The Idylliums of Theocritus :: :: University of Virginia Library

This Idyllium is addressed to Hiero, the last tyrant of Sicily. Theocritus having before celebrated this prince, without being recompensed for his trouble, composed this poem, in which he complains of the ingratitude of princes to poets, who can alone render their actions immortal. He observes, that not only the Lycian and Trojan heroes, but even Ulysses himself, would have been buried in oblivion, if their fame had not been celebrated by Homer.

It fits the Muse's tongue, the poet's pen,
To praise th'immortal gods, and famous men:

149

The Nine are deities and gods resound,
But bards are men, and sing of men renown'd.
Yet who that lives beneath heaven's cope regards
The incense, or the sacrifice of bards?
Who opens now the hospitable door,
And makes the Muses richer than before?
Barefoot, unpaid, indignant they return,
Reproach my zeal, and unavailing mourn:

150

To the dark chest their labours they consign,
And on cold knees the languid head recline;
For none, alas! the race of men among,
Receives the bard, or hears his lofty song;
Men thirst not now for glory, as of old,
But all their passions are confin'd to gold;
To their mean breasts their thrifty hands they join,
And scarce will give the canker of their coin.
Hint at a recompence, they thus begin;
‘Close is my shirt, but closer is my skin:
‘My own I'll keep; and may the gods reward,
‘And crown with honours every living bard.
‘Homer's the prince of poets—sure 'tis sense,
‘To read the noblest works, at no expence.’

151

What profit, wretched churls, can gold afford,
Which thus in coffers ye abundant hoard?
The wise a different use for riches know,
And love on men of genius to bestow;
Part on themselves, to others part they spare,
And some their friends, and some their kinsmen share:
To every man their bounty shines display'd,
And yet the offerings of the gods are paid.
With prudent hospitality they spend,
And kindly greeting speed the parting friend.

152

But most the Muses' sons these honours claim,
Whose deathless lays immortalize their fame;
Then will they never rove, inglorious shades,
(Like those who living labour'd with their spades)
Along cold Acheron's infernal river,
And mourn hereditary want for ever.
Aleua and Antiochus, we're told,
Reign'd rich, and mighty potentates of old,
And to a thousand slaves, their menial train,
In lots distributed the monthly grain:
In Scopas' fields unnumber'd heifers fed,
And bulls that proudly toss'd the rough-horn'd head:
For good Creondas' use the shepherd-swains
Fed flocks in myriads on Cranonian plains:

153

These after death their sweet enjoyments lost,
When in hell's spacious barge their ghosts had crost
Th'infernal river, and unhonour'd all,
To other heirs their vast possessions fall;
And these among the miserable train
Had long in darkness and oblivion lain,
Had not the Céan muse extoll'd their name,
Awak'd his sounding lyre, and giv'n them deathless fame.
Verse crowns the race-horse with fair honour's meed,
That in the field has signaliz'd his speed.
Who had the Lycian chiefs, and Trojan known,
Or Cycnus, delicate with milk white crown,

154

Had not the bard delighted to rehearse
Their bold achievements in heroic verse?
Ulysses ne'er had endless glory gain'd,
Though for ten tedious summers he sustain'd
Unnumber'd toils, while he observant stray'd
From clime to clime, and men and states survey'd;
Ev'n though he scap'd the Cyclops' gloomy cell,
And quick descended to the realms of hell:
Philœtius and Eumæus with the dead
Had lain as nameless as the beasts they fed;
And brave Laertes with his parting breath
Had dy'd, but Homer snatch'd their names from death.

All human fame is by the Muses spread,
And heirs consume the riches of the dead.

155

Yet 'tis an easier task, when tempests roar,
To count the waves that ceaseless lash the shore,
'Tis easier far to bleach the Ethiop foul,
Than turn the tenor of the miser's soul.
Curse on the wretch, that thus augments his store!
And much possessing, may he wish for more!
I still prefer fair fame, with better sense,
And, more than riches, men's benevolence.
And yet, alas! what guardian shall I chuse,
What princely chief to patronize my muse?
In perilous paths the race of poets rove,
Dubious their fate, without the aid of Jove.
But still the sun rolls glorious in the skies;
And future victors in the race will rise:
The chief will rise, who shall my numbers claim
Equal to great Æacides in fame,

156

Equal to Ajax on the Phrygian plains,
Where Ilus' tomb near Simois' streams remains.
The bold Phœnicians, sons of Libya far,
Shrink at the rumour of approaching war:
For lo! their spears the Syracusians wield,
And bend the pliant sallow to a shield:
These Hiero leads, superior to the rest,
And on his helmet nods the horse-hair crest.

157

O Jupiter, and thou Minerva chaste,
And Proserpine, to our protection haste,
With Ceres thou delightest to partake
Those fair built walls by Lysimelia's lake;
Oh, may the fates, in pity to our woes,
On the Sardonian main disperse our foes!
And let the few that reach their country tell
Their wives and children how their fathers fell!
And let the natives dwell in peace and rest
In all the cities which the foes possest!