_The poet making his way through the noonday heat_, _with two friends_,
_to a harvest feast_, _meets the goatherd_, _Lycidas_. _To humour the
poet Lycidas sings a love song of his own_, _and the other replies with
verses about the passion of Aratus_, _the famous writer of didactic
verse_. _After a courteous parting from Lycidas_, _the poet and his two
friends repair to the orchard_, _where Demeter is being gratified with
the first-fruits of harvest and vintaging_.
_In this idyl_, _Theocritus_, _speaking of himself by the name of
Simichidas_, _alludes to his teachers in poetry_, _and_, _perhaps_, _to
some of the literary quarrels of the time_.
_The scene is in the isle of Cos_. _G. Hermann fancied that the scene
was in Lucania_, _and Mr. W. R. Paton thinks he can identify the places
named by the aid of inscriptions_ (Classical Review, ii. 8, 265). _See
also Rayet_, Mémoire sur l’île de Cos, p. 18, _Paris_, 1876.
* * * * *
_The Harvest Feast_.
IT fell upon a time when Eucritus and I were walking from the city to the
Hales water, and Amyntas was the third in our company. The harvest-feast
of Deo was then being held by Phrasidemus and Antigenes, two sons of
Lycopeus (if aught there be of noble and old descent), whose lineage
dates from Clytia, and Chalcon himself—Chalcon, beneath whose foot the
fountain sprang, the well of Buriné. He set his knee stoutly against the
rock, and straightway by the spring poplars and elm trees showed a
shadowy glade, arched overhead they grew, and pleached with leaves of
green. We had not yet reached the mid-point of the way, nor was the tomb
of Brasilas yet risen upon our sight, when,—thanks be to the Muses—we met
a certain wayfarer, the best of men, a Cydonian. Lycidas was his name, a
goatherd was he, nor could any that saw him have taken him for other than
he was, for all about him bespoke the goatherd. Stripped from the
roughest of he-goats was the tawny skin he wore on his shoulders, the
smell of rennet clinging to it still, and about his breast an old cloak
was buckled with a plaited belt, and in his right hand he carried a
crooked staff of wild olive: and quietly he accosted me, with a smile, a
twinkling eye, and a laugh still on his lips:—
‘Simichidas, whither, pray, through the noon dost thou trail thy feet,
when even the very lizard on the rough stone wall is sleeping, and the
crested larks no longer fare afield? Art thou hastening to a feast, a
bidden guest, or art thou for treading a townsman’s wine-press? For such
is thy speed that every stone upon the way spins singing from thy boots!’
‘Dear Lycidas,’ I answered him, ‘they all say that thou among herdsmen,
yea, and reapers art far the chiefest flute-player. In sooth this
greatly rejoices our hearts, and yet, to my conceit, meseems I can vie
with thee. But as to this journey, we are going to the harvest-feast,
for, look you some friends of ours are paying a festival to fair-robed
Demeter, out of the first-fruits of their increase, for verily in rich
measure has the goddess filled their threshing-floor with barley grain.
But come, for the way and the day are thine alike and mine, come, let us
vie in pastoral song, perchance each will make the other delight. For I,
too, am a clear-voiced mouth of the Muses, and they all call me the best
of minstrels, but I am not so credulous; no, by Earth, for to my mind I
cannot as yet conquer in song that great Sicelidas—the Samian—nay, nor
yet Philetas. ’Tis a match of frog against cicala!’
So I spoke, to win my end, and the goatherd with his sweet laugh, said,
‘I give thee this staff, because thou art a sapling of Zeus, and in thee
is no guile. For as I hate your builders that try to raise a house as
high as the mountain summit of Oromedon, {40} so I hate all birds of the
Muses that vainly toil with their cackling notes against the Minstrel of
Chios! But come, Simichidas, without more ado let us begin the pastoral
song. And I—nay, see friend—if it please thee at all, this ditty that I
lately fashioned on the mountain side!’
_The Song of Lycidas_.
Fair voyaging befall Ageanax to Mytilene, both when the _Kids_ are
westering, and the south wind the wet waves chases, and when Orion holds
his feet above the Ocean! Fair voyaging betide him, if he saves Lycidas
from the fire of Aphrodite, for hot is the love that consumes me.
The halcyons will lull the waves, and lull the deep, and the south wind,
and the east, that stirs the sea-weeds on the farthest shores, {41} the
halcyons that are dearest to the green-haired mermaids, of all the birds
that take their prey from the salt sea. Let all things smile on Ageanax
to Mytilene sailing, and may he come to a friendly haven. And I, on that
day, will go crowned with anise, or with a rosy wreath, or a garland of
white violets, and the fine wine of Ptelea I will dip from the bowl as I
lie by the fire, while one shall roast beans for me, in the embers. And
elbow-deep shall the flowery bed be thickly strewn, with fragrant leaves
and with asphodel, and with curled parsley; and softly will I drink,
toasting Ageanax with lips clinging fast to the cup, and draining it even
to the lees.
Two shepherds shall be my flute-players, one from Acharnae, one from
Lycope, and hard by Tityrus shall sing, how the herdsman Daphnis once
loved a strange maiden, and how on the hill he wandered, and how the oak
trees sang his dirge—the oaks that grow by the banks of the river
Himeras—while he was wasting like any snow under high Haemus, or Athos,
or Rhodope, or Caucasus at the world’s end.
And he shall sing how, once upon a time, the great chest prisoned the
living goatherd, by his lord’s infatuate and evil will, and how the
blunt-faced bees, as they came up from the meadow to the fragrant cedar
chest, fed him with food of tender flowers, because the Muse still
dropped sweet nectar on his lips. {42}
O blessed Comatas, surely these joyful things befell thee, and thou wast
enclosed within the chest, and feeding on the honeycomb through the
springtime didst thou serve out thy bondage. Ah, would that in my days
thou hadst been numbered with the living, how gladly on the hills would I
have herded thy pretty she-goats, and listened to thy voice, whilst thou,
under oaks or pine trees lying, didst sweetly sing, divine Comatas!
When he had chanted thus much he ceased, and I followed after him again,
with some such words as these:—
‘Dear Lycidas, many another song the Nymphs have taught me also, as I
followed my herds upon the hillside, bright songs that Rumour, perchance,
has brought even to the throne of Zeus. But of them all this is far the
most excellent, wherewith I will begin to do thee honour: nay listen as
thou art dear to the Muses.’
_The Song of Simichidas_.
For Simichidas the Loves have sneezed, for truly the wretch loves Myrto
as dearly as goats love the spring. {43} But Aratus, far the dearest of
my friends, deep, deep his heart he keeps Desire,—and Aratus’s love is
young! Aristis knows it, an honourable man, nay of men the best, whom
even Phoebus would permit to stand and sing lyre in hand, by his tripods.
Aristis knows how deeply love is burning Aratus to the bone. Ah, Pan,
thou lord of the beautiful plain of Homole, bring, I pray thee, the
darling of Aratus unbidden to his arms, whosoe’er it be that he loves.
If this thou dost, dear Pan, then never may the boys of Arcady flog thy
sides and shoulders with stinging herbs, when scanty meats are left them
on thine altar. But if thou shouldst otherwise decree, then may all thy
skin be frayed and torn with thy nails, yea, and in nettles mayst thou
couch! In the hills of the Edonians mayst thou dwell in mid-winter time,
by the river Hebrus, close neighbour to the Polar star! But in summer
mayst thou range with the uttermost Æthiopians beneath the rock of the
Blemyes, whence Nile no more is seen.
And you, leave ye the sweet fountain of Hyetis and Byblis, and ye that
dwell in the steep home of golden Dione, ye Loves as rosy as red apples,
strike me with your arrows, the desired, the beloved; strike, for that
ill-starred one pities not my friend, my host! And yet assuredly the
pear is over-ripe, and the maidens cry ‘alas, alas, thy fair bloom fades
away!’
Come, no more let us mount guard by these gates, Aratus, nor wear our
feet away with knocking there. Nay, let the crowing of the morning cock
give others over to the bitter cold of dawn. Let Molon alone, my friend,
bear the torment at that school of passion! For us, let us secure a
quiet life, and some old crone to spit on us for luck, and so keep all
unlovely things away.
Thus I sang, and sweetly smiling, as before, he gave me the staff, a
pledge of brotherhood in the Muses. Then he bent his way to the left,
and took the road to Pyxa, while I and Eucritus, with beautiful Amyntas,
turned to the farm of Phrasidemus. There we reclined on deep beds of
fragrant lentisk, lowly strown, and rejoicing we lay in new stript leaves
of the vine. And high above our heads waved many a poplar, many an elm
tree, while close at hand the sacred water from the nymphs’ own cave
welled forth with murmurs musical. On shadowy boughs the burnt cicalas
kept their chattering toil, far off the little owl cried in the thick
thorn brake, the larks and finches were singing, the ring-dove moaned,
the yellow bees were flitting about the springs. All breathed the scent
of the opulent summer, of the season of fruits; pears at our feet and
apples by our sides were rolling plentiful, the tender branches, with
wild plums laden, were earthward bowed, and the four-year-old pitch seal
was loosened from the mouth of the wine-jars.
Ye nymphs of Castaly that hold the steep of Parnassus, say, was it ever a
bowl like this that old Chiron set before Heracles in the rocky cave of
Pholus? Was it nectar like this that beguiled the shepherd to dance and
foot it about his folds, the shepherd that dwelt by Anapus, on a time,
the strong Polyphemus who hurled at ships with mountains? Had these ever
such a draught as ye nymphs bade flow for us by the altar of Demeter of
the threshing-floor?
Ah, once again may I plant the great fan on her corn-heap, while she
stands smiling by, with sheaves and poppies in her hands.