_The shepherd Thyrsis meets a goatherd_, _in a shady place beside a
spring_, _and at his invitation sings the Song of Daphnis_. _This ideal
hero of Greek pastoral song had won for his bride the fairest of the
Nymphs_. _Confident in the strength of his passion_, _he boasted that
Love could never subdue him to a new question_. _Love avenged himself by
making Daphnis desire a strange maiden_, _but to this temptation he never
yielded_, _and so died a constant lover_. _The song tells how the cattle
and the wild things of the wood bewailed him_, _how Hermes and Priapus
gave him counsel in vain_, _and how with his last breath he retorted the
taunts of the implacable Aphrodite_.
_The scene is in Sicily_.
* * * * *
_Thyrsis_. Sweet, meseems, is the whispering sound of yonder pine tree,
goatherd, that murmureth by the wells of water; and sweet are thy
pipings. After Pan the second prize shalt thou bear away, and if he take
the horned goat, the she-goat shalt thou win; but if he choose the
she-goat for his meed, the kid falls to thee, and dainty is the flesh of
kids e’er the age when thou milkest them.
_The Goatherd_. Sweeter, O shepherd, is thy song than the music of
yonder water that is poured from the high face of the rock! Yea, if the
Muses take the young ewe for their gift, a stall-fed lamb shalt thou
receive for thy meed; but if it please them to take the lamb, thou shalt
lead away the ewe for the second prize.
_Thyrsis_. Wilt thou, goatherd, in the nymphs’ name, wilt thou sit thee
down here, among the tamarisks, on this sloping knoll, and pipe while in
this place I watch thy flocks?
_Goatherd_. Nay, shepherd, it may not be; we may not pipe in the
noontide. ’Tis Pan we dread, who truly at this hour rests weary from the
chase; and bitter of mood is he, the keen wrath sitting ever at his
nostrils. But, Thyrsis, for that thou surely wert wont to sing _The
Affliction of Daphnis_, and hast most deeply meditated the pastoral muse,
come hither, and beneath yonder elm let us sit down, in face of Priapus
and the fountain fairies, where is that resting-place of the shepherds,
and where the oak trees are. Ah! if thou wilt but sing as on that day
thou sangest in thy match with Chromis out of Libya, I will let thee
milk, ay, three times, a goat that is the mother of twins, and even when
she has suckled her kids her milk doth fill two pails. A deep bowl of
ivy-wood, too, I will give thee, rubbed with sweet bees’-wax, a twy-eared
bowl newly wrought, smacking still of the knife of the graver. Round its
upper edges goes the ivy winding, ivy besprent with golden flowers; and
about it is a tendril twisted that joys in its saffron fruit. Within is
designed a maiden, as fair a thing as the gods could fashion, arrayed in
a sweeping robe, and a snood on her head. Beside her two youths with
fair love-locks are contending from either side, with alternate speech,
but her heart thereby is all untouched. And now on one she glances,
smiling, and anon she lightly flings the other a thought, while by reason
of the long vigils of love their eyes are heavy, but their labour is all
in vain.
Beyond these an ancient fisherman and a rock are fashioned, a rugged
rock, whereon with might and main the old man drags a great net for his
cast, as one that labours stoutly. Thou wouldst say that he is fishing
with all the might of his limbs, so big the sinews swell all about his
neck, grey-haired though he be, but his strength is as the strength of
youth. Now divided but a little space from the sea-worn old man is a
vineyard laden well with fire-red clusters, and on the rough wall a
little lad watches the vineyard, sitting there. Round him two she-foxes
are skulking, and one goes along the vine-rows to devour the ripe grapes,
and the other brings all her cunning to bear against the scrip, and vows
she will never leave the lad, till she strand him bare and breakfastless.
But the boy is plaiting a pretty locust-cage with stalks of asphodel, and
fitting it with reeds, and less care of his scrip has he, and of the
vines, than delight in his plaiting.
All about the cup is spread the soft acanthus, a miracle of varied work,
{6} a thing for thee to marvel on. For this bowl I paid to a Calydonian
ferryman a goat and a great white cream cheese. Never has its lip
touched mine, but it still lies maiden for me. Gladly with this cup
would I gain thee to my desire, if thou, my friend, wilt sing me that
delightful song. Nay, I grudge it thee not at all. Begin, my friend,
for be sure thou canst in no wise carry thy song with thee to Hades, that
puts all things out of mind!
_The Song of Thyrsis_.
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_! Thyrsis of Etna am
I, and this is the voice of Thyrsis. Where, ah! where were ye when
Daphnis was languishing; ye Nymphs, where were ye? By Peneus’s beautiful
dells, or by dells of Pindus? for surely ye dwelt not by the great stream
of the river Anapus, nor on the watch-tower of Etna, nor by the sacred
water of Acis.
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
For him the jackals, for him the wolves did cry; for him did even the
lion out of the forest lament. Kine and bulls by his feet right many,
and heifers plenty, with the young calves bewailed him.
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
Came Hermes first from the hill, and said, ‘Daphnis, who is it that
torments thee; child, whom dost thou love with so great desire?’ The
neatherds came, and the shepherds; the goatherds came: all they asked
what ailed him. Came also Priapus,—
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
And said: ‘Unhappy Daphnis, wherefore dost thou languish, while for thee
the maiden by all the fountains, through all the glades is fleeting, in
search of thee? Ah! thou art too laggard a lover, and thou nothing
availest! A neatherd wert thou named, and now thou art like the
goatherd:
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
‘For the goatherd, when he marks the young goats at their pastime, looks
on with yearning eyes, and fain would be even as they; and thou, when
thou beholdest the laughter of maidens, dost gaze with yearning eyes, for
that thou dost not join their dances.’
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
Yet these the herdsman answered not again, but he bare his bitter love to
the end, yea, to the fated end he bare it.
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
Ay, but she too came, the sweetly smiling Cypris, craftily smiling she
came, yet keeping her heavy anger; and she spake, saying: ‘Daphnis,
methinks thou didst boast that thou wouldst throw Love a fall, nay, is it
not thyself that hast been thrown by grievous Love?’
_Begin ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
But to her Daphnis answered again: ‘Implacable Cypris, Cypris terrible,
Cypris of mortals detested, already dost thou deem that my latest sun has
set; nay, Daphnis even in Hades shall prove great sorrow to Love.
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
‘Where it is told how the herdsman with Cypris—Get thee to Ida, get thee
to Anchises! There are oak trees—here only galingale blows, here sweetly
hum the bees about the hives!
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
‘Thine Adonis, too, is in his bloom, for he herds the sheep and slays the
hares, and he chases all the wild beasts. Nay, go and confront Diomedes
again, and say, “The herdsman Daphnis I conquered, do thou join battle
with me.”
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
‘Ye wolves, ye jackals, and ye bears in the mountain caves, farewell!
The herdsman Daphnis ye never shall see again, no more in the dells, no
more in the groves, no more in the woodlands. Farewell Arethusa, ye
rivers, good-night, that pour down Thymbris your beautiful waters.
_Begin_, _ye Muses dear_, _begin the pastoral song_!
‘That Daphnis am I who here do herd the kine, Daphnis who water here the
bulls and calves.
‘O Pan, Pan! whether thou art on the high hills of Lycaeus, or rangest
mighty Maenalus, haste hither to the Sicilian isle! Leave the tomb of
Helice, leave that high cairn of the son of Lycaon, which seems wondrous
fair, even in the eyes of the blessed. {9}
_Give o’er_, _ye Muses_, _come_, _give o’er the pastoral song_!
‘Come hither, my prince, and take this fair pipe, honey-breathed with
wax-stopped joints; and well it fits thy lip: for verily I, even I, by
Love am now haled to Hades.
_Give o’er_, _ye Muses_, _come_, _give o’er the pastoral song_!
‘Now violets bear, ye brambles, ye thorns bear violets; and let fair
narcissus bloom on the boughs of juniper! Let all things with all be
confounded,—from pines let men gather pears, for Daphnis is dying! Let
the stag drag down the hounds, let owls from the hills contend in song
with the nightingales.’
_Give o’er_, _ye Muses_, _come_, _give o’er the pastoral song_!
So Daphnis spake, and ended; but fain would Aphrodite have given him back
to life. Nay, spun was all the thread that the Fates assigned, and
Daphnis went down the stream. The whirling wave closed over the man the
Muses loved, the man not hated of the nymphs.
_Give o’er_, _ye Muses_, _come_, _give o’er the pastoral song_!
And thou, give me the bowl, and the she-goat, that I may milk her and
poor forth a libation to the Muses. Farewell, oh, farewells manifold, ye
Muses, and I, some future day, will sing you yet a sweeter song.
_The Goatherd_. Filled may thy fair mouth be with honey, Thyrsis, and
filled with the honeycomb; and the sweet dried fig mayst thou eat of
Aegilus, for thou vanquishest the cicala in song! Lo here is thy cup,
see, my friend, of how pleasant a savour! Thou wilt think it has been
dipped in the well-spring of the Hours. Hither, hither, Cissaetha: do
thou milk her, Thyrsis. And you young she-goats, wanton not so wildly
lest you bring up the he-goat against you.