Tones for Daphnis' Sake!
‘Bent for thy Lip this Pipe be thine to play!
‘To the drear Grave Love hurries me away!

Close, heavenly Muse, the Tale of pastoral Woe!
Ah! let the melting Cadence cease to flow!
‘Ye Thorns and Brambles the pale Vi'let bear—
‘Ye Junipers, produce Narcissus fair!
‘Ye Pines, with Fruitage from the Pear-Tree crown'd,
‘Mark Daphnis' Death—while all Things change around—

‘Let Stags pursue the Beagles o'er the Plain,
‘And Screech-Owls rival Philomela's Strain!’

Close, heavenly Muse, the Tale of pastoral Woe!
Ah! let the melting Cadence cease to flow!
He ceas'd—and Venus would have rais'd his Head—
But Fate had spun his last remaining Thread!
And Daphnis past the Lake! The o'erwhelming Tide
Buried the Nymph's Delight—the Muse's Pride!

Close, heavenly Muse, the Tale of pastoral Woe!
Ah! let the melting Cadence cease to flow!
Now, fairly, Friend, I claim the Cup and Goat—
Her Milk, a sweet Libation, I devote
To you, ye Nine, Inspirers of my Lay!
Be mine a loftier Song, some future Day.

GOATHERD.
Thyrsis! thy Mouth may Figs Ægilean fill!
And luscious Honey on thy Lips distill!

For sweeter, Shepherd, is thy charming Song,
Than ev'n Cicadas sing, the Boughs among.
Behold thy Cup, so scented, that it seems
Imbued with Fragrance at the Fountain Streams,
Where sport the Hours!—Come Ciss! May Thyrsis' Pail
Bespeak the Richness of thy Pasture-Vale!

IDYLLIUM the SECOND. PHARMACEUTRIA.

SIMÆTHA.

Where—where's the Laurel pluck'd from yonder Grove?
Where the pale Philtre that may charm my Love?
Speed Thestylis; and fill the Cauldron full!
Haste—haste—and crown it with this purple Wool!
That I may hurry back the Wretch, who strays
Far from my silent Gate (these twelve long Days),
Nor heeds if poor Simætha live or die,
While fairer Beauties lure his vagrant Eye.
I'll haste to the Palæstra with the Morn,
Meet his quick Blush, and ask ‘whence comes his Scorn?’

Now, as Enchantment's midnight Powers I hail,
Now, sacred Moon, in all thy Glory sail
O'er the dire Rites! The Mysteries of my Song
To thee and Hell-born Hecate belong!—
Pale Hecate, who stalks o'er many a Tomb,
And adds fresh Horror to sepulchral Gloom;

Whilst reeking Gore distains the Paths of Death,
And Blood-hounds fly the Blasting of her Breath!
Hail Hecate! and give my rising Spell
Ev'n Perimeda's Sorceries to excell;
Bid the strong Witchery match ev'n Circe's Skill;
And with Medea's venom'd Fury fill!
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

See—see—the crumbling Cake consumes away!
Hither—but strait, thou lingering Wretch, obey!
What, am I scorn'd? Does Frenzy or Amaze
Possess thee, Slave? Come, strew, amid the Blaze,
The sacred Salt; and strewing it, exclaim—
‘Thus—Delphis' Bones I scatter thro' the Flame!’
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

My tortur'd Bosom rues the perjur'd Vow;
But, in Revenge, I give this Laurel-Bough,

The Type of Delphis, to the crackling Fires—
That, as the Spirit of his Life expires,
O'er his scorch'd Frame, like these, may Flashes haste!
Thus his Flesh tremble! thus a Cinder waste!
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

Ev'n as this Wax evaporates in Fume,
May Myndian Delphis, scorch'd by Love, consume!
And Venus, whirl him, at my Door, around,
Swift as this brazen Orbit marks the Ground!
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

I strew the Bran: But Dian's Power can shake
Hell's adamantine Gates, and bid all Tartarus quake!
Hark—the Dogs howling—to the Cymbals fly!
The City-Dogs proclaim the Goddess nigh!
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

See, smooth'd in Calms the silent Waves repose!
But ah! this Bosom no such Quiet knows!
Relentless Love! no more, alas! I boast
Unspotted Fame, my Virgin-Honors lost!
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

The due Libations, thrice, O Moon, I pour!
Thrice hail, with magic Song, this hallow'd Hour!
O thro' whatever Flame he faithless proves,
Be his the blank Oblivion of his Loves!
Such as, in Times of old, o'er Theseus stole,
When Ariadne's Image fled his Soul!
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

Fir'd by the Arcadian Plant, the foaming Horse
Breaks o'er the Mountains with infuriate Force!
Thus may I see the perjur'd Delphis roam,
And from his wonted Sports rush madd'ning home!

Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

Rent from the Robe of him who works my Woe,
This Fringe, now rending, to the Flames I throw!
Ah Love! why leech-like cling, too close to part,
Suck my Life-blood, and drain my fainting Heart!
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

Soon shall the Wretch my direr Vengeance prove;
And a crush'd Lizard bend his Soul to Love!
Now, at his Threshold (tho' no more his Care,
Still my fixt Passion fondly lingers there)
Go, strew these magic Poisons—haste away,
And ‘Delphis' Bones I scatter’—muttering, say.
Iynx, O force him, by thy mystic Charms!
Force him, tho' faithless, to these longing Arms!

SHE's gone!—and shall I give my Sighs to flow?
Trace their sad Source, and tell my Tale of Woe?

What Time her Offerings fair Anaxo paid,
Ill-starr'd, alas! to Dian's Grove I stray'd;
Where a gaunt Lioness, and many a Beast,
In slow Procession led, adorn'd the Feast.
Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

Theucarila's lov'd Nurse could ev'n persuade
My Steps to wander (Peace attend her Shade!)
I went—in Clearista's Garments drest;
And train'd the Trappings of a borrow'd Vest.
Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

There then my Delphis (still I fondly trace
Near Lycon's House, the well-remember'd Place)
My Delphis' Glories all my Soul absorb!
O Moon, his Bosom as thy silver Orb,
Bright from the Sports! His Chin the golden Hues
Of Helichryse, in downy Glow, suffuse!

Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

O how I saw! what Frenzy seiz'd my Brain!
Throbb'd my full Heart, and thrill'd each beating Vein!
The insipid Pomp no more I wish'd to see!
Its Novelties, alas! were lost on me!
Abrupt I hurried off, with trembling Frame,
Sinking reach'd Home, but knew not how I came!
There, on my Bed, of pale Disease the Prey,
Ten lingering Days, and ten long Nights I lay!
Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

Then my pal'd Cheeks appear'd, like Thapsus, dead;
And my Hair perish'd, on my fainting Head!
For Ease, to many a Sorceress I applied!
What Arts were practis'd! and what Charms were tried!
In vain!—For nothing could the Flame allay:
Dim Life decay'd, and Time flew swift away!

Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

At length, no longer able to endure
My secret Wound, and pine without a Cure,
To Thestylis,—(by Shame and Grief o'erborne);
I shew'd the Venom of the rankling Thorn!
And ‘go,’ I cried, ‘(since now too plain appears
‘The Source of all my Anguish—all my Tears)
‘To Timagetus fam'd Palæstra go—
‘There (if alone he rove) a Nod bestow,
‘Or tip a gentle Wink, and, whispering, say:
“Simætha calls—Come Delphis—come away!”
I spoke—and Thestylis obey'd—He came—
But O! what sudden Tremors shook my Frame!
Cold Dews, as he advanc'd with easy Pace,
Like Southern Damps, distilling from my Face!
Stiff as this golden Necklace—stiff as Frost—
I strove to mutter—but my Voice was lost!
Not on my fainting Lips such Accents hung
As murmur, feeble, from an Infant's Tongue!

When querulously dreaming on her Breast
His Mother lulls him into gentler Rest.
Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

Then thus the Youth (tho' now relentless) cries,
Whilst on my Couch he sat, with downcast Eyes:
‘In Truth, as erst Philinus I outrun,
‘The Prize of Cupid hath Simætha won!
Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

‘For I had come (by sweetest Love I swear)
‘Tho' no kind Call had mark'd thy partial Care,
‘Join'd by select Associates of the Town,
‘Thro' Night's dun Shade, to meet thy Smile or Frown!
‘My poplar Wreath with purple Ribbons drest,
‘And the Love-Apples blushing in my Breast.
Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

‘And if admitted—Love had crown'd my Prayer;
‘(For know, I'm nam'd the Active and the Fair)
‘Yet had I rested happy in the Bliss,
‘Had I from these sweet Lips but snatch'd a Kiss!
‘But if thy Pride had giv'n the bolting Bar
‘To kindle, with its harsh Repulse, the War,
‘Then had I bid the stronger Axe assail,
‘And many a flashing Torch had turn'd thee pale.
Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

‘Be thine, O Venus, at this happier Hour,
‘A Heart's warm Homage that adores thy Power!
‘And, next, this Tribute may Simætha claim,
‘Who sweetly call'd, and snatch'd me from the Flame.
‘Ah! Lightning Love, more fierce than Ætna's Blaze,
‘Pours—on his Victim pours, consuming Rays!
Say, sacred Moon, whence first this Passion came!
What caus'd my Anguish, and what fed the Flame!

‘Full oft hath Love with wild Disorder sway'd
‘The roving Consort, and the frenzied Maid!
‘Venom'd alike, the dark Contagion spreads
‘Thro' Virgin Chambers, or thro' bridal Beds.’
He ceas'd. But thou, O Moon, who know'st my Grief—
Ah me too credulous!—while fond Belief—
Ah! while seducing Fancy fir'd my Breast—
Let Tears and burning Blushes tell the rest!
Yet Bliss was our's, thro' sweet Delusion's Aid!
Suspicion slept, and mutual Vows were made!
Yet till, this Day, shone out the rosy Morn
By the Sun's rapid Steeds from Ocean borne,
I cherish'd what I deem'd no hopeless Flame—
When lo! my little Minstrel's Mother came;
And, ‘from the clearest Signs,’ averr'd, ‘She knew,
‘That Delphis—perjur'd Delphis, was not true!
‘For, ‘oft, she said, he drank some favorite Love—
‘Then went in Haste—while round his Rooms were wove
‘Of flowery Garlands many a gay Festoon’—
Too certain all! since here, at Morn and Noon,

His constant Visits he was wont to pay;
Or left his Doric Box, at Close of Day.
Twelve Days are past! no more that Face I see!—
Heavens! Does that Heart no more remember me?

Hail, Philtres! hail! If still he scorn the Spell,
By Fate, I'll force him to the Gates of Hell!
Such potent Sorceries an Assyrian taught,
As to a magic Charm the Drugs he wrought!
But now farewell! in spotless Glory fair!
(For, as I've borne my Griefs, I yet will bear)
Farewell bright Moon! In all thy Splendor, go
To the dark Mansions of the Waves below!
And, ye attendant Orbs, farewell—that light
With many a twinkling Ray, the Car of Night!

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.

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!

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!

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!

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!

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.

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

IDYLLIUM the FOURTH. The SWAINS.

BATTUS, a Shepherd, and CORYDON, a Neatherd.
BATTUS.
Pray Corydon, are these Philonda's Cows?

CORYDON.
No—Ægon's: 'Tis my Charge, to see them browse.

BATTUS.
By Stealth, thou milk'st them, I suppose, at Eve?

CORYDON.
No—no—'Tis hard my Master to deceive!
Oft as the Calves are suckled, he stands by,
And marks my Motions, with so shrewd an Eye,
'Twere vain, to practise on the Carle a Fraud—

BATTUS.
But where's thy Master? Is he gone abroad?

CORYDON.
Not heard?—He's gone with Milo, to the Game,
To gain, on Alpheus' Banks, the Wrestler's Fame.

BATTUS.
When could his Eyes have seen the Wrestler's Oil?

CORYDON.
They say, he'd match Alcides in the Toil—

BATTUS.
Indeed! Believe my Mother, if thou can,
And I than Pollux am a better Man.

CORYDON.
He's gone then—driving with him full a Score
Of Sheep; while, in his Hand, a Spade he bore.

BATTUS.
What cannot Milo? Sure he can persuade
Ev'n Wolves to Madness!—

CORYDON.
Here, along the Shade,
His Heifers crop no more the tender Blade!

BATTUS.
Poor Beasts! how bad a Master!

CORYDON.
Poor indeed!
They low in Sorrow, and no longer feed!

BATTUS.
Yes—in yon' Cow a Skeleton we view!
What! like Cicadas, does she live on Dew?

CORYDON.
No—at Æsarus' Streams she loves to stray;
And feeds on Bundles of our fragrant Hay.
Oft too, she frisks around Latymnus' Hill,
And, in the shady Forest, eats her Fill.

BATTUS.
And that red Bull—of Bones a very Bag!
May the Lampriadæ no better brag
For Juno's Shrine—curs'd Race!

CORYDON.
Yet Physcus' Woods,
The Marsh, the Groves that hide Neæthus' Floods
He wanders o'er—where blossom'd Buckwheat grows;
And sweet, the Honeybell—the Cowslip glows.

BATTUS.
Yes! and to Hell too, will thy Cattle go—
And rove, poor Ægon, in the Shades below!

While, vainly, thy absurd Ambition tries
To bear away the Bubble of a Prize!
Thy Pipe may moulder into Dust away,
Fram'd by thy Hands, in Troth, for quick Decay.

CORYDON.
No, Battus, by the Nymphs, the Pipe's my Boon!
He gave it me; and I know many a Tune!
I chaunt sweet Glauca's Songs and Pyrrhus' Lays;
Salubrious Croton and Zacynthus praise!
And, as I view Lacinium's Eastern Site,
There, well remember what unrival'd Might
Our Ægon, (who devour'd alone, that Day,
Full fourscore Cakes) rush'd onward to display;
When boldly seizing by his Iron Hoof
(While eager Expectation hung aloof)
He dragg'd the Bull infuriate, down the Hill,
That vainly struggled against Strength and Skill,
And gave it Amaryllis! 'Midst the Crowd
The Women shouted, and he laugh'd aloud.

BATTUS.
My sweetest Amaryllis! lovely Maid!
Tho' thou art gone, thy Memory ne'er shall fade!
Ah Fate! what Evils mortal Man betide!
Dear as the Goats I tend, the Virgin died.

CORYDON.
Cheer up, my Swain! Another Day may rise,
Tho' now perhaps it lours, with kindlier Skies!
Hope shines in Life: In Death there's not a Spark:
At Times, the Heavens are bright—at Times, are dark.

BATTUS.
I'm not cast down—But see, thy Heifers prey
On my fat Olives: Whiteface, hist—away.

CORYDON.
Hoh Colly, to the Bank: Not stir an Inch—
If I approach thee, faith, I'll make thee flinch!
See now—she comes again! the Villain—look—
By Pan, I wish I had my Leveret-Crook!

BATTUS.
A Thorn pricks sore my Leg! See here the Wound—
How thick these matted Briars o'erspread the Ground!

Haste Corydon! Dost see't? Plague take the Beast!

CORYDON.
See here!

BATTUS.
Tho' small, its Pain was not the least.

CORYDON.
Then climb no more the Mountain's pathless Steep—
Or, thro' its furzy Thickets rashly creep,
With Feet unsandal'd: On the Mountain grow
Brambles and spindling Thorns, to work thee Woe.

BATTUS.
But Corydon, pray tell me, whether, still,
Thy grey old Master revels at his Will?
Hath yet the Carle a thirsty Soul to quench?
Does he yet follow the dark-eye-brow'd Wench?

CORYDON.
Yes—Yes—he still pursues his Girl—the Goat—
Last Night, I caught him in the hurdled Cote.

BATTUS.
Well done! no Satyr, with his Spindle-Shanks,
Not Pan with thee, salacious Fellow, ranks!

IDYLLIUM the FIFTH. The TRAVELLERS.

COMATES, a Goatherd, and LACON, a Shepherd.—Woodman MORSON, the Umpire.
COMATES.
Fly—fly, my Goats, that wicked Sybarite—
The Rogue—He stole my Goatskin, but last Night!

LACON.
Lambs, from the Brook—my tender Lambkins, fly—
For he, who stole my Flute, stands skulking by!

COMATES.
Thy Flute? What Song can servile Lacon play?
Indeed, with Brother Corydon, thy Lay
Drew many a laughing Lout, who heard and saw
Thy squeaking scrannel Reed, of wretched Straw!

LACON.
No—Lycon gave me a melodious Flute!
But could I steal a Goatskin from a Brute?
Thy Master's Limbs on no soft Skin recline:
Sure, such a Luxury was never thine.

COMATES.
Yes! 'Twas the speckled one, of special Note,
My Neighbour gave me, when he kill'd the Goat!
Thou know'st the Time: For then thy envious Eyes
Glanc'd Theft; and now, thy Hands have stol'n the Prize!

LACON.
By Pan 'tis false—by Pan, who guards our Shore—
Or, may I never be call'd Lacon more!
Or, into Crathis' Streams that roll so deep,
In Madness, may I plunge, from yonder Steep!

COMATES.
And, by the Nymphs, the Fountain-Nymphs, I swear,
In yonder Fane propitious to my Prayer;
Comates never stole a Flute of thine—

LACON.
If I believe, may Daphnis' Woes be mine!
‘Nought's sacred!’ Yet, since thus thy Tongue defies,
Stake down a Kid; I warrant, I've the Prize!

COMATES.
‘Minerva's Sow!’ Of wrangling to get rid,
If thou wilt stake a Lamb, I lay a Kid.

LACON.
Hah! shrewd Comates! thy Proposal's deep!
But who e'er sheer'd a Goatling for a Sheep?
In vain might such a Flam a Booby bilk—
Who ever left a Goat, a Bitch to milk?

COMATES.
He, who the Prize, like thee, would vainly grasp—
To the Cicada shrill, a humming Wasp.
But if a Kidling be no equal Stake,
That full-grown Goat, that browses yonder, take!

LACON.
Yet why such Haste? Beneath the friendly Shade
Of this wild Olive-Tree that skirts the Glade,
While there the cooling Stream glides soft along,
May breathe, in sweeter Tones, thy boasted Song.
Here grassy Beds—here tender Herbage springs—
Here, perch'd on high, the noonday Locust sings.

COMATES.
I'm not in Haste—but feel it a Disgrace,
That such a Lout confronts me, Face to Face!

That he, whom yet a Boy, I taught, should dare
With Rivalry repay his Master's Care.
Thus train'd and fed, the Favor to requite,
A Wolf will eat thee, and a Dog will bite!

LACON.
But tell me, Caitiff, when wert thou so kind?
For not one Ditty I recall to Mind.
Yet, Boaster, since thy Tongue can run so fast,
Come, to the Grove along, and sing thy last.

COMATES.
No—Swain: Here flourish Oaks—here Rushes thrive—
Here sweetly buzz the Bees round many a Hive.
Here two fresh Fountains cool the Heats of Day,
And prattling Birds enliven every Spray!
Here, whilst thy Bowers a slighter Umbrage own,
The clustering Pine-Tree scatters many a Cone.

LACON.
Here, on the Fleeces of the Lambkin, spread
Softer than Sleep, thy easy Steps shall tread!
But for thy Goatskins laid on yonder Bank,
Not ev'n their Goatherd Master smells so rank.

Here, to the Nymphs, be mine the pleasing Toil
To crown one Bowl of Milk, and one of Oil.

COMATES.
No—come with me—for here, the Fern shall meet
With the Horn'd-Poppy's tender Flower, thy Feet!
While my Kid-Carpet's softer far than thine,
Of Milk I'll crown eight Goblets, for the Shrine
Of Pan; and heap'd delicious to the Brim,
In eight Straw Hives shall Combs of Honey swim.

LACON.
Then to thy Oaken-Umbrage let's away—
But who shall judge the Merits of our Lay?
I wish Lycopas with his Herds, were near;
He, sure, would listen with impartial Ear.

COMATES.
No Need: Thy Master's Woodman, if thou will,
Who cleaves the Billets on yon' Forest-Hill,
Will judge.

LACON.
Agreed—

COMATES.
Then call him—

LACON.
Hither Friend!
The Umpire of our rural Songs, attend.
But hear, good Morson; let no Favor guide,
And lean not partial on Comates' Side.

COMATES.
Yes—by the Nymphs, be sure determine true—
Nor give that Lacon more than Lacon's Due.
Of Sybaris, I tend Eumaras' Goats—
He drives Sybartas' Sheep, from Thurian Cotes.

LACON.
By Jove, the Fellow hath a flippant Tongue;
Who ask'st thee, pray, to whom these Flocks belong?

COMATES.
Hearkee—I do not vainly boast, forsooth;
Nor rail, but tell each Tittle of the Truth.

LACON.
Come sing then (if thou canst) contentious Clown!
Let but thy Umpire reach alive the Town.

COMATES.
The Nine, to whom two Kids, in Sacrifice,
I gave, my Ditties above Daphnis' prize!

LACON.
Lov'd by Apollo, who my Stores increast,
A goodly Ram I fatten for the Feast.

COMATES.
My Goats with Twins I milk: A tittering Maid
Pass'd by; and ‘Ah! dost milk, thyself?’ she said.

LACON.
Pheugh! Twenty Vats with Cheese can Lacon fill!
And taste, on Flowers, soft Pleasures, at his Will.

COMATES.
Oft Clearista pelts with Apples crisp
Her Swain; and, in a Whisper, loves to lisp.

LACON.
Oh how I tremble as I meet my Fair,
While o'er her Bosom streams her wanton Hair.

COMATES.
But who compares the Sweet-Briar's meaner Bush,
Or the light Pass-Flower, with the Rose's Blush?

LACON.
Who says, the Oak's rough Acorn ever grew
Bright as the glossy Chesnut's honey'd Hue?

COMATES.
I have a gentle Ringdove for my Fair,
In yonder Juniper: Her Nest is there!

LACON.
For a soft Raiment I'll present my Dear
A vi'let-colour'd Fleece when next I shear.

COMATES.
Off from the wildling Olive, Goats: Here browse,
Where spreads the Tamarisk, o'er the Slope, its Boughs.

LACON.
Ho—Conarus—Cymætha—from the Shade
Of that dim Oak; and crop this Eastern Glade.

COMATES.
For her, whose Love inspires my tuneful Tale,
I have a rich-wrought Bowl, and Cypress-Pail.

LACON.
For my sweet Shepherdess a Dog I keep—
To guard from prowling Wolves her frisky Sheep.

COMATES.
Ye crouding Locusts! from my Vineyard hence—
Touch not these nursling Shoots—nor pass the Fence.

LACON.
Cicadas! see the Goatherd's ill at Ease!
The Reapers thus, with shrill-ton'd Voice, ye teaze!

COMATES.
I hate the brush-tail Foxes, that escape
From Micon's Vineyard, stealing many a Grape.

LACON.
And I the wheeling Beetles, that scarce leave
Philonda's luscious Figs, to drone at Eve.

COMATES.
Dost recollect, when gnashing at each Stroke,
I lash'd, and made thee cling to yonder Oak?

LACON.
No—but remember, when I saw thee bound
To that same Tree, and anguish'd stamp the Ground.

COMATES.
See—see—the wincing Ape what Choler fills—
Go, Fool—and from the grey Tomb pluck the Squills.

LACON.
Hah! but a smarter Sting can some one feel—
To Hales, Fool; and dig my Lady's Seal.

COMATES.
Be Himera Milk; and rosy Crathis blush
All Wine—with Fruit on every bending Rush!

LACON.
Be Sybaris Honey; and our Girl, with Urn
Dipt into luscious Sweets, at Dawn, return!

COMATES.
My Goats eat Cytisus; o'er Lentisk tread,
And Strawberries compose their shrubby Bed!

LACON
My Sheep stray sportive, where the Thyme Flower blows—
And Ivy flaunts, the Rival of the Rose!

COMATES.
Lovely no more Alcippe's Form appears—
She kist not for my Dove, or prest my Ears.

LACON.
But I my Sweet-heart love! The Wink she tips—
Sighs for a Kiss—and sweetly pouts her Lips.

COMATES.
But stop thy wretched Pipe, vexatious Swain,
Nor idly rival a superior Strain:
Thus with the stately Swan might Lapwings vie—
Or with the Nightingale the screaming Pie.

MORSON.
Cease, Shepherd, cease: Comates wins the Prize—
Nor thou forget me at thy Sacrifice!—

COMATES.
No—by the Sylvan Pan!—Hark! hark! my Boy!
How my whole Flock of Goats snorts wild for Joy!
With Leaps of Transport how they frisk around!
I too could reach the Immortals, at a Bound!
Ah! foolish Shepherd! all thy Boast's a Flam!
Go hang thee, Lacon! I have won the Lamb!
But ye, my Goats! my Kids in Triumph run!
Come, my horn'd Flock! To-morrow as the Sun
O'er Sybaris shall ascend, with slanting Beams,
I'll wash you in the Fount's translucent Streams.
Ho! ruttish Goat! thy wanton Gambols stay!
Ere to the Nymphs my votive Rites I pay!
Still gamesome? Thou shalt smart then, I'll be sworn,
Or, like Melanthius, may my Limbs be torn!

IDYLLIUM the SIXTH. The HERDSMEN.

DAMÆTAS and DAPHNIS. Addressed to ARATUS.

Late, Herdsman Daphnis and Damætas fed
Their Herds, Aratus, to one Pasture led.
Ruddy Damætas' Beard, while sprinkled thin
Scarce grew the Down on Daphnis' tender Chin!
Beside a Brook they sung at Summer-Noon;
The Herdsman challeng'd, and thus pip'd his Tune:

DAPHNIS.
‘With Apples Galatea pelts thy Flocks,
‘And thee, rude Polypheme, gay-tittering, mocks!
‘Sweet as thou pip'st, she calls thee Goatherd-Churl!
‘And see—thy Sheep-Dog pelts—a skittish Girl!

‘He, on the lucid Wave, his Form surveys;
‘And, on the Beach, his dancing Shadow bays!
‘Call—call him, lest he rush upon the Fair!
‘Lest her emerging Limbs the Rover tear!
‘Yet lo! the frolic Maiden sports at Ease,
‘Light as the Down that floats upon the Breeze;
‘When Summer dries the Thistle's silver Hair,
‘Its Softness melting into azure Air!—
‘Her Lover, led by strange Caprice, she flies;
‘And views her Scorner with complacent Eyes!
“The King's in Check!” Sure, Cyclops, oft we prove,
‘That Faults are Beauties, when survey'd by Love.’
Thus Daphnis sung: Damætas thus began:

DAMÆTAS.
‘I saw her pelt my Flock I swear by Pan!
‘By this one Eye! this precious Eye I saw—
‘Heaven guard it till my Life's last Breath I draw!
‘Still may I keep it in the Prophet's Spite—
‘And on his House the dire Prediction light!

‘But, as in careless Mood, the Girl I vex—
‘And hint—I love some other of the Sex!
‘She hears—she pines—and jealous, from the Waves
‘Springs forth; looks round, in Fury, on my Caves;
‘And wildly-roving, every Sheep-Cote marks,
‘Whilst at her Heels my Dog obedient barks.
‘For when I lov'd, he fawn'd and gently whin'd,
‘And softly on her Knees his Head reclin'd.
‘Thus while dissembled Love its Cunning tries,
‘She'll send me, sure, some Tidings of her Sighs.
‘And yet, unless an Oath the Sea-Jilt take
‘To press with me the Bed herself shall make,
‘Far from her Caverns, on this first of Isles;
‘I'll bar my Doors, nor heed her wanton Wiles.
‘Nor is my Person so deform'd and rude—
‘On the smooth Ocean, late, my Face I view'd—
‘Fair seem'd my single Eye, and fair my Beard:
‘Whiter than Parian Stone, my Teeth appear'd.
‘Lest Fascination my Repose disturb
‘Thrice on my Breast I spat,—its Power to curb—

‘I learnt this Virtue from a Sorceress' Tongue—
‘The Hag who to Hippocoon's Reapers sung.’

Ceasing he kiss'd the Boy—and, for a Flute,
Strait gave a Pipe—his lovely Lip to suit!
Young Daphnis pip'd—his Flute Damætas play'd—
Both match'd alike, the unyielding Strain essay'd;
Whilst o'er the Grass, their Heifers danc'd for Joy,
Charm'd by Damætas and the Herdsman Boy.

IDYLLIUM the SEVENTH. The HARVEST-FEAST,

OR The VERNAL VOYAGE.

'Twas at the Time, when reigns the rural Joke,
That Eucritus and I, from City-Smoke,
(Join'd by our Friend Amyntas) pac'd our Way
To the fresh Fields that green round Halys lay.
There Lycops' Sons their Harvest-Offerings paid,
And the rich Honors of the Feast display'd—
Great Lycops' generous Sons—if any Good
Flow down, transmitted with illustrious Blood!
From Clytia's and from Chalcon's Line they came,
Ev'n Chalcon shining in the Rolls of Fame;
From whose strong Knee imprest upon the Rock,
In sudden Springs the Burine Fountain broke!
Elms, rising round, in various Verdure glow'd!
And the dim Poplar's quivering Foliage flow'd!

Scarce half the Journey measur'd (ere our Eyes
Could see the Tomb of Brasilas arise,)
Glad we o'ertook young Lycidas of Crete,
Whose Muse could warble many a Ditty sweet!
His rustic Trade might easily be seen,
For all could read the Goatherd in his Mien.
A Goat's white Skin that smelt as newly-flay'd,
His Shoulders loosely with its Shag array'd:
His wide-wove Girdle brac'd, around his Breast,
A Cloak, whose tatter'd Shreds its Age confest!
His right-Hand held a rough wild Olive-Crook,
And as we join'd, he cast a leering Look
From his arch hazel-Eye—while Laughter hung
Upon his Lips, and Pleasure mov'd his Tongue:
‘Where—where my Friend Simichidas so fast—
‘Ere now the Heats of sultry Noon are past?
‘While sleeping in each Hedge the Lizard lies;
‘And not a crested Lark swims o'er the Skies?
‘Hah! thou art trudging for some dainty Bit!
‘Or tread'st, besure, the Wine-Press for a Cit!

‘Struck by thy hurrying Clogs, the Pebbles leap!
‘And, I'll be sworn, they ring at ev'ry Step!’

‘Well met, dear Lycidas (I strait replied)
‘No Shepherd-Swain, or Reaper, e'er outvi'd
‘The Music of thy Pipe, as Stories tell;—
‘I'm glad on't—Yet, I hope, I pipe as well!
‘Invited by our liberal Friends, we go,
‘Where rich the First-Fruits of the Harvest flow;
‘To bless the fair-veil'd Goddess, who with Stores
‘Of ripen'd Corn, high-heap'd their groaning Floors.
‘But let us carol the bucolic Lay,
‘Since ours one common Sun, one common Way:
‘Alternate Transport may our Songs infuse—
‘The “honey'd Mouth”—all name me—of the Muse!
‘All praise, in Rapture, my poetic Worth!
‘But I'm incredulous, I swear by Earth!
‘I rival (conscious of my humbler Strain)
‘Philetas or Sicelidas, in vain!
‘And tho' my Melodies may soothe a Friend,
‘A croaking Frog with Locusts, I contend!’

Thus I with Art—but smiling arch, the Youth
Exclaim'd: ‘Thou art a Sprig of Jove, in Truth!
‘And need'st not, sure, from just Appplauses shrink—
‘This Crook be thine, to witness what I think.
‘I scorn the Builder, as of mean Account,
‘Whose lofty Fabric would o'ertop the Mount
‘Of proud Oromedon! Thus idly vie
‘The Muse-Cocks, who the Chian Bird defy.
‘But let's begin, since Time is on the Wing;
‘And each, in Turn, some sweet Bucolic Sing!
‘I'll chaunt (your Ear with Pleasure may they fill)
‘The Strains I lately labor'd, on the Hill.

“O may the Ship that wafts my Daphne, glide
“To Mitylene, o'er a favoring Tide!
“Tho' Southern Winds their watery Pinions spread,
“And stern Orion broods o'er Ocean's Bed.
“So may her Smile a lenient Med'cine prove,
“To cool the Fever of consuming Love!
“And may the bleak South-East no longer rave,
“But gentle Halcyons smooth the ripling Wave!

“Sweet Halcyons, lov'd by all the Nereid Train,
“Above each Bird, that skims, for Food, the Main.
“O may my Fair-one reach the quiet Bay;
“And every Blessing speed her destin'd Way!
“Then with white Vi'lets shall my Brows be crown'd—
“With Anise-Wreaths, or rosy Garlands bound!
“Then, at my Hearth, the Ptelean Bowl be quaff'd—
“And the parch'd Bean add Flavor to the Draught!
“Then, as my Elbows high, my Couch shall swell,
“Of Parsley form'd, and golden Asphodel!
“Then to my Daphne's Health I'll drink, at Ease,
“The sparkling Juice, and drain it to the Lees!
“Whilst with their Pipes two Swains delight my Ear;
“And Tityrus sweetly sings, reclining near—
“How Herdsman Daphnis lov'd the frowning Maid;
“And, with vain Sighs, o'er many a Mountain stray'd:
“How the rough Oaks, where Himera's Waters flow,
“Told to the passing Stream, his Tale of Woe.
“For as on Caucasus or Atho's Brow,
“Or Rhodope's, he breath'd the fruitless Vow—

“Or Hæmus' Hill; he sunk, thro' Love, away,
“Like Snows dissolving in the Solar Ray.
“Next shall he sing—how Tyranny opprest
“The Goatherd, prison'd in his ample Chest!
“And how the Bees from flowery Meadows bore
“Their Balms, and fed him with the luscious Store!
“For on his Lips the Favor of the Muse
“Distill'd the Nectar of her sweetest Dews!
“To thee, Comates, tho' confin'd so fast,
“Sure, with quick Pace, the vernal Season past!
“Happy, amid thy Prison, all Day long,
“While Honey dropp'd delicious on thy Tongue!
“O hadst thou liv'd with us, a Brother Swain,
“How oft my charmed Ears had caught thy Strain!
“Thy Goats upon the Mountains had I fed,
“Or o'er the tufted Vales, with Pleasure, led!
“Then had thy Voice its sweetest Powers display'd,
“Beneath the embowering Oak, or Pine-tree Shade.”

He ceas'd—and thus alternate I replied:
‘Sweet Lycidas, of Goatherd-Youths the Pride!

‘What Time I drove my Herds, the Hills along,
‘The charming Wood-Nymphs taught me many a Song!
‘Then hear, (since thou hast gain'd the Muse's Love)
‘Strains, whose high Fame hath reach'd the Throne of Jove!
‘Then hear the choicest of the Lays I know!—
‘In Honor of thy Name, the Numbers flow!

“On me the Cupids sneez'd, who Myrta love,
“As Kids the Verdure of the vernal Grove!
“With the same Fires my dear Aratus glows!
“And this, full well, the soft Aristis knows!
“Aristis, who can Phœbus' Self inspire—
“In sweet Accordance ev'n with Phœbus' Lyre!
“O Pan, for whom fair Omole displays
“Its green Abodes, attend Aratus' Lays!
“O bid her fly uncall'd into his Arms,
“Whether dear Myrta, or Philina charms!
“So may, no more, Arcadian Youths deface
“With scaly Squills, thy Form, tho' vain the Chace!
“But if thou smile not on the Lover's Cause,
“Be stung by Nettles—torn by Harpy-Claws;

“Freeze, in mid Winter, near the torpid Pole,
“On Edon, where the Streams of Hebrus roll;
“And, as an Æthiop, burn, while Summer glows,
“Where the hot Blemyan Rocks o'er Nilus close.
“Ye Loves, whose Cheeks the Apple's Bloom outvie—
“Come—from your Byblis' favorite Murmurs fly!
“Leave—leave the Waves of Hyetis; and bless
“The yellow-hair'd Dione's sweet Recess!
“Shoot, with unerring Aim, the tinctur'd Dart;
“And pierce Philina's yet unwounded Heart!
“But—‘as the melting Pear’—(the rival Maids
“Exclaim)—‘Philina's mellow Beauty fades!’
“Then, dear Aratus! let us watch no more;
“Nor wear, with nightly Toil, the bolted Door!
“Some other, as the Morn begins to peep,
“May the Cock's Clarion give to broken Sleep!
“His Limbs in listless Languor may he stretch,
“And so we rest, a Halter end the Wretch!
“Ours be Repose—and some Enchantress wait,
“To ward, far off, each Evil from our Gate.”

I sung, and (as, presenting me his Crook,
He smil'd)—the hospitable Token took!
Then, parting, to the Left, for Pyxa's Towers
He turn'd, while we to Phrasidamus' Bowers
Slop'd o'er the right-hand Path, our speedy Way—
And hail'd the Pleasures of the festal Day!
There, in kind Courtesy, our Host had spread
Of Vine and Lentisk, the refreshing Bed!
Their breezy Coolness Elms and Poplars gave,
And Rills their Murmur, from the Naids Cave!
Cicadas now retiring from the Sun,
Amid the shady Shrubs, their Song begun.
From the thick Copse we heard, far off, and lone,
The mellow'd Shrillness of the Woodlark's Tone!
Warbled the Linnet and the Finch more near,
And the soft-sighing Turtle sooth'd the Ear!
The yellow Bees humm'd sweetly in the Shade,
And round the Fountain's flowery Margin play'd.
All Summer's Redolence effus'd Delight!
All Autumn, in luxuriant Fruitage bright—

The Pear's—the thick-strown Apple's vermeil Glow,
And bending Plums, that kiss'd the Turf below!
Our Wines four Years had mellow'd in the Cask—
And could Alcides boast so rich a Flask,
(Say Nymphs of Castaly) when Chiron gave
The generous Juice, in Pholus' stony Cave?
Or did such Nectar, at Anapus' Stream,
Rouse to the Dance, the Cyclops Polypheme
(Who hurls the Mountain-Rocks across the Brine)
As, Nymphs, ye mix'd, at Ceres' glowing Shrine?
Oh! may I fix the Purging-Fan, again,
(Delightful Task!) amid her Heaps of Grain;
And, in each Hand, the laughing Goddess hold
The Poppy's vivid Red—the Ears of Gold!

IDYLLIUM the EIGHTH. The BUCOLIC SINGERS.

DAPHNIS, MENALCAS, GOATHERD. Addressed to DIOPHANTUS.

Once, Diophantus, up the breezy Grove
His lowing Herds the bonny Daphnis drove;
To meet Menalcas, with his Charge of Sheep,
'Mid the dark Umbrage of the Mountain-Steep.
Both, in the Bloom of beardless Manhood young,
Or breath'd the Dorian Reed, or sweetly sung;
While starting from their lovely Foreheads, glow'd
Their flamy Locks, or down their Shoulders flow'd.
Then Silence, first, the blythe Menalcas broke,
And deftly smil'd on Daphnis, as he spoke.

MENALCAS.
‘Come Herdsman! Keeper of the bellowing Kine!
‘Say, will thy rustic Reed contend with mine?

‘Yet shall, at last, thy tuneful Ditty fail!
‘Behold the sweetest Piper of the Dale!’
Fair Daphnis cried:

DAPHNIS.
‘Thou poor sheep-tending Swain
‘Sing, 'till thou burst, thy Numbers will be vain!

MENALCAS.
‘But shall we try?

DAPHNIS.
With all my Soul!

MENALCAS.
Agreed!
‘Say, what shall we deposit, as the Meed
‘Our Skill deserves?

DAPHNIS.
If thou wilt stake a Lamb,
‘(Full-grown I mean, and equal to its Dam,)
‘I stake a Calf.

MENALCAS.
A Lamb I cannot lay;
‘For, oft as dusky Evening dims the Day,

‘The strictest Watch my peevish Parents keep,
‘And count, with jealous Eye, my Flocks of Sheep.

DAPHNIS.
‘What's then the Prize?—

MENALCAS.
A sweet-ton'd Pipe, my Friend,
‘Of nine smooth Reeds, o'erlaid at either End
‘With whitest Wax: This fair Deposit take;
‘(But ought my Father claims I dare not stake)
‘Form'd freshly by these Hands the Pipe's my own—

DAPHNIS.
‘And I too have a Pipe, of equal Tone;
‘Its nine sweet Voices all compacted tight
‘With the soft Cement of a Wax as white:
‘'Tis just as new; ev'n now my Finger bleeds,
‘Splinter'd while, framing it, I slit the Reeds.
‘But who's the Umpire of our rival Lays?

MENALCAS.
‘Yon' Goatherd, whom that snowy Sheep-Dog bays,
‘Perchance, to judge our Numbers, nought forbids;
‘Suppose we call him from his wanton Kids?’

The Goatherd not unwilling to decide,
As, in alternate Songs, the Rivals vied;
They hasten'd with contending Pipes to play:
And first Menalcas breath'd the rural Lay.

MENALCAS.
‘Ye Vales, ye Streams, Heaven's Progeny belov'd!
‘If Pleasure e'er Menalcas' Carols mov'd;
‘Feed—feed my Lambs! If hither Daphnis' Kine
‘Repair, O pasture his, no less than mine.’

DAPHNIS.
‘Ye Herbs, ye Fountains, that enrich the Dale,
‘If Daphnis ever match'd the Nightingale,
‘Fatten these Herds! If ought Menalcas lead
‘To Pasturage, his be every fruitful Mead.’

MENALCAS.
‘Strait, if my Fair approach, the Spring appears,
‘And all the brightening Scene new Beauty wears!
‘The fattening Lambs amid Luxuriance bleat,
‘And milk more richly flows from every Teat!
‘But, in her Absence, see the Pasture-Scene—
‘A pining Shepherd—and a faded Green!’

DAPHNIS.
‘There Ewes and Goats, with Twins, o'erspread the Hill,
‘There Bees their Hives with fragrant Honey fill—
‘There the tall Oaks expand a wider Shade
‘Where Milo treads! But, sudden, from the Glade,
‘Quick as he goes, Delight and Plenty fly!
‘The Herdsman withers, and his Cows are dry!’

MENALCAS.
‘O Goat, the Husband of the snowy Flock!
‘Ye Kids, wild-hanging from the rifted Rock,
‘Haste, where yon' Wood its Gloom romantic flings,
‘And, with its Depth of Foliage, hides the Springs!
‘There screen'd he lies! Go, murmur at his Shed,
‘That Proteus, tho' a God, his Sea-Calves fed.’

DAPHNIS.
‘I wish not to outstrip the Winds, or hold
‘Pelops' vast Realms, or brood o'er Crœsus' Gold!
‘Be mine to triumph in the Dorian Lay;
‘Beneath that Rock, to shun the Glare of Day;
‘Enjoy, with thee, my Girl! the breezy Sea,
‘And view the pastur'd Sheep—yet clasping thee!

MENALCAS.

‘Nets are the Terror of the feather'd Brood!
‘And Snares entrap the Beasts that range the Wood!
‘The Storm uproots the Beeches of the Hills!
‘And the red Sunbeam dries the shrinking Rills!
‘While Man, alas! no direr Evil proves
‘Than Frowns, so killing, from the Maid he loves!
‘Indeed—not I alone of Love complain!
‘Ev'n thou, O Father Jove, hast felt the Pain.’

Thus then the Boys the alternate Ditty play;
And thus Menalcas tunes his closing Lay.

MENALCAS.
‘Spare Wolf! O spare me—nor my Kidlings eat—
‘Because I'm little, and my Flocks are great.
‘Hah Brightfoot! How, my Dog! So fast asleep?
‘Here trusting to a Boy such numerous Sheep?
‘But feed, dear Flock, and fearless crop your Food;
‘Feed on—'twill quickly spring, and be renew'd.
‘Then come with swelling Udders, from the Vales,
‘Suckle your bleating Lambs, and fill the Pails.’

Next Daphnis sung.

DAPHNIS.

‘As, Yester-Morn, I drove
‘My lowing Heifers thro' the tangled Grove,
‘(Her arched Eye-Brows join'd) a lovely Maid
‘Stood peeping from a Cave, and sportive said:
“Sure, he's a pretty Youth!” With downcast Eye
‘I went my Way, nor aught could I reply.
‘Sweet is the Breath of Cows—the Breath of Steers—
‘Sweet too the Bullock's Voice the Herdsman hears!
‘And, in the dewy Vale, at Evening-Close
‘Sweet the Hill-Echoes, when the Heifer lows!
‘But sweet, at Noon, the Shade embowering deep,
‘Lull'd by the Murmur of a Stream, to sleep.
‘Smooth Acorns crown their Oaks; and Fruits of Gold
‘Fair on the branching Pippen, we behold!
‘Sleek Calves their Mothers grace; and udder'd Cows,
‘The Glory of the watchful Neatherd, browse.’

Thus sung the Boys: And eager to decide,
With honest Energy the Goatherd cried:

GOATHERD.

‘How charm'd, the Music of thy Voice I hear—
‘That melts, my Swain, far sweeter on the Ear,
‘Than Honey-Drops distil upon the Tongue—
‘Take—take the Pipes!—To thee the Pipes belong!
‘O! if thou wilt but teach me such a Lay—
‘While merrily my Kidlings round me play;
‘That Goat be thine, with mutilated Horn—
‘She fills a brimming Bucket every Morn.’

Strait Daphnis danc'd, with Pleasure's heartfelt Glow,
As the light Fawn skips nimbly by the Doe—
Shouting—while nought could sad Menalcas say,
But went, deep-sighing as a Bride, his Way.
Thus Daphnis shone; and bright in youthful Charms—
Erelong the lovely Nais blest his Arms.

IDYLLIUM the NINTH. The SHEPHERD.

DAPHNIS and MENALCAS.

Daphnis, begin—begin thy rustic Note!
And next, Menalcas, breathe thy Dorian Oat!
Tho' first ye bid, beneath these leafy Boughs,
The Heifers join their Bulls—the Calves, their Cows!
While, 'midst the Herd, along the Copse they stray,
Daphnis, begin the blythe bucolic Lay;
And, rival Shepherd! in responsive Strains,
Awake the sleeping Echoes of the Plains!

DAPHNIS.
‘Sweet lows the Steer! and sweet the Heifer lows!
‘Sweet is the Reed! and sweet the Herdsman blows
‘His vocal Pipe! and sweet I sing! My Bed
‘Beside the cooling Waters have I spread!
‘And the smooth Skins of milk-white Heifers form
‘Its soft Repose! Alas—the Southern Storm

‘Down yonder shrubby Steep those Heifers flung—
‘Yon' Mount where, cropping Arbutus, they hung!
‘There sultry Summer I regard no more,
‘Than dreaming Lovers heed their Father's Lore.’
Thus Daphnis sings: Menalcas thus replies:

MENALCAS.
‘Ætna's my Mother; and my Dwelling lies
‘A fair-scoop'd Grotto, 'midst her living Rocks;
‘While in the Mountain-Shadow browse my Flocks—
‘Full many a bleating Sheep, and many a Goat—
‘Not Scenes so rich in airy Slumbers float!
‘To them I owe the Softness of my Bed!
‘Skins at my Feet, and Fleeces at my Head.
‘For freezing Winter I have Stores of Wood—
‘Dry Beech and Oak that blaze to dress my Food!
‘Thus I regard, as toothless Fellows hold
‘Hard Nuts when Pulse is near, the wintry Cold.’
I gave them both Applause—and both, their Due:
To Daphnis a strong shapely Club, that grew
Amid my Father's Woods, a single Plant—
So fair—ev'n Artists might its Beauty grant.

The Shepherd-Swain a fine-wreath'd Conch I gave,
Brought from the Murmur of the Icarian Wave—
Whose Flesh (I found it on the Rocks alive)
Luxurious Dainty! was a Feast for five.
O'erjoy'd he struck the Shell:

MENALCAS.
‘Ye Powers of Song!
‘Inspire (nor do I fear a blister'd Tongue)
‘Inspire me, rural Muses, with the Strains
‘I deftly carol'd to the wondering Swains.
“Hawks mix with Hawks, and Ants with Ants agree;
“Cicadas with their own—the Muse with me.
“O that she fill'd my soft melodious Hours!
“For neither to the Honey-Bee the Flowers
“So sweet—or easy Sleep, and early Spring,
“That Balms so soothing to the Laborer bring—
“Charm like the Muse! And they, on whom she smiles,
“May brave ev'n Circe's Cup—ev'n Circe's Wiles.”

IDYLLIUM the TENTH. The REAPERS.

MILO and BATTUS.
MILO.
What ails thee, Battus, that thou reap'st awry;
And flinching, let'st thy Neighbour pass thee by?
How, thro' hot Noon, 'till Evening, wilt thou reap,
Thus early lagging, like a wounded Sheep?

BATTUS.
Thy Drudgeries Noon and Night, be thine to brag:
But tell me, Fragment of the flinty Crag!
Did never in thy Heart a Kindness lurk,
That, for a Moment's Pause, delay'd thy Work?

MILO.
No—No—such Thoughts should ne'er the Laborer haunt!
Thy silly Dream of Idleness avaunt!

BATTUS.
But, Milo, didst thou never watch for Love?

MILO.
Not I!—Love's Watchings may I never prove.
His Tongue in Lambkins-Blood if Rover steep;
Rover will ever feel a Thirst for Sheep.

BATTUS.
Ah Milo! I have lov'd ten Days and more!

MILO.
Enjoy it, Friend! I envy not the Store!
Of meagre Vinegar I've scarce a Flask!
Thou, rich in Wine, canst pierce the purple Cask!

BATTUS.
Ah! hence it is, my Fallows are unsown.

MILO.
But who's the woundy Nymph!

BATTUS.
To thee I own,
Old Polybutas' Girl, whose Madrigal
So seiz'd our Reapers' Ears, and charm'd them all.

MILO.
Faith, thou art rightly serv'd! a luscious Bite!
Go clasp her! Hug thy little chirping Fright.

BATTUS.
Hah! mouthing it so big! Thou need'st not flout!
Cupid's as well as Plutus' Eyes are out.

MILO.
I mouth it—no—but throw thy Sickle by—
Come—come—cheer up! Some amorous Ditty try.
Deftly thy Tale of sweet Bombyce tell!
For once, if well I ween, few sung so well!

BATTUS.
Pierian Muses! be my Nymph your Care!
My slender Nymph! for all ye touch are fair!
Sweet Girl! So sunburnt and so thin, 'tis said,
Yet, in my Eyes, a honey-color'd Maid!
The letter'd Hyacinth and Vi'let brown
Are the first Flowers that grace the rural Crown!
Kids follow Thyme, and Wolves soft Kids, the Crane
Pursues the Plough—and thee, thy faithful Swain!

O that the Wealth of Crœsus were but mine,
Then would we stand, at Venus' sacred Shrine,
Two richly-sculptur'd Images of Gold;
While thy dear Hand a Rose or Lute should hold,
Or vermeil Apple, and thy Swain be drest,
New-sandal'd, in a Dancer's gaudy Vest.
Delightful Girl! How beauteous are thy Feet!
And O! the Music of thy Voice how sweet!
How smooth thy Ankles, with so soft a Swell!
But for thy Manners—no rude Song can tell!

MILO.

Hah! we mistook his Talents! What a Strain!
He hath not measur'd Harmony in vain!
Hah! no more Wisdom! Yet so wise a Beard!
But hast thou Lytierses' Numbers heard?

‘Prolific Ceres, bless our fruitful Soil,
‘Ripen the redd'ning Ear, and crown our Toil.
‘Bind—bind your Sheaves; lest Travellers scoffing say
“Such wooden Fellows ill deserve their Pay.”

‘Rear to the North or West, ye Reaping-Train,
‘Your Shocks; so Gales salubrious swell the Grain.
‘Sleep not at Noon, ye Threshers; from the Corn
‘When in brisk Eddies the light Chaff is borne.
‘Rise, Reapers, with the Lark (yet seek the Shed
‘At Noon) and with the Lark retire to Bed.
‘Sweet is the Life of Frogs: They never thirst,
‘For they may drink, my Striplings, 'till they burst.
‘Boil, Pinch-penny, the Lentils whole, nor stint
‘Your Slaves; You'd slit a Bean, or flay a Flint.’

Thus should the Reapers carol Toil away;
Thus pass, with useful Songs, the sultry Day.
But go—such love-sick Lays as fill thy Head—
Such Dreams may suit thy Mother's Ears in Bed!

IDYLLIUM the ELEVENTH. The CYCLOPS.

Addressed to NICIAS.

Nicias, how vain the Labor, to remove
By Drugs or healing Herbs, the Fire of Love!
'Tis for the Muse alone, tho' rare her Art,
To quench, in lenient Balms, the burning Dart!
Dear to the Muse, 'tis thine full well to know,
We boast no sweeter Remedy below!

'Twas thus fam'd Polypheme, in elder Days,
Charm'd all his Soul to Rest, with soothing Lays—
When Galatea first inspir'd the Vows
Of Love—and Youth sprung vivid on his Brows!
Yet, tho' the rustic Swains their Passion breathe
O'er braided Tresses, or the rosy Wreath;
With no such Gifts of calm Delight he lov'd—
But all his madd'ning Breast the Furies mov'd.

Oft, as he wander'd on the sedgy Shore,
(Love all his Care—his Flocks review'd no more)
From grass-green Meads his Sheep were wont to roam—
Or seek their Cotes alone, returning Home.

Meantime, his Galatea, all Day long,
The Burthen of his sweet-repeated Song,
He pin'd, with Love's keen Arrow at his Heart,
Yet found a Med'cine for the venom'd Dart;
While from a Rock that o'er the Billows hung,
He view'd the watery Waste, and sighing sung:

‘O soft as Lambkins, than the Curd more white,
‘And as the Vine's unripen'd Fruitage bright—
‘O wanton as the Calf, my snowy Maid,
‘Why thus with Scorn are all my Vows repaid?
‘For tho', in Sleep, I see thy Form so fair,
‘I wake, and all the Vision melts in Air!
‘Ah then thy Beauties vanish from my Eyes!
‘Thus from the hoary Wolf the Lambkin flies.
‘Then first I lov'd (and drank of Love my Fill)
‘When, wandering round the Hyacinthine Hill,

‘Fair Nymph! thy guardion Mother by thy Side,
‘I led thee to its Flowers, a willing Guide.
‘Ah from that hapless Period have I pin'd;
‘Nor felt one Pause of Quiet in my Mind:
‘And yet, proud Maid! my Pangs no Pity move!
‘Nor gain from thee a Moment's Sigh, by Jove!
‘Indeed I guess the Cause of all thy Pride —
‘My Eye-brow stretch'd so shaggy and so wide!
‘One Socket only, where my large Eye glows!
‘And o'er my blubber Lips such Prominence of Nose.
‘Yet, tho' I'm such, I feed a thousand Sheep!
‘Milk the rich Stream, and drink its Beverage deep!
‘And from the Fatness of the o'erflowing Pails,
‘Curdle the softest Cheese that never fails!
‘Still, if the tepid Zephyr fan the Spring,
‘My plenteous Curd lies ready for the Wring!
‘Still, if the Summer scorch, the Winter freeze,
‘My Shelves are loaded with abundant Cheese.
‘No Cyclops, here, outvies my vocal Pipe,
‘Chaunting thy Charms so luscious and so ripe!

‘Yes! Apple of Delight! I sing, with Glee,
‘Oft, at the midnight Hour, myself and thee!
‘For thee ten Does, all mark'd with Moons, I rear;
‘And four fine Cubs—I plunder'd from a Bear!
‘Come then—nor heed the Dashing of the Wave,
‘Repose, each Night, more sweetly in my Cave!
‘Come Nymph! and I will give thee nothing less
‘Than thy own Grotto yields thee, to possess!
‘There, Ivy round my Bays and Cypress twines!
‘There, Grapes delicious load my blushing Vines.
‘There, from deep-shaded Ætna's melting Snows
‘The cooling Spring's ambrosial Beverage flows.
‘And who, my Fair-one, would prefer to these
‘The dull drear Prospect of a Waste of Seas?
‘But if my Beard—my Eye-brows be too rough,
‘I've Oaken Billets, and I've Fire enough:
‘On the red Hearth unquench'd my Embers live;
‘Then to the Flame my Beard—my Eye-brows give.
‘For ev'n to burn my Life-Blood I could bear—
‘Or this far dearer Eye, to please my Fair.

‘O had I sprung (alas! my hapless Doom)
‘With Fins, like Fishes, from my Mother's Womb;
‘Soon for thy Waters I had left the Land,
‘Div'd down, and kiss'd, if not thy Lips—thy Hand!
‘Then had I brought thee Lilies white as Snow;
‘And Poppy-bells, with Leaves that deeply glow!
‘But yet, at once, my Flowers I could not bring;
‘For these in Winter rise, and those in Spring.
‘Now—now—dear Maiden, will I learn to dive,
‘If some kind Sailor at our Coast arrive;
‘That I may see what Bliss is thine below—
‘What Pleasures I would wish thee to forego.
‘Yet come, my charming Galatea, come—
‘Forget (as I on this lone Spot) thy Home!
‘Come, leave the Covert of thy native Rocks!
‘And milk with me, my Love, and feed my Flocks!
‘Mix the sharp Runnet with the curdling Cream,
‘And from the Cheeses press the sourer Stream.

‘Ah! 'tis my Mother I accuse alone—
‘Who, tho' she daily hears my wasting Groan,

‘Ne'er whisper'd thee a Word: But she shall see
‘These Legs—this throbbing Heart—and grieve with me.
‘O Cyclops, where is all thy vanish'd Sense?
‘Go weave thy Baskets—go—and hie thee hence,
‘Where each green Tree its tender Twigs supplies—
‘Fresh Fodder for the Lambs—awake—be wise.
‘Go—milk the first that offers on the Plain:
‘Why thus pursue the flying Sheep in vain?
‘Come—let me give this Fooling to the Wind—
‘Another Girl, still fairer, may be kind.

‘Full many a pretty Maid, at dusky Eve,
‘My Smiles and Jokes with frolic Laugh receive;
‘And hail me, as I join their sportive Band:
‘Tho' scorn'd at Sea, I'm some-one on the Land.’

Thus could fond Polypheme his Passion calm
Thro' the sweet Influence of the Muse's Balm,
That gave his love-sick Heart more lenient Ease,
Than Med'cines dearly bought by lavish Fees.

IDYLLIUM the TWELFTH. To a FRIEND.

Say, art thou come, now three long Days are past—
To crown the Wishes of my Heart, at last?
Far as the Apple's Pulp outvies the Sloe;
Or vernal Meads the wintery Wastes of Snow;
Far as the milky Mothers of the Plain
Bear Wool more weighty than their Lambs sustain;
Far as the Virgin, in the Prime of Life,
Excells the Matron, three Times dubb'd a Wife;
Or the light Fawn the Calf—or Nightingales
Surpass the rival Minstrels of the Vales;
So far thy Converse cheers! To thee I run,
As Travellers to the Beech that screens the Sun.

O that our Fame of Friendship long may live—
And to recording Bards new Lustre give!

100

O may we, thro' a deathless Being, prove
The golden Joys of harmonizing Love!
Then, after many an Age hath roll'd away,
May some-one meet my Shade, and sweetly say:
‘Your Friendship blooms, the Theme of every Tongue,
‘And prompts the Shepherd's Tune—the Poet's Song.’
Such are my Prayers! May such the Fate dispose—
While, no dishonest Pimple on my Nose,
I with a firm-ton'd Energy maintain:
‘The Joy I've felt with thee, outweighs the Pain.’

Ye Megarensians, who, in equal Time,
The Music of your Oars so softly chime;
Blest may ye flourish; since the Athenian's Cause
Gain'd, at his closing Hour, your just Applause—
Above all Strangers honour'd, since ye pay
Due Rites to Diocles, each festal Day.
Then sprightly Boys, when Spring begins to bloom,
Sport, in soft Contest, at their Hero's Tomb;
And who the sweetest Kiss hath Power to breathe,
Bears to his Mother many a rosy Wreath.

101

Blest is the Man, with more than vulgar Bliss,
Whoe'er he be, that judges of the Kiss!
Fair Ganymede—who makes the Thunderer bow;
Whose lenient Smile can smooth his angry Brow;
His Fury with a magic Power command,
And stop his Lightning, in his lifted Hand—
Had such a Lip (or Fame hath often ly'd—
And Fame errs seldom on the better Side)
As, a true Touchstone, tried the proffer'd Joy,
And the pure Ore distinguish'd from Alloy.

102

IDYLLIUM the THIRTEENTH. HYLAS.

Addressed to NICIAS.

How vain the Opinion (argue all we can)
That Love, dear Nicias, is confin'd to Man!
How vain, that Beauty blooms for us alone!
Mortals, who idly deem one Day our own!

With Iron Bosom, tho' the Beast he slew,
The Charms of melting Love Alcides knew!
He cherish'd Hylas, with his golden Hair;
Felt all the Fondness of parental Care;
And taught him, as a Sire instructs his Son,
By manly Virtues how Renown is won!
Himself alike the Model and the Guide
He watch'd assiduous at his Hylas' Side;
Whether their Course Aurora's white Steeds run
From Jove's high Dome; or blaz'd the noon-day Sun;

103

Or the Hen shook her Wings, by Twilight's Gleam,
Gathering her Chicken to the smoky Beam—
That, tutor'd on Instruction's steady Plan,
The Boy, in Wisdom's Way, might rise to Man.

But when bold Jason, for the golden Fleece,
Brav'd the rough Billows, with the Sons of Greece,
Who, duly chosen from the Cities, came,
(Princes of high hereditary Name)
'Twas then, at rich Iolcos' crouded Strand,
Alcmena's toiling Offspring met the Band:
And Hylas, with a filial Friendship fraught,
Close at his Side, the firm-deck'd Argo sought.
'Midst Cyane's dread Rocks the Vessel past,
And with an Eagle's Swiftness cleft the Waste;
But, 'till the vernal Breeze in Safety curl'd
The heaving Wave, her Sails in Phasis furl'd.

Soon as the Pleiads shone, and milder May
Bade the light Lambs o'er springing Verdure play;
The Flower of Heroes, with a Southern Gale,
Spread on the Hellespont, their rapid Sail;

104

And thro' the smooth Propontis bent their Prows,
Where rich Cyanean Fields in Furrows rose.
There landing on the Beach, in Pairs they spread
Quick for their Evening-Viands, many a Bed;
Tho' some for ampler Cates their Couch provide
More spacious, where a shadowy Mead supplied
Sharp Ox-tongue's flowering Plant, and Rushes broad,
That on the tufted Ground the Chieftains strow'd.
Swift Hylas o'er the Meadow runs, to bring,
In brazen Vase, fresh Water from the Spring,
For Hercules and Telamon, who stor'd
(Sworn Comrades at the Feast) one common Board.
Strait, in the Bosom of a lowly Dell,
He found beset with Plants, a shaded Well:
On its cool Marge the fringing Herbage grew;
The mingling Dyes of Celandine so blue,
With verdurous Parsley, Maidenhair's bright Green,
And Vervain: While amid the watery Scene,
Naids, the Dread of ev'ry rustic Wight,
Led the gay Dance, and revel'd thro' the Night:

105

Young Malis and Eunica form'd the Ring,
And sweet Nychea, like the blooming Spring.
His Vase now dipping in the sable Lymph,
Fair Hylas struck each fond enamour'd Nymph!
They seiz'd! Down—down he dropp'd, as from Heaven's Height
Shoots glittering to the Main a starry Light.
—‘Unfurl your Sails’—(aloud the Boatswain cries)
‘Speed my brave Boys! Propitious Gales arise!’
With soft Address the Nymphs soothe Hylas' Fears,
And lull him on their Laps, and kiss his Tears.
Meantime, Alcides, clouded o'er by Grief,
Grasp'd (the dread Image of a Scythian Chief)
His long-bent Bow; and, Wildness in his Look,
The Club familiar to his Right Hand shook.
And thrice (the Clamor rent the trembling Air)
On Hylas call'd, in Accents of Despair!
From the deep Waters Hylas thrice replied—
Tho' near, each feeble Murmur, as at Distance, died!
Ev'n as the Lion, if far off a Fawn
Cry with sad Plaint along the dusky Lawn,

106

Starts from the Covert of his Mountain-Wood,
And rushes on his ready Feast of Blood;
Thus Hercules, in dire Disorder, takes
His Way thro' Thickets and thro' devious Brakes;
And strides (how wretched is the Lover's Lot)
O'er Hills and dreary Glens—the Fleece forgot.
Now fitted for the Deep the Vessel lay;
(Amphitryon's Son expected with the Day)
For all at Night unfolded to the Breeze
Her Pendants stream'd across the shadowy Seas.
He, in dark Frenzy, rush'd thro' Ways untrod!
For Love had pierc'd his Heart—a cruel God!
In vain—his Hylas, number'd with the Blest,
The starry Seats, in blooming Youth, possest.
In vain—Immortal Hylas heard no more—
And Argo saw the quick-retiring Shore:
Her Chiefs aspersing his unspotted Fame,
Affix Deserter—to Alcides' Name;
Yet soon, on Foot, with Hero-soul sublime,
He reach'd rude Phasis' Haunts, and Cholcos' Clime.

107

IDYLLIUM the FOURTEENTH. CYNISCA's LOVE.

ÆSCHINES and THYONICHUS.
ÆSCHINES.
Good-Morrow, Thyonichus! welcome—

THYONICHUS.
Good-Morrow!

ÆSCHINES.
Well—I see you at last!

THYONICHUS.
What a Face, full of Sorrow!

ÆSCHINES.
Too true!

THYONICHUS.
So it seems, by your rough bushy Forehead,
Your Visage drawn out, and Mustachios so horrid!
I never, till Yesterday, saw such another—
A Beggar from Athens, in Leanness your Brother!

108

Not a Shoe to his Foot, the poor squalid Pythagorist
Believe me, was also in Love—with a Bag of Grist!

ÆSCHINES.
My Friend you are jocular—I'm full of Woe—
The lovely Cynisca hath slighted me so!
Ah! nobody guesses what Pain I endure;
I'm scarce a Hair's-breadth from a Maniac I'm sure.

THYONICHUS.
I know you, my Friend—rough or smooth is your Brow,
As it happens—But what hath befallen you now?

ÆSCHINES.
Cleonicus and I, at a Villa of mine,
Met the Argive and Thessalan Jockey, to dine
On a roast Pig and Couple of Fowls I had kill'd—
When we heartily ate—and as heartily swill'd!
Alas! little thought I indeed of a Scrape;
While fragrant and brisk was the Juice of the Grape,
Tho' bottled four Years from the Vintage (the Savor
Of Cockles and Garlick enriching the Flavor.)
And now with our Toasts the full Bumpers were crown'd,
As the Name of each Mistress went merrily round.

109

But she not a Tittle: 'Twas very distressing:
Quoth the Jockey aside—‘Now I'll give her a Dressing—
‘Mute hath met with a Wolf, that no Word can escape her’—
How she flush'd! at her Face you might kindle a Taper!
It seems there's one Wolfe—very slender, in Truth,
Tho' cried up, as a handsome and delicate Youth!
With him long ago she was smitten, I heard;
But I let the Thing lie, and still cherish'd my Beard.
In fine, we had all of us drank, and were mellow—
When the Jockey, arch Apis, a mischievous Fellow,
Struck up, on a sudden, a frolicsome Ditty,
Of ‘Wolfe who was lovely and sighing and pretty!’
Like an Infant she sobb'd—when, in violent Pique,
(You know me) I hit her a Blow on the Cheek!
Then, swelling with Passion, I hit her another—
I shall never forget—'twas so horrid a Pother!
And ‘Mischief! (said I) was I right in my Fears?
‘Begone, nor insult me! a Curse on thy Tears!’
Quick-rising, she gather'd her Vest in a Knot,
And fleet, as from under the Roof of a Cot

110

The Swallow (just fed her yet clamorous Brood)
Skims around, for another Provision of Food;
She flew from her Chair, in a frantic Disorder,
Glided over the Lobby; and then thro' the Foredoor
Glanc'd away—sure the Proverb is true to my Cost—
‘The Bull in the midst of the Thicket is lost!’
Two Months will to-morrow be gone, since I've seen her—
Since here I've been sighing—‘How fatal a Dinner!’
And never, alas! from that terrible Day, Sir,
Hath my Beard (like a Thracian's) felt Edge of a Razor!
Ever since hath she liv'd Day and Night with her Wolfe,
Regardless of me a poor Shade, or the Gulf
Into which she has plung'd me! I wish I could hate her,
And rise, over Head as I am—in Love-water.
Like the Mouse that hath bitten the Pitch I complain,
Attempting to swallow the Morsel in vain.
Thyonichus, what shall I do, to get rid
Of my Passion? I'll do as my Neighbour Sim did!
You know, tho' he lov'd the proud Girl to Distraction,
He enlisted—and fought away Love in an Action!

111

And I too—no dastardly Fellow I wist—
To fight it away, am resolv'd to enlist!

THYONICHUS.
I wish thee Success with the little wing'd God!
But, if thou'rt determin'd on Warfare abroad,
King Ptolemy, best of all Kings, I engage, is
Full ready, my Boy, to reward thee with Wages.

ÆSCHINES.
Is he generous?

THYONICHUS.
He boasts a benevolent Spirit,
Attach'd to the Freeborn, encouraging Merit!
Good-nature and Courtesy welcome the Guest;
And Pleasantry adds to his Dainties a Zest:
Yet whilst for his Friends Generosity shapes him,
Believe me, an Enemy never escapes him.
He gives like a Monarch, nor ever refuses—
Besides, he's the Patron and Boast of the Muses!
Go therefore (thy Love swallow'd up by Ambition)
To Ægypt, and offer a modest Petition!

112

Go arm thee, and throw the short Cloak o'er thy Shoulder—
To meet the fierce Phalanx stand bolder and bolder;
But hasten—In Life there's no Room for Delay—
Ev'n now, my dear Boy, we begin to decay!
Age silvers the Brow, to the Cheeks stealing on—
'Tis in Vigor of Youth that the Battle is won!

127

IDYLLIUM the SIXTEENTH. The GRACES,

OR HIERO.

While each fair Action of celestial Birth,
Jove's Race record, and Bards the Deeds of Earth;
The deathless Muse and mortal Poet share
Touch'd with a kindred Flame, a kindred Care.
Yet who, beneath the circling Sun, repays
With grateful Presents, our applausive Lays?
Lo! from the proud unhospitable Dome
Our Panegyrics haste ungifted home;
Indignant, of the cold Regard complain,
Sigh o'er our Song, and mourn the Journey vain!
Then recommitted to their lonely Seat,
An empty Chest's chill comfortless Retreat;
Timid and pinch'd by Penury, they freeze,
And press with fainting Heads their shivering Knees.

128

For ah! who values now the plauding Lyre?
Who feels the Patriot's—who the Hero's Fire?
Alas! no Chieftains, as in antient Days,
Love the fair Meed, and tremble for our Praise!
All—all the sordid Ministers of Gain,
Heed not the hollow Tinkling of our Strain;
Wiser to solid Heaps of Silver trust,
Nor ev'n impart an Atom of its Rust.
‘Led by an Alien's Dreams let others roam—
‘I care not—Charity begins at home!
(With Hand upon his Breast, the Miser cries)
‘Money is all I want—Be others wise!
‘My humble Prayer is only to be rich—
‘Heaven will provide the Poet with a Nich:
‘Besides, had I a Wish for sterling Sense,
‘I've Homer; and can read, without Expence.’
Say, Wretch, what profits all thy precious Ore?
Say, what avails, to heap the shining Store?
Not thus the Wise their prosper'd Riches use,
The Friends and Benefactors of the Muse:

129

While Prudence for themselves reserves a Part,
Their Kindred praise the hospitable Heart;
Each Fellow-being owns their generous Cares,
And every God his due Libation shares.
'Tis theirs to welcome every coming Guest;
And blessing each departing Friend, be blest:
But chiefly theirs, to mark with high Regard
The Muse's laurel'd Priest—the holy Bard!
Lest in the Grave their unsung Glory fade,
And their cold Moan pierce Acheron's dreary Shade;
As the poor Laborer, who, with Portion scant,
Laments his long hereditary Want.
What tho' Aleua's and the Syrian's Domes
Saw crouding Menials fill their festal Rooms;
What tho' o'er Scopas' Fields rich Plenty flow'd,
And Herds innumerous thro' his Vallies low'd;
What tho' the bountiful Creondæ drove
Full many a beauteous Flock, thro' many a Grove;
Yet when expiring Life could charm no more,
And their sad Spirits sought the Stygian Shore;

130

Their Grandeur vanish'd with their vital Breath,
And Riches could not follow them, in Death!
Lo these, for many a rolling Age, had lain
In blank Oblivion, with the vulgar Train,
Had not their Bard, the mighty Ceian, strung
His many-chorded Harp, and sweetly sung
In various Tones, each high-resounded Name,
And giv'n to long Posterity their Fame!

Verse can alone the Steed with Glory grace,
Whose Wreaths announce the Triumph of the Race!
Could Lycia's Chiefs, or Cycnus' changing Hues,
Or Ilion live, with no recording Muse?
Not ev'n Ulysses, who thro' Dangers ran
For ten long Years, in all the Haunts of Man;
Who ev'n descended to the Depths of Hell,
And fled, unmangled, from the Cyclops' Cell—
Not he had liv'd, but sunk, Oblivion's Prey,
Had no kind Poet stream'd the unfading Ray!
Thus too Philœtius had in Silence past,
And nameless old Laertes breath'd his last;

131

And good Eumæus fed his Herds in vain,
But for Ionia's Life-inspiring Strain.

Lo, while the Spirit of the Spendthrift Heir
Wings the rich Stores amass'd by brooding Care—
While the dead Miser's scattering Treasures fly;
THE MUSE FORBIDS THE GENEROUS MAN TO DIE!
Yet 'tis, at least, as easy an Essay,
From the red Brick to wash its Hues away;
Or, when the stormy Billows beat the Shore,
To mark each Wave, and count their Number o'er;
As from his Wealth the Miser's Soul to part,
Or bid one liberal Thought expand his Heart.
Peace to all such! Be theirs the countless Store,
And still augmenting may they covet more!
For me, be ever my first Wish, to prove
Above the Price of Gold, Esteem and Love.
For me, who now pursue the Paths of Fame,
Tho' rough those Paths, and dim the Muse's Flame,
Unless a Patron's kind Regard inspire,
And Jove's auspicious Omens fan the Fire.

132

The unwearied Sun still rolls from Year to Year;
Still shall proud Victors in the Race appear!
Great as the stern Pelides' Self, erelong
A Man shall shine, the Subject of my Song;
Or in the Might of towering Ajax rise,
Who fought on Simois' Plain, where Ilus lies.
Ev'n now where Libya views the westering Day,
Phœnician Armies shrink, in pale Dismay!
Ev'n now the Syracusians take the Field,
Couch the strong Spear, and bend the sallow Shield;
While, as the Chiefs by hymning Poets blest,
Great Hiero comes, and nods the horse-hair Crest.

Hear O Minerva, and paternal Jove,
And ye, who honour with your guardian Love
The Walls of wealthy Syracuse, that throw
Their awful Shadows on the Lake below—
Hear!—and may Destiny o'erwhelming sweep
Our Foes away, far distant thro' the Deep!—
Far from this Isle, a scatter'd few, to tell
Widows and Orphan Sons, what Myriads fell!

133

And may the Cities they had raz'd, arise
Girt with new Strength, and tower into Skies—
Each old Inhabitant his own resume,
And all the rural Scene its former Bloom!—
There thousand Flocks thro' rich Luxuriance play,
And Droves of Oxen croud the Travellers Way!
There may the Fallow-fields be plough'd again,
And sown with each Variety of Grain;
What Time shrill-singing, from the topmost Trees
Each sunburnt Swain the perch'd Cicada sees.
Then Spider's Webs shall fill the rusted Shield,
And every Soldier shall forget the Field—
Thee, Hiero, while exulting Bards proclaim,
And spread, beyond the Scythian Sea, thy Name;
Bid ev'n Semiramis' high Towers attend,
And her bitumen'd Walls in Terror bend!
‘Weak are my Powers’—yet many a Bard shall join,
Who string their Harps belov'd by all the Nine,
To hymn Sicilia's Tribes—her Arethuse,
And Hiero, blazon'd by the warlike Muse!

134

Ye Sister-Maids who love the Stream, that flows
Where your first Votary's breathing Incense rose;
Here tho' in still Suspense may sleep my Lyre,
Should no kind Whisper wake the trembling Wire—
Yet, if a Patron's Voice invite the Muse,
Shall my dull Ear the soothing Tone refuse?
No—in your Bowers for ever may I dwell,
And thus the heavy Gloom of Life dispel!
Unblest by you, what Charm can Being give?
With you, ye Sister-Maids, be mine to live!

135

IDYLLIUM the SEVENTEENTH. PTOLEMY.

Ye Muses, if ye hymn the first above,
With Jove begin the Strain, and end with Jove!
To Ptolemy, the first on Earth, belong
Your Harp's preluding Tones—your closing Song!
Heroes of old enjoy'd the immortal Meed
Of Bards, who blazon'd each distinguish'd Deed!
Thus in my Lays shall Ægypt's Sovereign live,
Such Lays, as ev'n to Gods new Glory give!
The Woodman lost in Ida's Shades of Oak,
Doubts where to strike, and long delays the Stroke!
Thus while around the princely Splendors stream,
I hesitate amidst the various Theme!

Say, Muse, how bright the high-soul'd Father shone—
What peerless Wisdom deck'd his envied Throne!
Him Jove receiv'd with Honors, as a God,
A golden Palace his sublime Abode!

136

And near, above the prostrate Persian great,
The mitred Ammon holds his living Seat;
While, opposite, the Foe to Monsters gaunt,
Alcides sits enthron'd in Adamant—
Where, 'midst the Immortals, with Ambrosia blest
He views his Heirs, and hails each Son a Guest;
And joys, that deathless thro' the Lapse of Years,
His Progeny the Bloom of Glory wears!
For, sprung from Hercules the last, they trace
To Heaven the Lineage of a godlike Race!
When (as each Vein the fragrant Nectar fires)
To taste connubial Rapture he retires;
To this he gives, fo fatal to the Foe,
His shafted Quiver, and his long-bent Bow;
To that his iron Club in Charge allots—
Ponderous in all the solid Strength of Knots:
Thus, with his Arms, they lead the Son of Jove
To silver-footed Hebe's Bed of Love.

But Berenice—Gods! her Sexes Pride—
What Prudence crown'd the Beauties of the Bride!

137

Sure, Venus' Self her odour'd Bosom prest,
And breath'd the Soul of Love into her Breast!
Touch'd by such Merits her Adorer came,
And Husband never felt so pure a Flame!
Her glowing Ardors heighten'd all her Charms,
And more than equal Fondness blest his Arms!
How oft, discarding all the Monarch's Care,
The Lover's Luxuries he was wont to share;
Pleas'd on his Sons the Burthen to remove,
And taste the sweet Delights of wedded Love!
Ah! how unlike the faithless Consorts Joys,
While far from home her vagrant Passion flies!
Tho' numerous Sons announce her guilty Fire,
Not one reflects the Image of the Sire.
Thro' the fond Favor of thy guardian Eye,
O thou, the fairest Daughter of the Sky,
The lovely Queen, O Venus, scap'd the Grave,
Yet never wafted o'er the moaning Wave;
But (ere she saw the infernal Waters flow)
Snatch'd from the grisly Ferry-man below—

138

Amid the Radiance of thy Temple plac'd,
And with a Share of all thy Glory grac'd:
There kind to all who worship at her Shrine,
She breathes soft Loves, and Sighs that equal thine.
His sable-eye-brow'd Spouse to Tydeus bore
Stern Diomed, who carnag'd Ilion's Shore:
To Peleus Thetis bare the warlike Boy,
Whose far-whirl'd Darts were destin'd to destroy:
'Twas Berenice's happier Fate to bear
Thee to high Lagus an unequall'd Heir!
Then brightening Coos, as she saw thee born,
With unfeign'd Triumphs hail'd thy infant Morn!
For, there invok'd, benign Lucina came,
And breath'd soft Languors o'er thy Mother's Frame!
While, beauteous Offspring, Coos laugh'd to see
Thy Father's Features all reviv'd in thee—
While, as her Eyes survey'd thy lovely Charms,
She clasp'd thee, shouting, to her eager Arms:
‘Blest Boy! such Glories on my Island shed,
‘As Phœbus on his Delos stream'd!’ (she said)

139

‘Thro' thee exalted, may the Dorians' Fame
‘Vie, in fair Honors, with Rhenæa's Name!’
She ceas'd: And thrice, the Clouds quick opening round,
Jove's soaring Eagle clang'd the auspicious Sound:
The sacred Omen spoke peculiar Love,
And mark'd, as soon as born, the Elect of Jove.
Such Favorites, Heaven-protected at their Birth,
Wield the bright Sceptre o'er the subject Earth;
While, rising from the rich prolific Shower,
Wide Plenty waves, and Myriads bless their Power.
Yet, where the Fatness of the Nile o'erflows,
With more abundant Fruits old Ægypt glows:
See her low Meads in fresh Luxuriance teem,
Deep as their Glebe imbibes the triturating Stream.
Here too, O Ptolemy, beneath thy Sway,
What Cities glitter to the Blush of Day!
Lo! with thy statelier Pomp no Kingdom vies,
While round thee thrice ten thousand Cities rise!
Struck by the Terror of thy flashing Sword,
Syria bow'd down—Arabia call'd thee Lord!

140

Phœnicia trembled, and the Lybian Plain
With the black Æthiop, own'd thy wide Domain!
Ev'n Lesser Asia and her Isles grew pale,
As o'er the Billows pass'd thy Crowd of Sail!
Earth feels thy Nod—and all the subject Sea—
And each resounding River rolls for thee!
And, while around thy thick Battalions flash,
Thy proud Steeds neighing for the warlike Clash;
Thro' all thy Marts the Tide of Commerce flows,
And Wealth, beyond a Monarch's Grandeur, glows.
Secure from Ravages, or slaughtering Arms,
The Rustics reap the Produce of their Farms;
Pasture their Herds, where Nile o'erflows the Coast,
Nor dread the Navies of the invading Host.

Such gold-hair'd Ptolemy! whose easy Port
Speaks the soft Polish of the manner'd Court;
And whose severer Aspect, as he wields
The Spear dire-blazing, frowns in tented Fields:
And tho' he guards, while other Kingdoms own
His conquering Arms, the hereditary Throne;

141

Yet in vast Heaps no useless Treasure stor'd
Lies, like the Riches of an Emmet's Hoard;
But, with his Gifts adorn'd, each holy Shrine,
And ev'n the Domes of Kings and Subjects shine:
Nor from the sacred Feasts, where many a Choir
Wake to high Minstrelsy the rival Lyre,
His Bards, with melancholy Step, depart;
But triumph in the Meed that crowns their Art.
Hence then, the Muse's grateful Prophet sings
His honour'd Ptolemy—supreme of Kings!—
Can Patrons in a fairer Aim rejoice
Than thus to purchase Fame's enduring Voice?
This nobler Wealth while still the Atridæ hold,
Troy buried lies—and all their Heaps of Gold!
Lo!Ptolemy, on Virtue's arduous Road,
Hath in the Footsteps of his Father trode;
Yet rising over every fervent Trace
His manlier Mien displays superior Grace!
He—he alone, by all the Nine rever'd,
The fragrant Temple to his Parents rear'd;

142

Bade their bright Forms in Gold and Ivory rise,
And smile upon the solemn Sacrifice.
There, with his Queen, he duly decks the Shrine,
(When roll the Months around) with Rites divine;
And fatten'd Bullocks, as the Flame aspires,
Burns in the blushing Altar's holy Fires;
Fair at his Side Arsinoe's blooming Grace,
Than whom no lovelier Queen, of mortal Race,
The Blessings of so great a Consort proves—
The Brother and the Husband of her Loves.
Thus too the Gods—thus Jove and Juno wed;
And odour'd Iris shapes the immortal Bed!
Great Monarch hail! Be mine to bid thee rise;
And reach, with Brother Demigods, the Skies!
My Verse the Praise of future Times shall prove—
But thou, ask Virtue of almighty Jove!

143

IDYLLIUM the EIGHTEENTH. The EPITHALAMIUM of HELEN.

In Sparta, once, when Atreus' younger Son
The Prize of peerless Charms in Helen won,
Twelve Maids, the fairest of the Spartan Fair,
(Soft hyacinthine Wreaths adorn'd their Hair)
Twelve lovely Maids, Lacænæ's noblest Pride,
Approach'd the tap'stried Chamber of the Bride;
Led their gay Dances at the bridal Room,
And fill'd with choral Song the festive Dome;
To the light Measure as they beat the Ground,
And glanc'd their many-twinkling Feet around.
‘Why sleep, dear Bridegroom! (was the nuptial Lay)
‘Ere Night's pale Curtain shades the twilight Day?
‘Why thus repose thee on thy downy Bed?
‘Say, have too plenteous Wines opprest thy Head?
‘Dear Bridegroom, slumber, if thou wilt, at Eve—
‘Yet leave the Bride—the lovely Helen leave!

144

‘Come, with her Fellow-Virgins let her play;
‘And own a Mother's Care, 'till Dawn of Day!
‘For, if a few short Maiden Hours be past,
‘Think, think, impatient Man, they are her last!
‘From Morn to Night—from Year to Year thy Wife,
‘Thrice happy Bridegroom, she is thine for Life!
‘Sure, Cupid's lucky Sneeze inspir'd thy Love,
‘To seek a Father in Saturnian Jove;
‘And blest among the Demigods, to gain
‘The brightest Nymph of all the Achaian Train.
‘If, featur'd with their Mother's Charms, they rise,
‘Well may thy beauteous Offspring grace the Skies!
‘Of all our Virgin Tribes, that oft are seen
‘Anointed for the Revels of the Green,
‘Beside Eurotas' cooling Baths—not one
‘A spotless Form, compar'd with Helen, shone.
‘For, as the Cypress in the Garden, fair,
‘Or the tall Steed that draws Thessalia's Car,
‘Or as the Rising of the purple Morn,
‘When far—far off the wint'ry Clouds are borne—

145

‘Ev'n as the Morn, when Spring's soft Zephyr blows,
‘With roseate Charms the golden Helen, glows.
‘In Toil unrivall'd, as in Beauty's Bloom,
‘Behold her various Labors of the Loom!
‘In Webs, no Spartan Female e'er display'd
‘Such Colors melting into mellow Shade.
‘See, with unequall'd Grace she sweeps the Strings,
‘Whether to her according Harp she sings
‘Minerva's Name, or wakes the liquid Fire,
‘In chaste Diana's Praise, along the Lyre!
‘See, (as the lyric Murmurs sweetly die)
‘Love, charming Boy, sits playing in her Eye.
‘Ah, gentle Girl! no longer of our Train—
‘Yet we, when Morning-light illumes the Plain,
‘Will crop the Meadow-leaves, that sweetly breathe,
‘To weave for thee a variegated Wreath!
‘And mourn thee, as the solitary Lamb
‘Laments with plaintive Cries its absent Dam.
‘Be flowering Lotus twin'd, that loves the Ground,
‘And with its Wreath the Plane-tree Branches crown'd;

146

‘While dropping on the shaded Turf below,
‘From silver Shells ambrosial Unguents flow.
‘And let us grave this Line, in Dorian Strain,
“Revere me, Traveller: I am Helen's Plane.”

‘Hail, happy Pair, by smiling Hymen led!
‘Hail, happy Pair, may Venus bless your Bed!
‘May kind Latona mark your mutual Love!
‘May Riches crown your Bliss—the Gift of Jove!
‘Long may they grace the hereditary Throne;
‘And roll, in splendid Tides, from Sire to Son!
‘Now sleep—and breathing on each Breast Desire,
‘Temper with sweet Esteem your amorous Fire!
‘Yet rise, as Crimson streaks the Orient grey—
‘Remember—we shall chaunt the choral Lay,
‘Soon as the Cock shall stretch his plumed Throat,
‘Shake his gay Crest, and sound his early Note!
‘Sleep on, blest Pair! A numerous Offspring raise;
‘And give to Hymen's Joys your golden Days!

147

IDYLLIUM the NINETEENTH. The HONEY-STEALER.

As Cupid, once, the errant'st Rogue alive,
Robb'd the sweet Treasures of the fragrant Hive,
A Bee the frolic Urchin's Finger stung—
With many a loud Complaint his Hands he wrung,
Stampt wild the Ground, his rosy Finger blew;
And strait, in Anguish, to his Mother flew.
‘Mother (he cried, in Tears all frantic drown'd)
‘'Twas but a little Bee! And what a Wound!’
But she with Smiles her hapless Boy survey'd,
And thus, in chiding Accents, sweetly said:
‘Of thee a truer Type is no where found—
‘Who, tho' so little, giv'st so great a Wound!’

148

IDYLLIUM the TWENTIETH. EUNICA,

OR The NEATHERD.

Lord! when I tried to kiss the City-Maid,
How proud she look'd; and flouted me, and said:
‘Away, thou Rustic! nor my Lips profane—
‘Dost think I ever learnt to kiss a Swain?
‘No—I delight in City-Lips alone—
‘Thou should'st not kiss me in a Dream—begone.
‘How sweet thy Accents! What a charming Air!
‘How soft thy downy Beard! Thy Locks how fair!
‘No—Caitiff—Hands so tawny—Lips so thick—
‘And such a Smell! Begone! for I am sick!’
She spoke—and spitting thrice, the saucy Slut
Titter'd, and ey'd me o'er from Head to Foot;
And frown'd, and winc'd about to shew her Shape,
And laugh'd aloud, and mutter'd—‘What an Ape!’

149

Wild as she flung away, I speechless stood!
In Anger boil'd the Current of my Blood!
Quick to my Face the flushing Crimson flew;
And like a Rose I look'd, o'erchang'd with Dew!
Still—still Resentment in my Breast I bear—
That she should scorn a Youth so passing fair!

But say, my Comrade-Swains, and tell me Truth—
Am not I bright in all the Bloom of Youth?
Or else what God hath fashion'd me anew?
Erst my fair Form shone lovely to the View!
My Beard, soft-spread, like clasping Ivy, clung;
My Locks, like Parsley, down my Temples hung!
White o'er my sable Eye-brows—snowy-white—
My open Forehead seem'd one lustrous Light!
My Eyes, a living Azure as they stream'd,
Ev'n than Minerva's Eyes more sweetly beam'd.
My Lips, like Cream, with dulcet Sounds replete,
Drop'd Music, than the Honey-comb more sweet;
And all enchanting flow'd the liquid Note,
Or from my Pipe or Flute, or Dorian Oat!

150

The Girls upon the Hills confess my Charms,
And long to clasp me in their ardent Arms!
But for this Flirt—so tinctur'd with the Town—
Who scorn'd, forsooth, the Proffers of a Clown;
She never knew, that Bacchus, tho' divine,
Pastur'd, amidst the Vales, his lowing Kine!
That Venus ev'n to Cits a Swain preferr'd,
And help'd him, on the Hill, to feed his Herd;
Or, fir'd by fair Adonis, that, in Groves,
The Paphian Queen enjoy'd and mourn'd her Loves.

And was not sweet Endymion's self a Swain—
Whom Luna lov'd, descending to the Plain,
Whilst for the Latmian Lawn she left her Sphere?
And did not Rhea hold a Herdsman dear?
Nay—'twas thy Will thro' wild-wood Haunts to rove
Ev'n for a little Herdsboy, Father Jove!

And yet a Neatherd's Love Eunica thinks
Beneath her Notice—the conceited Minx!
And vaunts her Graces—ev'n unmatch'd, I ween,
By Rhea, Cynthia, or the Cyprian Queen!

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Bewitching Beauty! Tho', besure, we see
A second Cytherea bloom in thee,
O may'st thou sigh, for aye—and sigh in vain—
To kiss thy Lover of the Town again!
Despis'd by every Cit, be thine to prove
The Hill's rude Breezes for a Herdsman's Love!
But may the Rustic's Scorn thy Crime atone,
And slighted, may'st thou sleep all Night—alone!

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.

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—

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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.

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.

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ASPHALION.
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

We've ample Time: Here sleepless on a Bed
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.

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I stretch'd my Arm, and fill'd with anxious Hope
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;

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‘But here, since Gold would purchase every Thing,
‘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.

168

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-SECOND. CASTOR and POLLUX.

PART the SECOND.

Next Castor rise (since now thy Brother's Praise
Hath kindled the rapt Muse's hymning Lays)
Rise, mailed Chief, who lov'st the heroic Course,
Thou mighty Master of the Warrior-horse!

The bold Twin-offspring of immortal Jove
Wrought up to Frenzy by the Power of Love,
Had borne, rapacious, from their Father's Dome
Leucippus' Daughters—fair in Virgin-bloom!
Aphareus' Sons the injurious Deed survey'd,
(The future Bridegrooms of each ravish'd Maid)
And strait pursued the Brothers, in their Flight,
Idas strong-limb'd, and Lynceus, sharp of Sight.

But when the Heroes reach'd the sacred Way
Where high-entomb'd Aphareus' Ashes lay;

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Each leap'd impetuous from his lofty Car,
All arm'd with Spears and Targets for the War.
‘Why thus (aloud beneath his Casque he spoke)
‘Why (Lynceus cries) the frantic Fight provoke?
‘For others Brides, say, whence this Fury came?
‘And why, unsheath'd, your ready Faulchions flame?
‘Long since Leucippus hath affix'd their Dowers,
‘Betroth'd, and with an Oath confirm'd them ours.
‘And sure, 'twas base, thro' Cunning, to prevail,
‘With dazzling Lures of Gold their Sire assail;
‘Hurry their Mules and Herds and Wealth away,
‘And make our Property your lawless Prey.

‘Oft have I argued, tho' my Words are few—
(A plain Remonstrance, but, alas! too true)
“Say, hath not Elis—Nurse of many a Steed,
“The Arcadian Vallies that improve the Breed
“Of beauteous Kine, and Sparta's wide Domain,
“And proud Messene's State, and Argos' Plain,
“And where rich Corinth opes her ample Bay,
“All Grecia's Towns in populous Display—

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“Say, have not these, of Maids a numerous Tribe,
“Bright-blooming, to be won without a Bribe?
“Virgins, that boast, in Mind as Beauty fair,
“The genial Nurture of parental Care.
“For you, who from a Lineage great and good
“Draw the pure Current of heroic Blood,
“How easy, while their honor'd Sires rejoice,
“Amidst the lovely Train, to fix your Choice!
“My Friends, it ill becomes a Prince, I've said,
“Insidious, to supplant the Bridal Bed!
“Our Nuptials but allow us to pursue,
“And we'll engage to find fit Brides for you.”
‘Such were my Words—but ah! the Breezes gave
‘Their Sound, all unavailing, to the Wave!
‘Yet tho' no Prayers your stubborn Bosoms bent,
‘Ev'n now (for we are kin) ev'n now relent!
‘But if our warlike Prowess must be tried,
‘And hateful Arms be fix'd on, to decide;
‘If Vengeance bid the Blood of Kindred stain
‘In Fight too ominous, the listed Plain;

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‘Let Idas and the valiant Pollux yield
‘To Castor and to me, the doubtful Field!
‘Let us, the younger Two, contend alone,
‘Nor leave our wretched Parents to bemoan
‘The general Death! Let some return to chear
‘Their drooping Friends, and wipe the Virgin's Tear,
‘And to supply the Place of those who died—
‘Each the fond Bridegroom of a happy Bride.
‘Thus lighter Mischiefs may our House befall,
‘Nor the dire Contest speed the Fates of all.’
He spoke, nor vainly: On the Ground, in haste,
Their Armour Idas and brave Pollux plac'd.
But Lynceus, boldly marching to the Field,
Shook his strong Spear, beneath his circling Shield.
Then Castor brandish'd his uplifted Lance,
And their plum'd Helmets wave, as they advance.

First with their Spears they tried the warlike Art
To find, ill-guarded, some more vital Part:
But all in vain the alternate Weapons struck;
The sharp Points breaking to their Targets stuck!
Next, the bright Faulchions from their Sheaths they drew,
And to the closing Fight with Fury flew!

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At the broad Buckler of his vengeful Foe,
And nodding Casque, while Castor aim'd the Blow;
The quick-ey'd Lynceus all his Powers display'd,
And lopp'd the rival Plumage with his Blade.
But soon that Blade its Force too feeble sound,
Struck with the Hand that held it to the Ground.
And fruitless now each Effort to withstand—
Hurrying he sought, with mutilated Hand,
His Father's Tomb, where Idas had reclin'd
To view the intestine Fray, with anxious Mind.
With unabated Rage, the Son of Jove
Rush'd on; and rising, thro' his Navel drove
The forceful Faulchion! From the gaping Wound
His Bowels gush'd, and welt'ring gor'd the Ground.
To Earth he falls! and gasping as he lies,
Death's dim Suffusion veils his glaring Eyes.

Nor ever was ill-omen'd Idas led
By his fond Mother, to the Nuptial Bed!
For, as vindictive of his Brother's Doom,
He tore a Column from Aphareus' Tomb,
Aiming its massive Vengeance at the Foe
With wild uplifted Arm, in Act to throw—

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Heaven's sovereign Lord elanc'd a flaming Brand
That dash'd the shattering Marble from his Hand!
Thro' all his writhing Frame the Lightnings sped,
And, in a Crash of Thunder, he fell dead!

The Brothers thus unrival'd Fervor fires,
Brave in themselves, and sprung from valiant Sires!
Hail Sons of Leda! let each noble Name
Give to my hymning Harp a deathless Fame!
For every Poet, kindling, as he sings
Your Deeds, and Helen's, and the heroic Kings
Who levell'd Ilion's Pride, in antient Days,
Lives in your Spirit, and partakes the Praise!
His lofty Lyre to warlike Glory strung,
Your high Renown the Chian Poet sung,
With Argive Fleets, and Battles fam'd afar,
And Troy, and Thetis' Son the Tower of War.
I too chaunt martial Numbers; nor refuse
The humble Offerings of my votive Muse!
Such as the Nine inspire, my Verse appears—
Poetic Honors charm immortal Ears!

174

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-THIRD. The DESPAIRING LOVER.

An amorous Shepherd lov'd a cruel Maid;
And breath'd vain Wishes all with Scorn repaid.
Her beauteous Figure but bely'd her Mind—
A Form too lovely, with a Soul unkind!
She knew not Cupid, or his bitter Dart;
She knew not Cupid's Power, to tame the Heart.
No Blush of Love in soft Suffusion bloom'd;
Nor Pity's dewy Light her Eyes illum'd.
His raging Wound she ne'er essay'd to calm;
Nor pour'd, in Kisses or in Sighs, a Balm!
But savage as the wildest Beast that prowls,
That on the Forest-Hunters grimly scowls,
No Parley could her Fury-spirit brook;
Lour'd her dark Eyes, and Death was in her Look!
Oft from her Face the roseate Color flew,
And her whole Soul in Anger rush'd to View!

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Yet was she fair, and ev'n Disdain had Charms—
He sigh'd to snatch her frowning to his Arms!
At length, bewilder'd in the Gloom of Fate,
He sought with trembling Steps the Virgin's Gate;
Kiss'd the bare Threshold, hung his throbbing Head,
And his Tears gushing in a Torrent, said:
‘Ah, cruel Fair! in some wild Forest born!
‘Thy Hatred—Love, and all thy Pleasure—Scorn!
‘Thy Nurse—the bloody Lioness alone;
‘Thy cold, cold Heart—impenetrable Stone!
‘Take—take this Cord—'tis all I now can give—
‘I go (nor longer will thy Torment live)
‘To where the Wretched find Relief I go—
‘Where Lovers drink Oblivion of their Woe!
‘Yet what—this scorching Fever—what can tame?
‘Alas! all Lethe could not quench the Flame!
‘Adieu, ye Gates, to meet these Eyes no more;
‘Farewell! I see what Time reserves in Store!
‘Fair is the Rose, yet soon its Beauty flies!
‘Soon the sweet Vi'let, soon the Lily dies!

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‘Soon melts the Whiteness of the fleeting Snow;
‘Thus passes Youth! thus fades its vernal Glow!
‘The Time will come, when ev'n thy Heart shall prove
‘While stream thy bitter Tears, the Pangs of Love!
‘Yet grant this Prayer! alas, I ask no more,
‘When thou shalt see me pendent at thy Door,
‘Ah, pass not—pass not by—but kindly shed
‘A Tear of Pity to embalm the Dead!
‘And loose the Cord; and o'er me lightly throw
‘Your shading Robe; and then one Kiss bestow;
‘At least refuse not such a Boon in Death—
‘Fear not—no Kisses can restore my Breath!
‘Ah! fear not—I shall never more arise!
‘Ev'n tho' thou kiss with soft relenting Sighs!
‘Last, duly dug, my Sepulchre provide,
‘My Love and me its hollow Cell shall hide!
‘And thrice “Here rests my Friend”—departing say;
‘Or rather cry “Here lies my true Love's Clay.”
‘Then let this simple Epitaph be mine,
‘(My trembling Hand now traces the faint Line)

177

“Love slew him, Traveller! Stop—to soothe his Shade!
“And pitying say, he lov'd a ruthless Maid!”
This said, and in despairing Frenzy bold,
High by the Wall a pond'rous Stone he roll'd;
Then, climbing, fix'd the Cord above, and tied
The fatal Noose, and spurn'd the Stone aside—
Quivering in Death! The Fair-one, when she saw
Her pendent Lover, shew'd no Signs of Awe,
Nor shed one Tear; but scornful Glances cast,
And her light Robe polluted, as she past!
Then ran to view the Wrestlers, in the Grove,
Thence visiting the Bath devote to Love!
There Cupid's Image, on a marble Base,
Stood frowning o'er the consecrated Place:
And, instant, as he saw the Fair-one lave,
He fell, and crush'd her, in the Fountain-wave!
Life's purple Current spouted at the Blow,
And these last Words came faultering from below:
‘Lovers adieu! Behold the Scorner dies!
‘Love those that love! For Heaven's Decrees are wise!’

178

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-FOURTH. The YOUNG HERCULES.

Soon as Alcmena bade her pleasing Care
Wash'd, and with Milk well fed, for Rest prepare,
Alcides, who ten Months had seen the Light,
And Iphiclus, just younger by a Night;
She gently laid them on the brazen Shield
(Which great Amphitryon in the tented Field
From Pterilas had won) on either Head
Plac'd her fair Hands, and fondly-smiling said:
‘Sleep—sleep secure, my Boys, the Night away;
‘Sweet be your easy Rest, 'till dawning Day.’
She spoke: And strait their heavy Eye-lids yield
To Slumber, as she rocks the cradling Shield.

But when descending Ursa mark'd the Skies,
Where the red Rays of broad Orion rise,
Amid the Shades of Midnight Juno sent
(Her vengeful Soul unknowing to relent)

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Two Serpents, with Commission to destroy
The infant Hercules, Jove's vigorous Boy!
Terrific thro' the Portal's Valves they came,
Their Eye-balls shooting a pernicious Flame!
Bristled their azure Scales o'er many a Fold,
Then prone to Earth their blood-swoln Bellies roll'd!
And as along the marble Floor they flew,
Fell Poison from their Jaws the Monsters threw.
Now hissing o'er the Shield the Serpents hung,
Each brandishing in Rage his forked Tongue!
When strait (for Jove sees all) the Babes awoke,
And thro' the Room a steady Splendor broke!
As their dire Fangs caught Iphiclus's Eye,
The Child to Pity rais'd a short shrill Cry;
Quick from his little Limbs the Covering cast,
And sought to fly—with shivering Fear aghast.
But young Alcides stretch'd (nor stretch'd in vain)
His Arms, to clasp them in a deadly Chain.
With eager Hands their swelling Throats he seiz'd,
And Venom, hateful to the Immortals, squeez'd

180

From their black Jaws! Convuls'd, they writh'd each Spire
Around the Babe who felt the Hero's Fire!
Who, yet unwean'd, ne'er shudder'd with Alarms,
Or cried, or blubber'd, in his Nurse's Arms!
Their Curls relax'd in many a livid Stripe,
At length they yielded to an Infant's Gripe.

Starting Alcmena first o'erheard the Cries—
‘Arise! Amphitryon! much I fear! arise!
‘Wait—wait not for your Sandals! much I fear!
‘Our younger Son poor Iphiclus I hear.
‘And see what Light o'er all the Chamber falls!
‘Tho' not yet Morn, how visible the Walls!
‘Some strange Event!’—she said—and at her Word
Amphitryon rose, and instant snatch'd his Sword
That, by a Peg suspended o'er his Head,
Adorn'd, a high-wrought Work, the Cedar-Bed;
Then drawing from its lotewood Sheath the Blade,
(While the wide Room grew dark in sudden Shade)
He call'd his Train that, hush'd in Slumbers deep,
Lay snoring out the Heaviness of Sleep.

181

‘Haste—haste, my Servants! Instant Flambeaux bear—
‘Hither—unbolt the Gates—and quick repair!’
Strait at his Voice the rous'd Attendants came,
Each waving in his Hand the Torch's Flame.
And when they saw the young Alcides clasp
Two fiery Serpents with his eager Grasp,
In wild Amaze they shudder'd! But the Boy
Leap'd in an Extacy of childish Joy;
And with a Laugh, his Triumph to complete,
Flung the dead Monsters at his Father's Feet.
Her Iphiclus all trembling, to her Breast
Alcmena caught, and lull'd the Babe to Rest;
O'er the young Hero while Amphitryon throws
The Lambkin's softest Fleece; then seeks Repose.

The crested Cock, as gleam'd the orient Sky,
Had thrice proclaim'd the Day-spring from on High;
When fair Alcmena call'd the hoary Seer
Who ever gains with Truth the wondering Ear;
The unusual Fortune of the Night run o'er,
And bade him say, what Heaven reserv'd in Store.

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‘Nor aught (Alcmena cries) thro' Fear conceal,
‘If Woes await us, let thy Tongue reveal!
‘For vain, thy Wisdom knows, is mortal Care!
‘Each Ill that Heav'n predestines, Man must bear.’
She spoke: The Queen Tiresias thus addrest:
‘Hail Parent with a godlike Offspring blest!
‘Fear not, O thou, whom regal Splendors grace!
‘Fear not, O thou, of Perseus' royal Race!
‘By the dear Light that long hath left these Eyes—
‘No more to see the rosy Morning rise,
‘The Days shall come, when many a Maid of Greece,
‘Twirling, on rapid Wheel, the carded Fleece,
‘Whilst Matrons glory in thy Deeds of Fame,
‘Shall sing, 'till dusky Eve, Alcmena's Name.
‘But for thy Son, in various Triumphs great,
‘The Star-effulgent Heaven reserves a Seat!
‘Old Earth with Wonder shall his Glories fill—
‘Men—savage Beasts obedient to his Will!
‘Yet ere the giant Chieftain shall repose,
‘Where Jove's pure Dome in living Splendor glows,
‘Twelve Labors past, the fierce Trachinian Flame
‘Must purge from earthly Dross his mortal Frame!

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‘He shall be call'd the Son-in-law of Gods—
‘Ev'n those who from their Caverns' drear Abodes
‘Arous'd the baleful Monsters of the Wild,
‘To slay with venom'd Fangs the Warrior-Child.
‘Then with the Fawn the harmless Wolf shall dwell,
‘And range, in social Sports, the embowering Dell!
‘But, mighty Princess, bid thy Slaves prepare
‘Such Copse or Low-wood as the Forests bear,
‘The rough Aspalathus, or, lit with Ease,
‘The dry Acherdus tremulous in the Breeze,
‘Or Brambles creeping o'er the steril Soil;
‘And burn yon' Serpents in the kindled Pile—
‘What Time, the sleeping Infants to devour
‘They hiss'd along these Rooms—the midnight Hour.
‘Then let a faithful Maid, at Dawn of Day,
‘The extinguish'd Ashes to the Flood convey;
‘Quick o'er her Head, if favoring Breezes blow,
‘To the rude Rocks her scatter'd Burthen throw;
‘And instantly return, nor look behind
‘On the dire Magic of the Waves and Wind.
‘Next, let pure Sulphur to the Rooms restore
‘Salubrious Air; and sprinkle on the Floor

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‘Clear Water from the living Fountain brought,
‘With Olives crown'd—with Salt as duly fraught:
‘And last, on Jove the victim Boar bestow,
‘So shall ye triumph o'er the crouching Foe!’
Thus spoke Tiresias, as the God inspir'd,
And to his ivory Car, low-bent with Age, retir'd.

As the young Plant amidst the Garden grows,
Beneath his Mother's Care Alcides rose:
And tho' such Honor, as a Child, he won,
Still was he call'd Amphitryon's godlike Son.
His letter'd Lore Apollo's Offspring taught,
Old Linus, wrinkled by laborious Thought!
But Eurytus (whose thousand Acres shone
By long hereditary Right his own)
Bade him the Praises of the Bowman claim,
And fix'd the feather'd Shaft's unerring Aim;
While sweet Eumolpus form'd his Voice to Song,
And shap'd his Hands the Box-tree Lyre along!
Each varying Feint the Argive Wrestlers show
In strong Contorsions with the gallant Foe,

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On listed Plains the Gauntlet to direct,
And wield its iron Vengeance with Effect;
How those who act the Boxer's vigorous Part
Find meet Occasions to display their Art;
All this from fierce Harpalycus he knew—
Whom, tho' yet distant, no Man dar'd to view;
While, storming for the Carnage of the Fight,
On his dark Brow hung Death and pale Affright.

Oft too Amphitryon taught the blooming Boy
With Fondness that bespoke a Father's Joy,
In the high Car his generous Steeds to train;
To guide their Swiftness with unerring Rein;
Turn short the Wheels impetuous as they roll;
Nor dash the glowing Axle on the Goal!
From Argive Plains, in Youth's more vigorous Day,
Full many a Prize the Sire had borne away.
And still unbroken stood his Car sublime,
Tho' the worn Reins had felt the Worm of Time.
But how to launch with all a Warrior's Art,
With all a Warrior's Force the deathful Dart;

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To shun, beneath his Shield's protective Shade,
The furious Impulse of the flashing Blade;
To marshall Armies dreadful in Array,
Lead the fierce Horse, and well-tim'd Ambush lay;
Such Castor taught—what Time, in Tydeus' Reign,
He fled, an Exile, over Argos' Plain.
The Argive Sceptre from Adrastus came,
Who bade the Vineyard Vales hail Tydeus' Name.
No Warrior's equal Prowess could engage
The valiant Castor, ere unstrung by Age.

Thus taught the Paths of Glory to pursue,
Beneath his Mother's Eye the Hero grew.
Fast by his Father's Bed, a Lion's Hide
Form'd his lov'd Couch, in all its shaggy Pride.
His Evening Viands, large as Hinds partake,
Where savory Ven'son and the Doric Cake:
But sparing were his noonday Meals!—Array'd
In no rich Vest, whose floating Folds display'd
The Needle's Art—in plain unprincely Robe
'Twas his to range the inhospitable Globe.

187

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-FIFTH. HERCULES the LION-SLAYER.

His Instruments of Labor laid aside,
The hoary Herdsman to the Chief replied:
‘I haste, (nor deem it a reluctant Task)
‘O Stranger, to impart whate'er you ask:
‘For much celestial Hermes I revere,
‘Whose Statues awful in each Road appear.
‘He most of all the heavenly Tribe, they say,
‘Hates those who from the Traveller turn away.
‘These Flocks, with which the Hills—the Vales are stor'd
‘Innumerous, own Augias for their Lord!
‘O'er various Soils they range beyond our View;
‘On Elisus' soft Banks their Path pursue,
‘Or where divine Alpheus' Waters flow;
‘Or where Buprasium's clust'ring Vineyards glow;

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‘Or wanton here, amid these Meads of Gold;
‘And every Flock apart enjoys its Fold.
‘Tho' cropp'd by many a Herd that roves around,
‘In fresh Luxuriance smiles their Pasture-ground,
‘Menius' rich Marsh: For here, beneath the Dew,
‘The varied Herbage springs, for ever new.
‘See, to the Right, their Stalls conspicuous gleam,
‘Beyond the winding Current of the Stream,
‘Where grow yon' Clumps of high perennial Plane,
‘And yon' wild Olive spreads, Apollo's Fane:
‘Each Shepherd-Swain, slow-pacing down the Glade,
‘Invokes his first of Gods, and hails the Shade.

‘Next rise our Stalls, whose spacious Rooms contain
‘The Stores our Care hath heap'd, of golden Grain—
‘The Riches that around our Sovereign flow,
‘While thrice plough'd up, the teeming Glebe we sow.
‘They who the Vineyards plant, or prune, or rear,
‘Or tread the Wine-press with laborious Care,
‘Well know the wealthy Monarch's vast Domain;
‘The grass-green Vales, the Harvest-redd'ning Plain;

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‘And widely-waving far as yonder Hills
‘Whose fair Tops glitter with refreshing Rills,
‘These shadowy Gardens, where our daily Toil
‘(For such the Life of Swains) prepares the Soil.

‘But tell me, is it Chance or Business leads
‘Thy Footsteps, Stranger, to these happy Meads?
‘Say, do you seek, (nor deem my Service vain)
‘The King, or one of his attendant Train?
‘Trust to my Care: And sure, if right I ween,
‘Your manly Graces, and your portly Mien
‘Shine, with no Semblance of ignoble Birth—
‘For thus the Sons of Gods appear on Earth.’

Jove's Son replied: ‘O Friend, I speed my Way
‘To hail the Prince whom Elis' Realms obey!
‘But if, amidst his Citizens, the Cause
‘Of Right engage him to dispense the Laws,
‘Then give me for my Guide the Master-Swain,
‘Whose Counsel best may help me to explain
‘My Wants: For Jove decreed, when Earth began,
‘That Man should ever want the Help of Man.’

190

‘Sure, some Immortal's Smile your Worth hath won!
‘(The Herdsman cried) your Work's already done!
‘For hither from the Town Augias came,
‘With Phyleus, his lov'd Son, long mark'd by Fame,
‘But yester Morn—to view, for many a Day,
‘His rural Riches, in their full Display.
‘Thus Kings, who trace their Wealth with watchful Eyes,
‘Flourish, while aggrandiz'd their Houses rise!
‘But let us hasten, and the Sovereign hail—
‘To yonder Stall I'll guide you down the Vale.’

This said, he leads the Way, while Wonder rose,
Full many a Thought revolving as he goes!
For with the Feelings of unusual Awe
The Lion's Spoils, the Club's strong Knots he saw.
Oft, he would ask, whence came this Hero-guest—
Yet Fear, as oft, the rising Words represt;
Obtrusive they might seem, or ill-design'd—
Who knows the Motions of another's Mind?

Whilst yet far off, the Dogs sagacious knew
Their Coming by their Tread and Scent; and flew

191

From every Part, and great Alcides bay'd;
But round the Shepherd fawn'd, and whining play'd.
With Threats he snatch'd the Stones that loosely lay,
And drove the scattering Mastives far away;
While pleas'd, as silenc'd by his Voice they fled,
To mark their guardian Vigilance, he said:
‘Ye Gods! what useful Animals are these!
‘Heavens! how subservient to the Shepherd's Ease!
‘Had they but quick instinctive Sense to know
‘The different Aspect of a Friend or Foe,
‘No Creature could outvie their honest Worth—
‘But rushing with an ill-tim'd Fury forth
‘How fierce they bay'd!’ He spoke—they disappear'd,
And not the Murmur of a Growl was heard.

Meantime the Sun his westering Car display'd,
While Hesper glimmer'd thro' the cooling Shade.
And now each Shepherd of the Prince beholds
Returning Flocks, and speeds them to their Folds.
Then numerous Oxen bend their winding Way,
And Herd succeeded Herd, in long Array.

192

Like Vapors, that, as blustering Winds impell,
Sail o'er the Heavens, and still condensing, swell;
Cloud driv'n on Cloud, in countless Heaps arise,
And with incumbent Blackness blot the Skies;
Thus Herds and Flocks fill'd, thickening, every Road,
And the rich Vallies echoed as they low'd.
Now, crouded every Fold and every Stall,
See Troops of Slaves, with Tasks assign'd to all—
To tame the frisky Cow, thro' shackling Weights,
Or give the fatt'ning Calves their Mother's Teats,
Or bear the Pails, or drive the Bulls apart,
Or press the curdled Cheese with nicer Art.
From Stall to Stall the curious King repairs,
And marks the Product of his rural Cares.
His Eyes o'er all the rich Assemblage rove,
Whilst, near, his Son and great Alcides move.
Here, (tho' his Soul, to no mean Views confin'd,
Scorn'd the weak Wonder of the vulgar Mind)
Amphitryon's Offspring notes, with many a Glance
Admiring, as his eager Steps advance,

193

Such Flocks, in Crowds around, a countless Host—
Such myriad Droves—a Wealth ten Kings might boast!
But to the Sun his Sire Augias ow'd
A Boon, on common Mortals unbestow'd.
His Herds increasing snuff'd the Zephyr's Breath,
Nor felt the Blasts that blow contagious Death.
His beauteous Cows, with healthful Vigor strung,
Were never known to cast the untimely Young.
Fair female Calves the thriving Mothers rear,
The Kind still fairer, each succeeding Year.
With these, three hundred white-legg'd Bulls were fed,
(Curl'd their smooth Horns)—two hundred, glossy-red;
While, silver as the Swan, in Gambols run
Twelve, chief of all, and sacred to the Sun!
These in the flowery Pastures kept apart,
Rush on the Mountain-Beasts that frequent dart
From their deep Thickets, on the Herd below;
Bellowing glance Death, and gore the shaggy Foe!

'Midst these, proud Phaeton unrival'd shone,
Whose Prowess and divine Effulgence won,

194

The Glory of the Pasture-Fields afar,
From Swains, the Title of the Morning Star.

Soon as around Alcides' Shoulder spread
He saw the Lion's Spoils, his iron Head
He dash'd with rapid Aim—in Fury borne—
But, on the Left, Alcides seiz'd his Horn;
His stubborn Neck dragg'd downwards to the Ground,
And pressing his broad Shoulder, writh'd him round;
Then, straining all the Muscles of his Strength,
Heav'd him aloft in Air, and pois'd him at Arm's Length.
Hush'd in the sudden Stillness of Amaze,
The King, the Prince, the gaping Rustics gaze.

And now retreating from the rural Scene
The Prince and Hero tread the twilight Green,
To Elis bent; and quick the Path-way pass
That narrow nigh the Stalls, 'mid waving Grass,
Next led thro' Vineyards, winding down the Glade,
And indistinctly sunk into the Shade.
Then Phyleus, foremost as he trac'd the Grove,
(His Head half-turn'd) addrest the Son of Jove:

195

‘Your Fame already, 'tis my strong Belief,
‘Hath reach'd my wondering Ears, O stranger Chief!
‘For here, long since an Argive Shepherd drew,
‘With Stories of a Greek he swore were true,
‘The Epean Throng; and said, he saw him slay
‘A Monster-Lion that had prowl'd for Prey
‘'Midst frighted Swains, and long profan'd with Blood
‘The deep Recesses of the Nemean Wood.
‘The Chieftain, whether Argos gave him Birth,
‘Or rocky Tiryns claims the heroic Worth,
‘Or whether proud Mycenæ were the Place,
‘If Memory fail not, was of Perseus' Race.
‘No Greek but you such Actions could atchieve,
‘This tawny Skin inclines me to believe—
‘This Skin, whose awful Honors grace your Side,
‘Speak the bold Deed, and mark the Beast that died.
‘Say then, if you are he, as Stories tell,
‘He, by whose Arm the savage Prowler fell?
‘Say, by what Weapon pierc'd, the Monster bled,
‘And what dire Fate his wandering Footsteps led

196

‘To Nemea's Grove? In Grecian Forests roar
‘No Natives but the Bear, the tusky Boar,
‘And droving Wolf—Some mock'd the Argive Youth,
‘And scorn'd the amusive Tale, as void of Truth.’

He spoke—and now, as broad enough for two,
The social Path, inviting Converse, grew;
Walk'd all attentive by the Hero's Side,
Who thus, to gratify his Wish, replied:
‘The Argive's Story you recount, is true;
‘And hence, great Prince, the just Surmise you drew:
‘Since then you ask, enamour'd of my Fame,
‘How bled the furious Beast, and whence he came;
‘My Tongue shall tell you, in authentic Strain,
‘What other Argives might attempt in vain.
‘Sent by some God, 'tis said, the Monster flew
‘In Vengeance, 'mid the base Phoronean Crew,
‘For Sacrifice unpaid; and rush'd amain
‘One Flood of Carnage, thro' Pisæum's Plain;
‘And o'er the Bembinæan Glades, more fell,
‘Bade all the Deluge of his Fury swell!

197

‘Eurystheus first enjoin'd me to engage
‘This Beast, but wish'd me slain beneath his Rage.
‘Arm'd with my Bow, my quiver'd Shafts, I went,
‘And grasp'd my Club, on bold Defiance bent—
‘My knotted Club, of strong wild Olive made,
‘That, rugged, its unpolish'd Rind display'd;
‘That with a Wrench from Helicon I tore,
‘Its Roots and all, and thence the Trophy bore.
‘Soon as I reach'd the Wood, I bent my Bow,
‘Firm-strung its painted Curve, and couching low,
‘Notch'd on the Nerve, its Arrow—look'd around,
‘And from my Covert trac'd the Forest-Ground.
‘'Twas now high Noon. No Roar I heard, nor saw
‘One Print that might betray the Prowler's Paw;
‘Or Rustic found, amidst his Pastoral Care,
‘Nor Herdsman, who might shew the Lion's Lair.
‘Nor Herds or Herdsmen ventur'd to the Plain;
‘All, fix'd by Terror, in their Stalls remain.
‘At length, as up the Mountain-Groves I go,
‘Amidst a Thicket, I espy my Foe.

198

‘Ere Evening, gorg'd with Carnage and with Blood,
‘He sought his Den deep-buried in the Wood.
‘Slaughter's black Dyes—his Face—his Chest distain,
‘And hang, still blacker, from his clotted Mane;
‘While shooting out his Tongue with Foam besmear'd
‘He licks the grisly Gore that steep'd his Beard.
‘'Midst bowering Shrubs I hid me from his View,
‘Then aim'd an Arrow, as he nearer drew,
‘But from his Flank the Shaft rebounding flew.
‘His fiery Eyes he lifted from the Ground,
‘High rais'd his tawny Head, and gaz'd around,
‘And gnash'd his Teeth tremendous—when again,
‘(Vex'd that the first had spent its Force in vain)
‘I launch'd an Arrow at the Monster's Heart;
‘It flew—but left unpierc'd the vital Part:
‘His shaggy Hide repulsive of the Blow,
‘The feather'd Vengeance hiss'd, and fell below.
‘My Bow, once more, with Vehemence I tried—
‘Then first he saw—and rising in the Pride
‘Of lordly Anger, to the Fight impell'd,
‘Scourg'd with his lashing Tail his Sides, and swell'd

199

‘His brindled Neck, and bent into a Bow
‘His Back, in Act to bound upon his Foe!
‘As when a Wheeler his tough Fig-tree bends,
‘And flexile to a Wheel each Felly tends,
‘Thro' gradual Heat—awhile the Timber stands
‘In Curves, then springs elastic from his Hands;
‘Thus the fell Beast, high bounding from afar,
‘Sprung, with a sudden Impulse, to the War.
‘My Left Hand held my Darts, and round my Breast
‘Spread, thickly-wrought, my strong protecting Vest.
‘My Olive Club I wielded in my Right;
‘And his shagg'd Temples struck, with all my Might:
‘The Olive snapp'd asunder on his Head—
‘Trembling he reel'd—the savage Fierceness fled
‘From his dim'd Eyes; and all contus'd his Brain
‘Seem'd swimming in an Agony of Pain.
‘This—this I mark'd; and ere the Beast respir'd,
‘Flung down my painted Bow; with Triumph fir'd
‘Seiz'd instant his broad Neck; behind him prest
‘From his fell Claws unsheath'd to guard my Breast;

200

‘And twin'd, quick-mounting on his horrid Back,
‘My Legs in his, to guard from an Attack,
‘My griping Thighs—then heav'd him (as the Breath
‘Lost its last Struggles in the Gasp of Death)
‘Aloft in Air; and hail'd the Savage dead!
‘Hell yawn'd—to Hell his Monster-spirit fled!
‘The Conquest o'er, awhile I vainly tried
‘To strip with Stone and Steel the shaggy Hide;
‘Some God inspir'd me, in the serious Pause
‘Of Thought, and pointed to the Lion's Claws.
‘With these full soon the prostrate Beast I flay'd,
‘And in the shielding Spoils my Limbs array'd.
‘Thus drench'd with Flocks and Herds and Shepherds' Blood,
‘Expir'd the Monster of the Nemean Wood.’

201

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-SIXTH. BACCHÆ.

The bright Agave, with her Cheeks of Snow,
And Ino, kindling with a sacred Glow,
And wild Autonoe, had resolv'd to keep
Three mystic Revels, on the Mountain-steep!
There, on a Spot wide-opening in the Grove,
They rear'd twelve verdant Altars, rudely-wove
With Branches of hoar Oak, and Ivy green,
And golden Asphodel, that shone between.

Then, while to beauteous Semele divine
Three Shrines arose—to holier Bacchus nine,
On the fresh Fabric of the leafy Spray
Their Gifts, in Honour of the God, they lay:
Mysterious Gifts, in Osier Baskets brought,
And offer'd with the Rites he lov'd and taught.

202

But Pentheus from a Rock the Rites survey'd,
Embower'd amidst a Mastick's antient Shade.
Autonoe saw, with instant Yellings flew,
And the dire Orgies of the God o'erthrew!
(Dire to the unhallow'd Glance)—‘Revenge’ (she cries)
Contagious Frenzy flashing from her Eyes!
Down—down they hurried, by fell Fury led,
Tuck'd their long Robes, and rush'd where Pentheus fled!
‘What means this Rage? what means'—he breathless cried:
‘Wretch, thou shalt feel!’ Autonoe fierce replied.
Strait in his Blood her Hands the Mother drench'd,
While roaring, like a Lioness, she wrench'd
His sunder'd Head! And Ino, as she prest
Infuriate with her Foot, the royal Breast,
His Shoulders from the writhing Body tore,
And dread Autonoe, rioting in Gore,
Seiz'd, with a horrid Howl, upon his Heart;
And ev'ry madd'ning Female snatch'd a Part,
All stain'd with Carnage, as thro' Thebes they go,
And bear not Pentheus from the Mount, but Woe!

203

Such was his Fate: And O let none presume
To tempt, with wicked Scorn, so dire a Doom;
Nor mock the God, and deem himself secure,
In Youth tho' blooming, tho' in Age mature.

For me, may I the Just—the Pious love,
And hence gain Favor in the Sight of Jove.
From such, sure Blessings to their Offspring flow;
From impious Sires, hereditary Woe!
Hail Bacchus, foster'd in the Thunderer's Thigh;
Hail Semele! And ye, who from on high
Deriv'd the Fires your righteous Rage display'd,
And gave your kindred King to Pluto's Shade.
Hail Heroines! hail! Let none your Fury blame!
Let none condemn the Gods! a God inspir'd the Flame!

212

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-NINTH. The CAPRICIOUS FRIEND.

Since ‘Truth's in Wine,’ my dearest Youth,
We mellow Souls should speak the Truth:
Take then, for once, without Disguise,
What in my inmost Bosom lies.

Thy Friendship is not sound and whole;
Thou dost not love me from the Soul.
The Half of Life I call my own
Lives but thro' thee—the rest is gone!
'Tis thine to make alive or kill;
To bless with Good, or curse with Ill:
For, instant, at thy pow'rful Nod,
I sink, a Shade! or rise, a God!
How can thy Heart approve it, tell,
To torture one who loves so well?
But, if thy Senior pleas'd to hear,
Thou lend Advice a listening Ear,
Thy ready Plaudits will commend
When Blessings come, a faithful Friend.

213

To gain Security and Rest,
Build on one Tree a single Nest;
And such a Bough be sure to take
As mocks the Approaches of the Snake.
Yet, perch'd on yonder Branch, to-day,
The next, upon another Spray,
With roving Pinion thou art gone!
Allur'd by all, but fix'd to none:
If any one, who sees thee vain,
Praise thy Deserts, in canting Strain,
Good Heaven! he's instantly enroll'd
Among thy Friends, however old.
But love, if thou wilt truly live,
A Soul, whose kindred Feelings give
A Zest to Life: Thus all shall prize
Thy Character, and deem thee wise.
And, sure, such Friendship's worth possessing,
That, while 'tis blest, is ever blessing;
That bade my stubborn Bosom feel,
And soften'd thus a Heart of Steel!

214

IDYLLIUM the THIRTIETH. The DEATH of ADONIS.

When, his rosy Color fled,
Venus saw her Lover dead,
Stiff his Hair, and clos'd his Eyes—
‘Cupids, go, (she frantic cries)
‘Trace the Boar, thro' all the Wood,
‘Stain'd with my Adonis' Blood!’

Swift as Birds, each fluttering Love
Hastens thro' the mazy Grove:
Soon the guilty Boar they find,
Fearless run, and seize, and bind.
This, to guide the Beast along,
Panting, pulls his Cord of Thong;
That, to make the Felon go,
Beats him with his little Bow.

215

He, an easy Captive led,
Aw'd by Venus, hung his Head.
Venus thus, in angry Strain:
‘Fellest of the prowling Train!
‘Didst thou wound Adonis' Thigh?
‘Did'st thou cause my Love to die?’

He replied: ‘O Venus, hear!
‘By Thyself, and Lover dear;
‘By the Chains with which I'm bound;
‘By the Hunters standing round;
‘Never did my erring Tooth
‘Mean to pierce so fair a Youth!
‘But when he surpriz'd my Sight,
‘As a polish'd Statue bright;
‘And, my Rapture rising high,
‘I survey'd his naked Thigh;
‘Ah! not able to resist,
‘Furiously I ran and kist!
‘To a fatal Frenzy wrought—
‘Too much Passion was my Fault!

216

‘Now, for thy Adonis' Sake,
‘Take my Tusks, all bloody, take!
‘Take my Lips beside, if these
‘Prove too trivial to appease!’

She, in Pity to his Pain,
Bade her Cupids loose his Chain.
But, tho' free, the grateful Boar
Ranging in the Woods no more,
Follow'd close Cythera's Queen;
And his cruel Tusks so keen
(That had glow'd with amorous Fire)
Burnt amid the blazing Pyre!

217

EPIGRAMS.

I. OFFERINGS to the MUSES and APOLLO.

These roscid Roses, and this wildling Thyme,
I offer to the sacred Nine who love
The Heliconian Hill: But lo, to thee
Apollo, I devote the Laurel's Leaves,
Of sabler Hue. Such Offerings oft adorn
The Delphic Rock! And, meantime, to enrich
Thy Altar with its purple Stream, shall bleed
Yon' horn'd He-goat, that crops, so snowy-white,
The pendent Branches of the gummy Pine.

II. An OFFERING to PAN.

Daphnis the Fair, who tunes the Reed,
To Pan these Presents hath decreed:
Three Pipes his Lips that deftly suit;
A Scrip, that oft hath borne his Fruit;
A Skin, which from a Fawn he took—
A pointed Dart, a Shepherd's Crook!

218

III. To DAPHNIS sleeping.

While, Daphnis, on the leaf-strown Ground, you steep
Your weary Body in the Dews of Sleep;
And on the green Hill-top your Snares are laid—
With Pan, who hunts where erst your Footsteps stray'd,
The rude Priapus hastens to your Cave—
See on his Brows the saffron Ivy wave!
But fly them, tho' the sultry Noon-day glows,
Fly the wild Revellers, and forego Repose!

IV. A VOW to PRIAPUS.

Haply thro' yonder Village if thou bend
Thy Footsteps, turn thee, Goatherd, by the Grove
Of wide o'er-arching Oaks: There, freshly wrought,
A fig-tree Statue thou wilt find; tho' rough
With Bark, three-legg'd, and void of Ears, yet prompt
For Pleasure's Pranks: While, near, a hallow'd Fane
Low rises; and a sweet perennial Spring

219

Flows tinkling from the living Rock, that gleams
Thro' bowering Laurel, Myrtles, and the Shrub
Of odour'd Cypress—where the clustering Vine
Diffuses many a Tendril. In these Shades
The vernal Blackbird warbles his clear Note
Yet varied; and the yellow Nightingale,
Responsive in a sweeter Murmur, trills
Her rival Minstrelsy. Amid this Scene
Repose; and to thy God Priapus pray,
That he will free my Bosom from the Power
Of cruel Daphne! So the bleeding Goat
Shall grace his Shrine! Yet haply, if I gain
The Virgin, these fair Victims will I slay—
A Goat, a spotless Heifer, and a Lamb
Fat from the Stall! Propitious may the God
Attend; and crown my Wishes, and thy Prayer!

220

V. The CONCERT.

Say, Swain, hast thou a Mind to suit
Some Ditty to thy double Flute?
For by the Wood-nymphs, if thou will,
I'll try a Tune upon my Quill:
The Herdsman Daphnis too shall play
On his wax'd Reed, a lively Lay;
While at the Cave our Stand we keep,
Near yon' hoar Oak, and rob of Sleep
Arcadia's God—the Goatherd Pan—
Rousing the Snorer, all we can!

VI. THYRSIS hath lost his Kid.

Ah, Thyrsis! what avails this wasting Woe?
Thy lost Kid wanders thro' the Shades below!
The Wolf hath torn him, on the Pasture-Plain;
He died—And can thy Tears bring Life again?
Thy very Dogs exclaim: ‘What boots thy Moan?
‘When nought of him remains—no—not a Bone!’

221

VII. On the STATUE of ÆSCULAPIUS.

The Son of Pæon to Miletus came,
To meet his Nicias, of illustrious Name:
He, in deep Reverence of his Guest divine,
Deck'd with the daily Sacrifice his Shrine;
And of the God this Cedar Statue bought—
A finish'd Work, by skill'd Eetion wrought.
The Sculptor with a lavish Sum repay'd,
Here all the Wonders of his Art display'd!

VIII. EPITAPH on ORTHON, who died drunk.

Thus Orthon cries—My Fate, ye Topers, mark,
And travel not, top-heavy, in the Dark!
Drunk on the Road I died! How hard my Doom—
For Heaps of native Earth, a foreign Tomb!

222

IX. On the FATE of CLEONICUS.

O Stranger, spare thy Span of Life,
Nor sail thro' Winter's stormy Strife!
Poor Cleonicus found his Grave
In evil Hour, amidst the Wave;
What Time his Ship from Syria bore
Her Freight for Thasos' fertile Shore:
The Pleiads sinking down the Skies—
'Twas then he sunk, no more to rise!

X. On a MONUMENT erected to the MUSES.

Here, Xenocles, to you, ye hallow'd Nine,
A sweet Musician, rais'd this marble Shrine!
And who, so skill'd, such Offerings could refuse?
Who, fam'd for Music, could forget the Muse?

223

XI. EPITAPH on EUSTHENES the PHYSIOGNOMIST.

Here rests a Physiognomist, whose Skill
Thro' every Eye could probe the Soul at Will,
Wise Eusthenes! The Stranger deck'd his Bier,
And Philocles the Poet dropp'd a Tear:
Thus, in a foreign Land, fond Friendship gave,
'Twas all the Dead could wish, a decent Grave!

XII. On a TRIPOD dedicated to BACCHUS by DEMOTELES.

Demoteles who bade this Tripod grace,
Bacchus, with thee, the consecrated Place;
(Thee, of Heaven's Deities the blythest God)
The Paths of Life, in all Things temperate, trod:
Amid the Dance the manly Prize he won,
And fair his Being clos'd, as he begun.

224

XIII. On the IMAGE of the Heavenly VENUS.

Approach with Reverence—and your Offerings pay!
Behold no Goddess of the Vulgar here!
The Gift of chaste Chrysogona survey,
And stile her Venus of the rolling Sphere.
Plac'd in the House of Amphicles, she saw
Her Votary steady in domestic Life:
Approv'd her, true to Nature's genuine Law,
A tender Mother, and as fond a Wife.
Each smiling Year with some new Blessing came,
Thro' thee, Protectress of their genial Store!
Lo! their pure Bosoms felt Devotion's Flame—
And all shall prosper who the Gods adore!

XIV. EPITAPH on EURYMEDON.

Here, doom'd in early Life to die,
Eurymedon, thy Relics lie!
Thy little wandering Son we see,
While the cold Earth encloses thee:

225

Yet is thy Spirit with the Blest,
Enthron'd amid the Realms of Rest!
And all shall watch, with duteous Care,
For thy dear Sake, the Infant-Heir!

XV. On the Same.

Dost thou an equal Honor pay,
To sacred or polluted Clay?
‘Hail yonder Tomb (the Traveller cries)
‘Light on Eurymedon it lies!’

XVI. On ANACREON's STATUE.

This Statue mark with curious Eye,
O Stranger, and returning cry:
‘At Teios I've Anacreon seen,
‘Blythest of antient Bards I ween!
‘Add, that he lov'd the Young, the Fair—
‘You'll paint the Poet to a Hair!’

226

XVII. On EPICHARMUS.

The Strain is in the Dorian Tongue:
Lo, Epicharmus!—from whose Genius sprung
Thy Numbers, Comic Muse!
O Bacchus, let this Image pass—
Tho' 'tis a Copy but of Brass,
The finish'd Semblance stands at Syracuse.

And much the State their Poet owes;
For he had Stores of useful Wit for those
Who gave the just Reward:
Full many a Rule of Life he drew,
Still pointing to the Fair, the True,
The youthful Mind: High Favor crowns the Bard.

XVIII. EPITAPH on CLITA,

the Nurse of MEDEUS.

This Tomb-Stone in the public Way
Medeus rear'd o'er Clita's Clay!
Her Care still lives before our Eyes,
Whilst, in the Boy, the Nurse we prize!

227

XIX. On ARCHILOCHUS.

Pause, Stranger, and Archilochus survey—
That antient Poet, whose Iambic Name
Is borne by rapid Fame
Ev'n from the rising to the setting Day!

And sure, the inspiring Muses lov'd their Child;
And Delian Phœbus on his keener Verse
Which flow'd, exact and terse,
To his according Lyre, in Fondness smil'd!

XX. On the STATUE of PISANDER,

Who wrote a Poem, entitled ‘The Labors of Hercules.’

Pisander at Camirus born,
The first of Bards, whose Strains adorn
Jove's Offspring, while his peerless Might,
His various Labors they recite;
And, how the Nemean Lion fell,
Bold in heroic Diction, tell—
Pisander claims, in Glory great,
This brazen Statue from the State!

228

XXI. EPITAPH on the Poet HIPPONAX.

The Poet Hipponax lies here:
If bad, O come not, come not near!
But, if you're good, here sit at Ease—
And sleep, O Stranger, if you please!

XXII. THEOCRITUS on his own WORKS.

Theocritus my Name, of Syracuse,
I claim no kindred with the Chian Muse!
Praxag'ras' and Philina's Son, I scorn
The extrinsic Bays that other's Brows adorn!

University of Virginia Library

THE IDYLLIA and EPIGRAMS OF THEOCRITUS.

IDYLLIUM the FIRST. THYRSIS,

or The ODE.

IDYLLIUM the SECOND. PHARMACEUTRIA.

IDYLLIUM the THIRD. AMARYLLIS.

IDYLLIUM the FOURTH. The SWAINS.

IDYLLIUM the FIFTH. The TRAVELLERS.

IDYLLIUM the SIXTH. The HERDSMEN.

IDYLLIUM the SEVENTH. The HARVEST-FEAST,

OR The VERNAL VOYAGE.

IDYLLIUM the EIGHTH. The BUCOLIC SINGERS.

IDYLLIUM the NINTH. The SHEPHERD.

IDYLLIUM the TENTH. The REAPERS.

IDYLLIUM the ELEVENTH. The CYCLOPS.

IDYLLIUM the TWELFTH. To a FRIEND.

IDYLLIUM the THIRTEENTH. HYLAS.

IDYLLIUM the FOURTEENTH. CYNISCA's LOVE.

IDYLLIUM the SIXTEENTH. The GRACES,

OR HIERO.

IDYLLIUM the SEVENTEENTH. PTOLEMY.

IDYLLIUM the EIGHTEENTH. The EPITHALAMIUM of HELEN.

IDYLLIUM the NINETEENTH. The HONEY-STEALER.

IDYLLIUM the TWENTIETH. EUNICA,

OR The NEATHERD.

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-FIRST. The FISHERMEN.

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-SECOND. CASTOR and POLLUX.

PART the SECOND.

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-THIRD. The DESPAIRING LOVER.

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-FOURTH. The YOUNG HERCULES.

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-FIFTH. HERCULES the LION-SLAYER.

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-SIXTH. BACCHÆ.

IDYLLIUM the TWENTY-NINTH. The CAPRICIOUS FRIEND.

IDYLLIUM the THIRTIETH. The DEATH of ADONIS.

EPIGRAMS.

I. OFFERINGS to the MUSES and APOLLO.

II. An OFFERING to PAN.

III. To DAPHNIS sleeping.

IV. A VOW to PRIAPUS.

V. The CONCERT.

VI. THYRSIS hath lost his Kid.

VII. On the STATUE of ÆSCULAPIUS.

VIII. EPITAPH on ORTHON, who died drunk.

IX. On the FATE of CLEONICUS.

X. On a MONUMENT erected to the MUSES.

XI. EPITAPH on EUSTHENES the PHYSIOGNOMIST.

XII. On a TRIPOD dedicated to BACCHUS by DEMOTELES.

XIII. On the IMAGE of the Heavenly VENUS.

XIV. EPITAPH on EURYMEDON.

XV. On the Same.

XVI. On ANACREON's STATUE.

XVII. On EPICHARMUS.

XVIII. EPITAPH on CLITA,

the Nurse of MEDEUS.

XIX. On ARCHILOCHUS.

XX. On the STATUE of PISANDER,

Who wrote a Poem, entitled ‘The Labors of Hercules.’

XXI. EPITAPH on the Poet HIPPONAX.

XXII. THEOCRITUS on his own WORKS.