_Daphnis and Menalcas_, _at the bidding of the poet_, _sing the joys of
the neatherds and of the shepherds life_. _Both receive the thanks of
the poet_, _and rustic prizes_—_a staff and a horn_, _made of a spiral
shell_. _Doubts have been expressed as to the authenticity of the
prelude and concluding verses_. _The latter breathe all Theocritus’s
enthusiastic love of song_.
* * * * *
SING, Daphnis, a pastoral lay, do thou first begin the song, the song
begin, O Daphnis; but let Menalcas join in the strain, when ye have mated
the heifers and their calves, the barren kine and the bulls. Let them
all pasture together, let them wander in the coppice, but never leave the
herd. Chant thou for me, first, and on the other side let Menalcas
reply.
_Daphnis_. Ah, sweetly lows the calf, and sweetly the heifer, sweetly
sounds the neatherd with his pipe, and sweetly also I! My bed of leaves
is strown by the cool water, and thereon are heaped fair skins from the
white calves that were all browsing upon the arbutus, on a time, when the
south-west wind dashed me them from the height.
And thus I heed no more the scorching summer, than a lover cares to heed
the words of father or of mother.
So Daphnis sang to me, and thus, in turn, did Menalcas sing.
_Menalcas_. Aetna, mother mine, I too dwell in a beautiful cavern in the
chamber of the rock, and, lo, all the wealth have I that we behold in
dreams; ewes in plenty and she-goats abundant, their fleeces are strown
beneath my head and feet. In the fire of oak-faggots puddings are
hissing-hot, and dry beech-nuts roast therein, in the wintry weather,
and, truly, for the winter season I care not even so much as a toothless
man does for walnuts, when rich pottage is beside him.
Then I clapped my hands in their honour, and instantly gave each a gift,
to Daphnis a staff that grew in my father’s close, self-shapen, yet so
straight, that perchance even a craftsman could have found no fault in
it. To the other I gave a goodly spiral shell, the meat that filled it
once I had eaten after stalking the fish on the Icarian rocks (I cut it
into five shares for five of us),—and Menalcas blew a blast on the shell.
Ye pastoral Muses, farewell! Bring ye into the light the song that I
sang there to these shepherds on that day! Never let the pimple grow on
my tongue-tip. {53}
Cicala to cicala is dear, and ant to ant, and hawks to hawks, but to me
the Muse and song. Of song may all my dwelling be full, for sleep is not
more sweet, nor sudden spring, nor flowers are more delicious to the
bees—so dear to me are the Muses. {54} Whom they look on in happy hour,
Circe hath never harmed with her enchanted potion.
IDYL X
THE REAPERS
_This is an idyl of the same genre as Idyl IV_. _The sturdy reaper_,
_Milon_, _as he levels the swathes of corn_, _derides his languid and
love-worn companion_, _Buttus_. _The latter defends his gipsy love in
verses which have been the keynote of much later poetry_, _and which echo
in the fourth book of Lucretius_, _and in the Misanthrope of Molière_.
_Milon replies with the song of Lityerses_—_a string_, _apparently_, _of
popular rural couplets_, _such as Theocritus may have heard chanted in
the fields_.
* * * * *
_Milan_. Thou toilsome clod; what ails thee now, thou wretched fellow?
Canst thou neither cut thy swathe straight, as thou wert wont to do, nor
keep time with thy neighbour in thy reaping, but thou must fall out, like
an ewe that is foot-pricked with a thorn and straggles from the herd?
What manner of man wilt thou prove after mid-noon, and at evening, thou
that dost not prosper with thy swathe when thou art fresh begun?
_Battus_. Milon, thou that canst toil till late, thou chip of the
stubborn stone, has it never befallen thee to long for one that was not
with thee?
_Milan_. Never! What has a labouring man to do with hankering after
what he has not got?
_Battus_. Then it never befell thee to lie awake for love?
_Milan_. Forbid it; ’tis an ill thing to let the dog once taste of
pudding.
_Battus_. But I, Milon, am in love for almost eleven days!
_Milan_. ’Tis easily seen that thou drawest from a wine-cask, while even
vinegar is scarce with me.
_Battus_. And for Love’s sake, the fields before my doors are untilled
since seed-time.
_Milan_. But which of the girls afflicts thee so?
_Battus_. The daughter of Polybotas, she that of late was wont to pipe
to the reapers on Hippocoon’s farm.
_Milan_. God has found out the guilty! Thou hast what thou’st long been
seeking, that grasshopper of a girl will lie by thee the night long!
_Battus_. Thou art beginning thy mocks of me, but Plutus is not the only
blind god; he too is blind, the heedless Love! Beware of talking big.
_Milan_. Talk big I do not! Only see that thou dust level the corn, and
strike up some love-ditty in the wench’s praise. More pleasantly thus
wilt thou labour, and, indeed, of old thou wert a melodist.
_Battus_. Ye Muses Pierian, sing ye with me the slender maiden, for
whatsoever ye do but touch, ye goddesses, ye make wholly fair.
They all call thee a _gipsy_, gracious Bombyca, and _lean_, and
_sunburnt_, ’tis only I that call thee _honey-pale_.
Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered hyacinth, but yet
these flowers are chosen the first in garlands.
The goat runs after cytisus, the wolf pursues the goat, the crane follows
the plough, but I am wild for love of thee.
Would it were mine, all the wealth whereof once Croesus was lord, as men
tell! Then images of us twain, all in gold, should be dedicated to
Aphrodite, thou with thy flute, and a rose, yea, or an apple, and I in
fair attire, and new shoon of Amyclae on both my feet.
Ah gracious Bombyca, thy feet are fashioned like carven ivory, thy voice
is drowsy sweet, and thy ways, I cannot tell of them! {57}
_Milan_. Verily our clown was a maker of lovely songs, and we knew it
not! How well he meted out and shaped his harmony; woe is me for the
beard that I have grown, all in vain! Come, mark thou too these lines of
godlike Lityerses