The works of Anacreon, Sappho, Bion, Moschus and Musæus

O Solitude, on me bestow
The heart-felt Harmony of Woe,
Such, such as on th'Ausonian Shore
Sweet Dorian Moschus trill'd of yore!
Grainger's Ode on Solitude.

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IDYLLIUM I.

[In Search of her Son, to the listening Crowd]

In Search of her Son, to the listening Crowd,
T'other Day lovely Venus thus cry'd him aloud;
‘Whoever may chance a stray Cupid to meet,
‘My vagabond Boy, as he strolls in the Street,

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‘And will bring me the News, his Reward shall be this,
‘He may freely demand of fair Venus a Kiss;
‘But if to my Arms he the Boy can restore,
‘He's welcome to Kisses, and something still more.
‘His Marks are so plain, and so many, you'll own
‘That among twenty others he's easily known.

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‘His Skin is not white, but the Colour of Flame;
‘His Eyes are most cruel, his Heart is the same:
‘His delicate Lips with Persuasion are hung;
‘But, ah! how they differ, his Mind and his Tongue!
‘His Voice sweet as Honey; but nought can controul,
‘Whene'er he's provok'd, his implacable Soul.
‘He never speaks Truth, full of Fraud is the Boy;
‘And Woe is his Pastime, and Sorrow his Joy.
‘His Head is embellish'd with bright curling Hair;
‘He has confident Looks, and an insolent Air.
‘Though his Hands are but little, yet Darts they can fling
‘To the Regions below, and their terrible King.

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‘His Body quite naked to View is reveal'd,
‘But he covers his Mind, and his Thoughts are conceal'd.
‘Like a Bird light of Feather, the Branches among,
‘He skips here and there, to the old, to the young,
‘From the Men to the Maids on a sudden he strays,
‘And hid in their Hearts on their Vitals he preys.
‘The Bow which he carries is little and light,
‘On the Nerve is an Arrow wing'd ready for Flight,
‘A little short Arrow, yet swiftly it flies
‘Through Regions of Æther, and pierces the Skies.
‘A Quiver of Gold on his Shoulders is bound,
‘Stor'd with Darts, that alike Friends and Enemies wound:
‘Ev'n I, his own Mother, in vain strive to shun
‘His Arrows—so fell and so cruel my Son,
‘His Torch is but small, yet so ardent its Ray,
‘It scorches the Sun, and extinguishes Day.

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‘O you, who perchance may the Fugitive find,
‘Secure first his Hands, and with Manacles bind;
‘Show the Rogue no Compassion, though oft he appears
‘To weep—his are all hypocritical Tears.
‘With Caution conduct him, nor let him beguile
‘Your vigilant Care with a treacherous Smile.

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‘Perhaps with a Laugh Kisses sweet he will proffer;
‘His Kisses are Poison, ah! shun the vile Offer.
‘Perhaps he'll say, sobbing: “No Mischief I know;
“Here take all my Arrows, my Darts and my Bow!”
‘Ah! beware, touch them not—deceitful his Aim;
‘His Darts and his Arrows are all tipt with Flame.’

IDYLLIUM II. EUROPA.

The Queen of Love, on amorous Wiles intent,
A pleasing Dream to fair Europa sent.
What time still Night had roll'd the Hours away,
And the fresh Dawn began to promise Day,

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When balmy Slumbers, and composing Rest,
Close every Eye, and sooth the pensive Breast,
When Dreams and Visions fill the busy Brain,
Prophetic Dreams, that never rise in vain:

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'Twas then Europa, as she sleeping lay,
Chaste as Diana, Sister of the Day,
Saw in her Cause the adverse Shore engag'd
In War with Asia; terribly they rag'd:
Each seem'd a Woman; that in foreign Guise,
A Native this, and claim'd the lovely Prize
With louder Zeal: ‘The beauteous Nymph, she said,
‘Her Daughter was, and in her Bosom bred.’
But she, who as a Stranger was array'd,
Forc'd to her Arms the unresisting Maid;
Call'd her her right, by all the Powers above,
Giv'n her by Fate, and Ægis-bearing Jove.

The fair Europa, struck with sudden Dread,
All pale and trembling started from her Bed;
Silent she sat, and thought the Vision true,
Still seem'd their Forms to strive before her View:
At length she utter'd thus the Voice of Fear;
“Ye Gods, what Spectres to my Sight appear?
“What Dreams are these, in Fancy's Livery drest,
“That haunt my Sleep, and break my golden Rest?

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“And who that Form that seem'd so wond'rous kind?
“The dear Idea still delights my Mind.
“She, like a Mother, press'd me in her Arms:
“But, O ye Gods! that send such strange Alarms,
“Preserve these visionary Scenes from Harms.

She said, and lightly from her Couch she sprung,
Then sought her Comrades, beautiful and Young,
Her social Mates; with them she lov'd to lave
Her Limbs unblemish'd in the chrystal Wave:
With them on Lawns the sprightly Dance to lead,
Or pluck sweet Lillies in the flowery Mead.
The Nymphs assembled soon, a beauteous Band!
With each a curious Basket in her Hand;
Then reach'd those Fields where oft they play'd before,
The fragrant Fields along the Sea-beat Shore,
To gather Flowers, and hear the Billows roar.

Europa's Basket, radiant to behold,
The Work of Vulcan, was compos'd of Gold;

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He gave it Libya, mighty Neptune's Bride,
She Telephassa, next in Blood ally'd;
From her bequeath'd to fair Europa came
This splendid Basket of celestial Frame.
Fair in the Work the Milk-white Iö stood
In roughen'd Gold, and lowing paw'd the Flood,
(For Vulcan there had pour'd the azure Main)
A Heifer still, nor yet transform'd again.
Two Men stood figur'd on the Ocean's Brim,
Who watch'd the Cow, that seem'd inclin'd to swim.
Jove too appear'd enamour'd on the Strand,
And strok'd the lovely Heifer with his Hand:
Till, on the Banks of Nile again array'd,
In native Beauty shone the blooming Maid:
The sev'n-mouth'd Nile in silver Currents roll'd,
And Jove was sculptur'd in refulgent Gold.

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Near piping Hermes sleepless Argus lies,
Watching the Heifer with his hundred Eyes:
From Argus slain a painted Peacock grew,
Fluttering his Feathers stain'd with various Hue,
And, as a Ship expands her swelling Sail,
He round the Basket spread his starry Tail.
Such were the Scenes the Lemnian God display'd,
And such the Basket of the Tyrian Maid.

The lovely Damsels gather'd Flow'rets bright,
Sweet to the Smell, and beauteous to the Sight;
The fragrant Hyacinth of purple Hue,
Narcissus, wild Thyme, and the Violet blue;
Some the gilt Crocus or pale Lilly chose,
But fair Europa cropp'd the blooming Rose;
And all her Mates excell'd in radiant Mein,
As midst the Graces shines the Cyprian Queen.
Not long, alas! in these fair Fields she shone,
Nor long unloos'd preserv'd her virgin Zone;

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Saturnian Jove beheld the matchless Maid,
And sudden Transports the rapt God invade;

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He glows with all the fervid Flame of Love;
For Cupid's Arrows pierce the Breast of Jove.
But, best his amorous Intent to screen,
And shun the jealous Anger of his Queen,
He laid his Immortality aside,
And a Bull's Form th'intriguing God bely'd;

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But not of earthly Shape, or mortal Breed,
Such as at large in flowery Pastures feed;
Whose stubborn Necks beneath the Yoke we bow,
Break to the Wain, or harness to the Plough.
His golden Hue distinguish'd him afar;
Full in his Forehead beam'd a silver Star:
His large blue Eyes, that shone serenely bright,
Languish'd with Love, and sparkled with Delight:
On his broad Temples rose two equal Horns,
Like that fair Crescent which the Skies adorns.

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Gently he moves with peaceful Look and bland,
And spreads no Terror in the Virgin Band:
Nearer they draw, with eager Longing led
To stroke his Sides, and pat his comely Head:
His Breath divine ambrosial Odours yields,
Sweeter than Fragrance of the flowery Fields.
At fair Europa's Feet with Joy he stands,
And prints sweet Kisses on her lilly Hands.
His foamy Lips she wipes, unaw'd by Dread,
And strokes his Sides, and pats his comely Head.
Gently he low'd, as musical and clear
As Notes soft warbled on the raptur'd Ear:
And, as on Earth his plyant Knees he bent,
Show'd his broad Back, that hinted what he meant;
Then turn'd his suppliant Eyes, and view'd the Maid;
Who thus, astonish'd, to her Comrades said:

“Say, dearest Mates, what can this Beast intend?
“Let us (for lo! he stoops) his Back ascend,
“And ride in sportive Gambols round the Mead;
“This lovely Bull is, sure, of gentlest Breed;

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“So meek his Manner, so benign his Mind,
“He wants but Voice to equal Human-kind.”

So spoke the Fair, and up she rose to ride,
And call'd her lingering Partners to her Side:
Soon as the Bull his pleasing Burden bore,
Vigorous he sprung, and hasten'd to the Shore.
The Nymph dismay'd invok'd the Virgin Band
For Help, and wav'd her unavailing Hand.
On the soft Bosom of the azure Flood
With his fair Prize the Bull triumphant rode:
Up rose the Nereids to attend his Train,
And all the mighty Monsters of the Main.

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Cærulean Neptune was the Thunderer's Guide,
And for the passing Pomp he smooth'd the Tide:
The Tritons hail'd him as he steer'd along,
And sounded on their Conchs the nuptial Song.
On Jove's broad Back the lovely Damsel borne
Grasp'd with her fair right Hand his polish'd Horn,
Her left essay'd her purple Robe to save,
That lightly brush'd the Surface of the Wave:
Around her Head soft breath'd the gentle Gale,
And fill'd her Garment like a swelling Sail.
Europa's Heart throbb'd quick with chilling Fear,
Far from her much-lov'd Home, and Comrades dear;
No sea-beat Shore she saw, nor Mountain'sB row,
Nor aught but Sky above, and Waves below.

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Then with a mournful Look the Damsel said:

“Ah! whither wilt thou bear a wretched Maid?

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“Who, and whence art thou, wond'rous Creature, say?
“How canst thou fearless tread the watry Way?
“On the broad Ocean safely sails the Ship,
“But Bulls avoid, and dread the stormy Deep.
“Say, can a Bull on sea-born Viands feed?
“Or, if descended from celestial Breed,
“Thy Acts are inconsistent with a God:
“Bulls rove the Meads, and Dolphins swim the Flood;
“But Earth and Ocean are alike to thee,
“Thy Hoofs are Oars that row thee through the Sea.
“Perhaps, like airy Birds, thou soon wilt fly,
“And soar amidst the Regions of the Sky.
“Ah! wretched Maid, to leave my native Home,
“And simply dare with Bulls in Meads to roam!
“And now on Seas I ride—ah! wretched Maid!
“But, O! I trust, great Neptune, in thy Aid;

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“Soon let my Eyes my great Conductor hail,
“For not without a Deity I sail.”

Thus spoke the Nymph, and thus the Bull reply'd:
“Courage, fair Maid, nor fear the foaming Tide;
“Though now a Bull I seem to mortal Eyes,
“Thou soon shalt see me Ruler of the Skies.
“What Shape I please, at Will I take and keep,
“And now a Bull I cross the boundless Deep;
“For thy bright Charms inspire my Breast with Love:
“But soon shall Crete's fair Isle, the Nurse of Jove,
“Receive Europa on its friendly Strand,
“To join with me in Hymen's blissful Band:
“From thee shall Kings arise in long Array,
“To rule the World with delegated Sway.”

Thus spoke the God; and what he spoke prov'd true:
For soon Crete's lofty Shore appear'd in View:
Jove strait assum'd another Form and Air,
And loos'd her Zone; the Hours the Couch prepare,

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The Nymph Europa thus, through powerful Love,
Became the Bride of cloud-compelling Jove:
From her sprung mighty Kings in long Array,
Who rul'd the World with delegated Sway.

IDYLLIUM III. ON THE DEATH OF BION.

Ye Woods, with Grief your waving Summits bow,
Ye Dorian Fountains, murmur as ye flow,
From weeping Urns your copious Sorrows shed,
And bid the Rivers mourn for Bion dead:
Ye shady Groves, in Robe of sable Hue
Bewail; ye Plants, in pearly Drops of Dew:

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Ye drooping Flowers, diffuse a languid Breath,
And die with Sorrow at sweet Bion's Death:
Ye Roses change from red to sickly pale,
And, all ye bright Anemonies, bewail:
Now, Hyacinth, thy doleful Letters show
Inscrib'd in larger Characters of Woe
For Bion dead, the sweetest Shepherd Swain.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strain!
Ye Nightingales, that perch among the Sprays,
Tune to melodious Elegy your Lays,
And bid the Streams of Arethuse deplore
Bion's sad Fate; lov'd Bion is no more:
Nor Verse nor Music could his Life prolong,
He died, and with him died the Doric Song.

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Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strain!
Ye Swans of Strymon, in loud Notes complain,
Pensive, yet sweet, and droop the sickly Wing,
As when your own sad Elegy ye sing.
All the fair Damsels of Oëagria tell,
And all the Nymphs that in Bistonia dwell,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the Plains.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strains!
No more he sooths his Oxen at the Yoke,
No more he chants beneath the lonely Oak.
Compell'd, alas! a doleful Dirge to sing
To the grim God, the deaf Tartarean King.
And now each straggling Heifer strays alone,
And to the silent Mountains makes her Moan;

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The Bulls loud bellowing o'er the Forests rove,
Forsake their Pasture, and forget their Love.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
Thy Fate, O Bion, wept the God of Day;
Pan griev'd; the dancing Satyrs and the Fauns
March'd slow and sad, and sigh'd along the Lawns:
Then wail'd the Nymphs that o'er the Streams preside,
Fast flow'd their Tears, and swell'd the chrystal Tide,
Mute Echo now laments the Rocks among,
Griev'd she no more can imitate thy Song.
The Flow'rets fade, and wither'd are the Trees,
Those lose their Beauty, and their Verdure these.

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The Ewes no more with milky Udders thrive,
No more drops Honey from the fragrant Hive;
The Bees, alas! have lost their little Store,
And what avails it now to work for more,
When from thy Lips the Honey's stol'n away?

Begin, Sicilian, Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
Ne'er did the Dolphin on the azure Main
In such pathetic Energy complain;
Nor Philomel with such melodious Woe
E'er wail'd, nor Swallow on the Mountain's Brow:
Nor did Alcyone transform'd deplore
So loud her Lover dash'd upon the Shore.

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Not Memnon's Birds such Signs of Sorrow gave,
When, screaming round, they hover'd o'er his Grave:
As now in melancholy Mood they shed
Their plaintive Tears, lamenting Bion dead.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
The Nightingales, that perch upon the Spray,
The Swallows shrill, and all the feather'd Throng,
Whom Bion taught, and ravish'd with his Song,
Now sunk in Grief their pensive Music ply,
And strive to sing their Master's Elegy;
And all the Birds in all the Groves around
Strain their sweet Throats to emulate the Sound:
Ye turtles too, the gentle Bard deplore,
And with deep Murmurs fill the sounding Shore.

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Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
Who now, lov'd Shepherd, on thy Pipe shall play?
Still, still, methinks, the melting Notes I hear,
But, ah! more faint they die upon my Ear.
Echo, still listening, roves the Meads along,
Or near the Rocks still meditates thy Song.
To Pan I'll give thy tuneful Pipe, though he
Will fear, perchance, to be surpass'd by thee.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strain!
Thee Galatea weeps, sweet Shepherd-swain;
For oft thy graceful Form her Bosom warm'd,
Thy Song delighted, and thy Music charm'd:
She shunn'd the Cyclops, and his Numbers rude,
But thee with ardent Love the Nymph pursu'd:
She left the Sea, her Element, and feeds,
Forlorn, thy Cattle on the flowery Meads.

Begin, Sicilian, Muse, the mournful Lay!
Alas! the Muses will no longer stay,
No longer on these lonely Coasts abide;
With thee they warbled, and with thee they died:

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With Bion perish'd all the Grace of Song,
And all the Kisses of the Fair and Young.
The little Loves, lamenting at his Doom,
Strike their fair Breasts, and weep around his Tomb.
See Venus too her beauteous Bosom beat!
She lov'd her Shepherd more than Kisses sweet,
More than those last dear Kisses, which in Death
She gave Adonis, and imbib'd his Breath.
Meles! of Streams in Melody the chief,
Now heaves thy Bosom with another Grief;
Thy Homer died, great Master of the Song,
Thy Homer died, the Muses sweetest Tongue:
Then did thy Waves in plaintive Murmurs weep,
And roll'd thy swelling Sorrows to the Deep:
Another Son demands the Meed of Woe,
Again thy Waters weep in long-drawn Murmurs slow.

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Dear to the Fountains was each tuneful Son,
This drank of Arethuse, that Helicon:
He sung Atrides' and Achilles' Ire,
And the fair Dame that set the World on Fire:
This form'd his Numbers on a softer Plan,
And chaunted Shepherds Loves, and peaceful Pan;
His Flock he tended on the flowery Meads,
And milk'd his Kine, or join'd with Wax the Reeds;
Oft in his Bosom he would Cupid take,
And Venus lov'd him for her Cupid's Sake.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strains!
Thee all the Cities of the Hills and Plains,
Illustrious Bard, in silent Grief deplore;
Ascra for Hesiod ne'er lamented more;
Not thus Bœotia mourn'd her Theban Swan,
Nor thus the Tears for bold Alcæus ran;
Not Ceos for Simonides, nor thus
Griev'd Paros for her Bard Archilocus:

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The Shepherds of the Lesbian Isle have long
Neglected Sappho's for thy sweeter Song:
And all that breathe the past'ral Reed rehearse
Thy Fate, O Bion, in harmonious Verse.
Sicelidas, the Samian Shepherd sweet,
And Lycidas, the blythest Bard of Crete,
Whose sprightly Looks erst spoke their Hearts elate,
Now sorrowing mourn thy sad untimely Fate;
Mourns too Philetas' elegiac Muse,
And sweet Theocritus of Syracuse:
I too, with Tears, from Italy have brought
Such plain Bucolics as my Master taught;
Which, if at all with tuneful Ease they flow,
To thy learn'd Precepts and thy Art I owe.
To other Heirs thy Riches may belong,
I claim thy past'ral Pipe and Doric Song;

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In Doric Song my pensive Boon I pay:

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
Alas! the meanest Flowers which Gardens yield,
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,

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Which dead in wintry Sepulchres appear,
Revive in Spring, and bloom another Year:
But We, the Great, the Brave, the Learn'd, the Wise,
Soon as the Hand of Death has clos'd our Eyes,
In Tombs forgotten lie, no Suns restore,
We sleep, for ever sleep, to wake no more.
Thou too liest buried with the silent dead:
Fate spares the Witlings, but thy vital Thread
Snapp'd cruel Chance! and now 'tis my hard Lot
To hear the dull Bards (but I envy not)
Grate their harsh Sonnets, flashy, rude, and vain:

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strain!
O hapless Bion! Poison was thy Fate;
The baneful Potion circumscrib'd thy Date:
How could fell Poison cause Effect so strange,
Touch thy sweet Lips, and not to Honey change?
How could the savage Wretch, that mix'd the Draught,
Hear heavenly Music with a murderous Thought?

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Could not thy Songs his hellish Purpose sway?

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
But soon just Vengeance will his Crime pursue,
While I with pious Tears thy Tomb bedew.
Could I like Orpheus, as old Poets tell,
Or mighty Hercules, descend to Hell;
To Pluto's dreary Mansion I would go,
To hear what Music Bion plays below.
List to my Counsel, gentle Shepherd-swain,
And softly warble some Sicilian Strain,
(Such as, when living, gave divine Delight)
To sooth the Empress of the Realms of Night;
For she, ere Pluto seiz'd the trembling Maid,
Sung Dorian Lays, and in these Meadows play'd.

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Nor unrewarded shall thy Numbers prove,
The Dame will pity, though she cannot love;
As once she heard the Thracian's tuneful Prayer,
And gave him back Eurydice the fair,
She'll pity now thy more melodious Strain,
And send thee to thy Hills and Woods again.
Could I in powerful Harmony excell,
For thee my Pipe should charm the rigid King of Hell.

IDYLLIUM IV. MEGARA.

MEGARA.

“Why these Complaints, and whence that dreadful Sigh?
“Why on thy Cheek do thus the Roses die?
“Is it to see thy glorious Son sustain,
“From worthless Hands, Pre-eminence of Pain?

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“A Lion tortur'd by a Fawn!—Great Jove!
“Why such injurious Treatment must I prove?
“Why with such adverse Omens was I born?
“Wretch that I am! E'er since the nuptial Morn
“When to my Arms my matchless Lord was given,
“Dear have I priz'd him as the Light of Heaven;
“And prize him still—Sure none has suffer'd more,
“Or drank such Draughts of Sorrow's Cup before.
“With Phœbus' Gift, his Bow, he pierc'd the Hearts
“Of his own Sons; or rather, arm'd with Darts

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“Which Fates or Furies furnish'd, every Child
“In his own House he slew, with Frenzy wild.
“Than Dreams more dreadful, with these streaming Eyes,
(“While to their Mother, with incessant Cries,
“Their helpless Mother, they exclaim'd in vain)
“By their own Sire I saw the Children slain.
“But as a Bird bewails her callow Brood,
“While in the Brake a Serpent drains their Blood,

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“And, all too weak the wish'd Relief to bring,
“Twittering her shrill Complaints, on feeble Wing
“At Distance hovers, nor will venture near
“The fell Destroyer, chill'd with conscious Fear;
“So I, all frantic, the wide Mansion o'er,
“Unhappy Mother! my lost Sons deplore.
“O blest, Diana, Goddess of the Chace,
“Tyrant confess'd o'er Woman's helpless Race,
“With my dear Sons had thy envenom'd Dart
“Kindly transfix'd their Mother's bleeding Heart,
“Then my sad Parents might, with friendly Care,
“Have seen one Pile our breathless Bodies bear,

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“At once, with many a Tear, to every Shade
“The decent Rites of Sepulture have paid,
“And in one golden Urn that sacred Earth
“Our Ashes have receiv'd, which gave us Birth.
“But Thebes they now inhabit, fam'd for Steeds,
“Or toilsome till Aönia's fruitful Meads:
“While to my Sorrows no Relief is given,
“At Tiryns, sacred to the Queen of Heaven,
“In Tears unnumber'd wasting Life away,
“To Joy a Stranger, to Despair a Prey.
“But soon my Lord will bless my Eyes again,
“For various Labours he must yet sustain
“By Land and Sea, like Iron or a Rock
“Unmov'd, and still superior to the Shock:
“While like a Stream thy Sorrows ever flow,
“By Day, by Night, alike dissolv'd in Woe.

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“Of all to me by Tyes of Kindred join'd,
“Thou only now canst chear my anxious Mind:
“Far from this Mansion, though in Blood ally'd,
“Beyond the pine-clad Isthmus they reside.
“Not one remains who can console my Grief,
“Or to a wretched Woman give Relief,
“Except my Sister Pyrrha; all the Day
“She too bewails her Husband snatch'd away,
“Thy Son Iphiclus: Wretched all thy Line,
“Whether their Sire be mortal or divine!”

Fast, while she spoke, th'o'erflowing Tears distill'd
Adown her Cheeks, and her fair Bosom fill'd;
Her Sons, her Parents rising to her View:
In sad Society, Alcmena too
Roll'd the big Tear; and from her heaving Breast,
In Accents sage, her Daughter thus addrest:

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“Why, hapless Parent, should thine Eyes o'erflow?
“Why should Remembrance thus renew thy Woe?
“Why thus afflict us both? or why once more
“Repeat the Loss we oft have wept before?
“Sure each sad Day sufficient Sorrows bears;
“And none but Wretches would recount our Cares!
“Be chear'd, my Daughter, and, these Ills forgot,
“Think that the Gods a happier Doom allot.
“And though on Grief thy Thoughts are all employ'd,
“I no Excuse require, with Pleasure cloy'd.
“Much I lament, that thou so vast a Weight
“Of Woe should'st share in our disastrous Fate.
“For, O blest Proserpine and Ceres, know,
(“Powers justly dreaded by the perjur'd Foe)

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“That I not more could love thee, if my Womb
“With thee had teem'd, or had thy Virgin-bloom
“Alone remained a Parent's Hope to crown:
“A Truth, Megara, not to thee unknown!
“Then think I view thee with no careless Eye;
“No, though in grief with Niobe I vye:
“Grief for a Son Indulgence sure may gain,
“To me endear'd by ten long Months of Pain;
“And, ere I brought him to the Realms of Day,
“My Life by Pangs was nearly snatch'd away.
“Sent on new Toils he to a distant Shore
“Now roams, and I may ne'er behold him more.

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“Besides, I lately saw, with wild Affright,
“A direful Vision in the Dead of Night:
“Some great impending Ill, if right I deem,
“Awaits my Sons, from this mysterious Dream.
“In Sleep, methought, my Hercules I spy'd,
“His Garments like a Labourer, thrown aside,
“And, Spade in Hand, employ'd, with arduous Toil,
“To delve a Ditch in some well-cultur'd Soil.
“But when his Task the wish'd Success had crown'd,
“And his wide Fence had girt the Vineyard round,
“He left his Spade fix'd deeply in the Plain,
“And strait prepar'd to cloath his Limbs again;
“When, quick as Thought, above the Trench, behold
“Destructive Flames, which round the Hero roll'd!

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“From these resistless Foes alarm'd he flew,
“With Foot-steps swift; as swiftly they pursue:
“While, like a Shield, the Spade now serves to guard
“His half-scorch'd Body, and the Fire to ward.
“At length Iphiclus, running to his Aid,
(“Such was my Vision) by his Feet betray'd,
“Before he reach'd him, fell, with headlong Force,
“And there, unable to resume his Course,
“Lay stiff and prostrate; like a feeble Sage,
“Who, falling to the Ground through helpless Age,
“There fix'd remains, till by some Stranger rear'd,
“Pitying his hoary Hairs, and silver Beard:

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“So on the Plain was brave Iphiclus thrown.
“To see my Sons unaided and alone,
“Fast flow'd my Tears, till Morn with roseate Ray
“Dispell'd my Slumbers, and restor'd the Day.

“Such were the Visions of this Night of Dread!
“Far from our House, on curs'd Eurystheus' Head
“These Omens turn! Be my Presages true,
“And him, O Fate, with Vengeance just pursue!”

IDYLLIUM V. THE CHOICE.

When Zephyrs gently curl the azure Main,
On Land, impatient, I can scarce sustain
At Ease to dwell; a Calm yields more Delight:
But when Old Ocean to a Mountain's Height

283

Rolls, with tremendous Roar, his foaming Floods,
I loath the Sea, and sigh for Fields and Woods.
Safe is the Land; then piny Forests please,
Though hoarse Winds whistle through the bending Trees:
Hapless the Fisher's Life! the Sea his Toil,
His House a Bark, and faithless Fish his Spoil.
But O! to me how sweet are Slumbers, laid
Beneath a lofty Plane's embowering Shade;
And thence the Tinkling of a Rill to hear,
Whose Sound gives Pleasure unallay'd by Fear!

IDYLLIUM VI. CAPRICIOUS LOVE.

Pan sighs for Echo o'er the Lawn;
Sweet Echo loves the dancing Faun;

284

The dancing Faun fair Lyda charms;
As Echo Pan's soft Bosom warms,

285

So for the Faun sweet Echo burns;
Thus all, inconstant in their Turns,
Both fondly woo, are fondly woo'd,
Pursue, and are themselves pursued.
As much as all slight those that woo,
So those that slight are slighted too:

286

Thus rages, by capricious Fate,
Alternate Love, alternate Hate.
Ye scornful Nymphs and Swains, I tell
This Truth to you; pray, mark it well:
If to your Lovers kind you prove,
You'll gain the Hearts of those you love.

IDYLLIUM VII. TO THE EVENING-STAR.

Hail, golden Star! of Ray serene,
Thou Fav'rite of the Cyprian Queen,

287

O Hesper! Glory of the Night,
Diffusing through the Gloom Delight;
Whose Beams all other Stars outshine,
As much as silver Cynthia thine;
O! guide me, speeding o'er the Plain,
To him I love, my Shepherd-swain;
He keeps the mirthful Feast, and soon
Dark Shades will cloud the splendid Moon.

288

Of Lambs I never robb'd the Fold,
Nor the lone Traveller of Gold:
Love is my Crime: O lend thy Ray
To guide a Lover on her Way!
May the bright Star of Venus prove
The gentle Harbinger of Love!

IDYLLIUM VIII. ALPHËUS.

From Pisa, where the Sea his Flood receives,
Alphëus, olive-crown'd, the Gift of Leaves,

289

And Flowers, and sacred Dust is known to bring,
With secret Course, to Arethusa's Spring;
For, plunging deep beneath the briny Tide,
Unmix'd, and unperceiv'd his Waters glide.
Thus wonder-working Love, with Mischief fraught,
The Art of Diving to the River taught.

IDYLLIUM IX. EUNICA; OR, THE HERDSMAN.

When lately I offer'd Eunica to kiss,
She fleer'd, and she flouted, and took it amiss;

290

“Be gone, you great Booby, she cry'd, with a Frown,
“Do you think that I long for your Kisses, you Clown?
“The Sparks of the City my Favours esteem—
“You never shall kiss me, no, not in a Dream.
“How pleasing your Look! and how gently you play!
“How soft is your Voice! and what sine Things you say!
“So neat is your Beard, and so comely your Hair!
“And your Lips, to be sure, are a delicate Pair.
“But on your dear Person I never shall doat;
“So pray keep your distance—you smell like a Goat.”

Thus spoke the proud Hussey, and view'd me all round
With an Eye of Disdain, and thrice spit on the Ground;
Then mimick'd my Voice with satyrical Sneer,
And sent me away with a Flea in my Ear.

291

My Blood quickly boil'd, in a violent Pique,
And, red as a Rose, Passion glow'd on my Cheek;
For it vex'd me, that thus in Derision she jeer'd
My Looks, and my Voice, and my Hair, and my Beard.
But, am I not handsome, ye Shepherds, say true?
Or has any God alter'd my Person anew?
For lately, on Oaks like the Ivy, with Grace
My Hair and my Beard added Charms to my Face:
My Brows were coal-black, and my Forehead milk-white,
And my Eyes, like Minerva's, were azure and bright;
My Lips sweet as Cream, and from them would flow
Words sweeter than Honey, and softer than Snow.
My Songs are enchanting; nor aught can exceed
The Tunes of my Pipe, or the Notes of my Reed.
The Girls of the Country, if they had their Wills,
Would kiss me, and press me to stay on the Hills;
For they say that I'm fair: But this Minx of the Town
Refus'd my sweet Kisses, and call'd me a Clown.

292

Alas! she forgot, or, perhaps, did not know,
That Bacchus fed Herds in the Valley below;
That Beauty's fair Queen fell in Love with a Swain,
And help'd him his Cattle to tend on the Plain;
Adonis, while living, in Groves she ador'd,
And, when dead, she in Groves and on Mountains deplor'd.
If right my Conjecture, Endymion, I ween,
Like me too once tended his Steers on the Green;
Yet the Moon in this Herdsman took such a Delight,
That she met him at Latmos, and kiss'd him all Night.
Ev'n Cybele mourn'd for a Herdsman; and Jove
Snatch'd a Boy from his Flock to be Waiter above.

But Eunica disdains me, nor lists to my Vow;
Is she better than Cynthia or Venus, I trow?
May she never find Lovers in City or Plain,
But lie always alone, yet still wishing in vain!

293

CUPID TURN'D PLOUGHMAN.

AN EPIGRAM.

Disguis'd like a Ploughman, Love stole from the Sky,
His Torch, and his Bow, and his Quiver thrown by;
And, with Pouch at his Shoulder, and Goad in his Hand,
Began with yok'd Oxen to furrow the Land:
And, “O Jove, be propitious, he cry'd, or I vow,
“That I'll yoke thee, Europa's fam'd Bull, to my Plough.”

University of Virginia Library

THE IDYLLIUMS OF MOSCHUS.

Translated from the Greek.