_In_ 265 B.C. _Sicily was devastated by the Carthaginians_, _and by the
companies of disciplined free-lances who called themselves Mamertines_,
_or Mars’s men_. _The hopes of the Greek inhabitants of the island were
centred in Hiero_, _son of Hierocles_, _who was about to besiege Messana_
(_then held by the Carthaginians_) _and who had revived the courage of
the Syracusans_. _To him Theocritus addressed this idyl_, _in which he
complains of the sordid indifference of the rich_, _rehearses the merits
of song_, _dilates on the true nature of wealth_, _and of the happy
lift_, _and finally expresses his hope that Hiero will rid the isle of
the foreign foe_, _and will restore peace and pastoral joys_. _The idyl
contains some allusions to Simonides_, _the old lyric poet_, _and to his
relations with the famous Hiero tyrant of Syracuse_.
* * * * *
EVER is this the care of the maidens of Zeus, ever the care of minstrels,
to sing the Immortals, to sing the praises of noble men. The Muses, lo,
are Goddesses, of Gods the Goddesses sing, but we on earth are mortal
men; let us mortals sing of mortals. Ah, who of all them that dwell
beneath the grey morning, will open his door and gladly receive our
Graces within his house? who is there that will not send them back again
without a gift? And they with looks askance, and naked feet come
homewards, and sorely they upbraid me when they have gone on a vain
journey, and listless again in the bottom of their empty coffer, they
dwell with heads bowed over their chilly knees, where is their drear
abode, when gainless they return.
Where is there such an one, among men to-day? Where is he that will
befriend him that speaks his praises? I know not, for now no longer, as
of old, are men eager to win the renown of noble deeds, nay, they are the
slaves of gain! Each man clasps his hands below the purse-fold of his
gown, and looks about to spy whence he may get him money: the very rust
is too precious to be rubbed off for a gift. Nay, each has his ready
saw; _the shin is further than the knee_; _first let me get my own_!
_’Tis the Gods’ affair to honour minstrels_! _Homer is enough for every
one_, _who wants to hear any other_? _He is the best of bards who takes
nothing that is mine_.
O foolish men, in the store of gold uncounted, what gain have ye? Not in
this do the wise find the true enjoyment of wealth, but in that they can
indulge their own desires, and something bestow on one of the minstrels,
and do good deeds to many of their kin, and to many another man; and
always give altar-rites to the Gods, nor ever play the churlish host, but
kindly entreat the guest at table, and speed him when he would be gone.
And this, above all, to honour the holy interpreters of the Muses, that
so thou mayest have a goodly fame, even when hidden in Hades, nor ever
moan without renown by the chill water of Acheron, like one whose palms
the spade has hardened, some landless man bewailing the poverty that is
all his heritage.
Many were the thralls that in the palace of Antiochus, and of king Aleuas
drew out their monthly dole, many the calves that were driven to the
penns of the Scopiadae, and lowed with the horned kine: countless on the
Crannonian plain did shepherds pasture beneath the sky the choicest sheep
of the hospitable Creondae, yet from all this they had no joy, when once
into the wide raft of hateful Acheron they had breathed sweet life away!
Yea, unremembered (though they had left all that rich store), for ages
long would they have lain among the dead forlorn, if a name among later
men the skilled Ceian minstrel had spared to bestow, singing his bright
songs to a harp of many strings. Honour too was won by the swift steeds
that came home to them crowned from the sacred contests.
And who would ever have known the Lycian champions of time past, who
Priam’s long-haired sons, and Cycnus, white of skin as a maiden, if
minstrels had not chanted of the war cries of the old heroes? Nor would
Odysseus have won his lasting glory, for all his ten years wandering
among all folks; and despite the visit he paid, he a living man, to
inmost Hades, and for all his escape from the murderous Cyclops’s
cave,—unheard too were the names of the swineherd Eumaeus, and of
Philoetius, busy with the kine of the herds; yea, and even of Laertes,
high of heart; if the songs of the Ionian man had not kept them in
renown.
From the Muses comes a goodly report to men, but the living heirs devour
the possessions of the dead. But, lo, it is as light labour to count the
waves upon the beach, as many as wind and grey sea-tide roll upon the
shore, or in violet-hued water to cleanse away the stain from a potsherd,
as to win favour from a man that is smitten with the greed of gain.
Good-day to such an one, and countless be his coin, and ever may he be
possessed by a longing desire for more! But I for my part would choose
honour and the loving-kindness of men, far before wealth in mules and
horses.
I am seeking to what mortal I may come, a welcome guest, with the help of
the Muses, for hard indeed do minstrels find the ways, who go
uncompanioned by the daughters of deep-counselling Zeus. Not yet is the
heaven aweary of rolling the months onwards, and the years, and many a
horse shall yet whirl the chariot wheels, and the man shall yet be found,
who will take me for his minstrel; a man of deeds like those that great
Achilles wrought, or puissant Aias, in the plain of Simois, where is the
tomb of Phrygian Ilus.
Even now the Phoenicians that dwell beneath the setting sun on the spur
of Libya, shudder for dread, even now the Syracusans poise lances in
rest, and their arms are burdened by the linden shields. Among them
Hiero, like the mighty men of old, girds himself for fight, and the
horse-hair crest is shadowing his helmet. Ah, Zeus, our father renowned,
and ah, lady Athene, and O thou Maiden that with the Mother dost possess
the great burg of the rich Ephyreans, by the water of Lusimeleia, {89}
would that dire necessity may drive our foemen from the isle, along the
Sardinian wave, to tell the doom of their friends to children and to
wives—messengers easy to number out of so many warriors! But as for our
cities may they again be held by their ancient masters,—all the cities
that hostile hands have utterly spoiled. May our people till the
flowering fields, and may thousands of sheep unnumbered fatten ’mid the
herbage, and bleat along the plain, while the kine as they come in droves
to the stalls warn the belated traveller to hasten on his way. May the
fallows be broken for the seed-time, while the cicala, watching the
shepherds as they toil in the sun, in the shade of the trees doth sing on
the topmost sprays. May spiders weave their delicate webs over martial
gear, may none any more so much as name the cry of onset!
But the fame of Hiero may minstrels bear aloft, across the Scythian sea,
and where Semiramis reigned, that built the mighty wall, and made it fast
with slime for mortar. I am but one of many that are loved by the
daughters of Zeus, and they all are fain to sing of Sicilian Arethusa,
with the people of the isle, and the warrior Hiero. O Graces, ye
Goddesses, adored of Eteocles, ye that love Orchomenos of the Minyae, the
ancient enemy of Thebes, when no man bids me, let me abide at home, but
to the houses of such as bid me, boldly let me come with my Muses. Nay,
neither the Muses nor you Graces will I leave behind, for without the
Graces what have men that is desirable? with the Graces of song may I
dwell for ever!