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

We have here a dialogue between Battus a shepherd, and Corydon a neatherd. The beauty of this Idyllium consists in that natural representation of sorrow which the poet makes the herds affected with in the absence of their master: Battus laments the death of Amaryllis. The latter part of this piece is very natural, but too much inclining to rusticity.

BATTUS.
Are these Philonda's cows that graze the mead?

CORYDON.
No; Ægon's—Ægon gave them me to feed.

BATTUS.
Don't you play false, and milk them by the by?

CORYDON.
My shrewd old master keeps too strict an eye;

The calves he suckles, and prevents the fraud.

BATTUS.
But where is Ægon? is he gone abroad?

CORYDON.
What, han't you heard it from the mouth of Fame?
Milo entic'd him to th'Olympic Game.

BATTUS.
Will he engage in that athletic toil,
Who never yet beheld Olympic oil?

CORYDON.
Fame says, his strength with Hercules may vie;

BATTUS.
And that stout Pollux is worse man than I.

CORYDON.
He with his spade is gone, at Honour's call,
And twenty sheep to keep himself withal.

BATTUS.
To Milo surely high regard is had;
The wolves at his persuasion will run mad.

CORYDON.
These heifers want him, moaning o'er the mead.

BATTUS.
Alas! they've got a wretched groom indeed.

CORYDON.
Poor beasts, I pity them! they even refrain
To pick the scanty herbage of the plain.

BATTUS.
Yon heifer's bones are all that strike the view:
Say, does she live, like grashoppers, on dew?

CORYDON.
No, troth! by Æsar's banks she loves to stray,
And there I bring her many a lock of hay;
And oft she wantons in Latymnus' shades,
And crops fresh pasture in the opening glades.

BATTUS.
That red bull's quite reduc'd to skin and bone,
May the Lampriadæ, when they atone
The wrath of Juno, sacrifice his mate!
A wretched offering suits a wretched state.

CORYDON.
And yet on Physcus, or the marsh he feeds,
Or where Neæthus laves the verdant meads;
Where bright-ey'd flowers diffuse their odours round,
Buckwheat and fleabane bloom, and honey-bells abound.

BATTUS.
Alas! these herds will perish on the plain,
While Ægon courts fair Victory in vain;
His pipe, which sweetest music could produce,
His pipe too will be spoil'd for want of use.

CORYDON.
No fear of that, for when he went away,
He left it me, and I can sing and play:
I warble Pyrrhus' songs, and Glauca's lays,
Zacynthus fair, and healthful Croton praise;
And proud Lacinium, rising to the east,
Where Ægon swallow'd fourscore cakes at least:
There too a bull he boldly dar'd pursue,
Seiz'd by the hoof, and down the mountain drew;
Then gave it Amaryllis; with glad shout
The maids approv'd the deed, loud laugh'd the lubber lout.

BATTUS.
Sweet Amaryllis! though entomb'd you lie,
With me your memory shall never die:
I lov'd you dearer than my flocks of late,
And now, alas! I mourn your cruel fate.

CORYDON.
Yet courage, friend; to-morrow Fortune's ray
May shine with comfort, though it lours to-day:
Hopes to the living, not the dead, remain;
And the soft season brightens after rain.

BATTUS.
Firm is my trust—but see! these hungry cows
(White-face, away!) my tender olives browze!

CORYDON.
Away, Cymætha, to the bank! by Jove,
If I come near you, faith! I'll make you move—
See! she returns—Oh that I had my pike!
I'd give the beast a blow she would not like.

BATTUS.
Pray, Corydon, see here! thy aid I beg;
A long sharp-pointed prick has pierc'd my leg:
How high these thorns, and spindling brambles grow!
Do'st see't?—'twas long of her; plague take the cow!

CORYDON.
Here comes the thorn! your throbbing pain I've found.

BATTUS.
How great the anguish! yet how small the wound!

CORYDON.
These thorny, furzy hills should ne'er be trod
With legs unguarded, and by feet unshod.

BATTUS.
Does your old master still persist to prize
His quondam mistress with the jet-black eyes?

CORYDON.
The same, for lately in the wattled ground
In the soft scene of love the carle I found.

BATTUS.
O, nobly done! lascivious old man!
Meet match for Satyrs, or salacious Pan.