Πίδακος έξ ίερης ολίγη λιβας ακρον αωτον.—_Callimachus_.
BION was born at Smyrna, one of the towns which claimed the honour of
being Homer’s birthplace. On the evidence of a detached verse (94) of
the dirge by Moschus, some have thought that Theocritus survived Bion.
In that case Theocritus must have been a preternaturally aged man. The
same dirge tells us that Bion was poisoned by certain enemies, and that
while he left to others his wealth, to Moschus he left his minstrelsy.
I
THE LAMENT FOR ADONIS
_This poem was probably intended to be sung at one of the spring
celebrations of the festival of Adonis_, _like that described by
Theocritus in his fifteenth idyl_.
* * * * *
WOE, woe for Adonis, he hath perished, the beauteous Adonis, dead is the
beauteous Adonis, the Loves join in the lament. No more in thy purple
raiment, Cypris, do thou sleep; arise, thou wretched one, sable-stoled,
and beat thy breasts, and say to all, ‘He hath perished, the lovely
Adonis!’
_Woe_, _woe for Adonis_, _the Loves join in the lament_!
Low on the hills is lying the lovely Adonis, and his thigh with the
boar’s tusk, his white thigh with the boar’s tusk is wounded, and sorrow
on Cypris he brings, as softly he breathes his life away.
His dark blood drips down his skin of snow, beneath his brows his eyes
wax heavy and dim, and the rose flees from his lip, and thereon the very
kiss is dying, the kiss that Cypris will never forego.
To Cypris his kiss is dear, though he lives no longer, but Adonis knew
not that she kissed him as he died.
_Woe_, _woe for Adonis_, _the Loves join in the lament_!
A cruel, cruel wound on his thigh hath Adonis, but a deeper wound in her
heart doth Cytherea bear. About him his dear hounds are loudly baying,
and the nymphs of the wild wood wail him; but Aphrodite with unbound
locks through the glades goes wandering,—wretched, with hair unbraided,
with feet unsandaled, and the thorns as she passes wound her and pluck
the blossom of her sacred blood. Shrill she wails as down the long
woodlands she is borne, lamenting her Assyrian lord, and again calling
him, and again. But round his navel the dark blood leapt forth, with
blood from his thighs his chest was scarlet, and beneath Adonis’s breast,
the spaces that afore were snow-white, were purple with blood.
_Woe_, _woe for Cytherea_, _the Loves join in the lament_!
She hath lost her lovely lord, with him she hath lost her sacred beauty.
Fair was the form of Cypris, while Adonis was living, but her beauty has
died with Adonis! _Woe_, _woe for Cypris_, the mountains all are saying,
and the oak-trees answer, _Woe for Adonis_. And the rivers bewail the
sorrows of Aphrodite, and the wells are weeping Adonis on the mountains.
The flowers flush red for anguish, and Cytherea through all the
mountain-knees, through every dell doth shrill the piteous dirge.
_Woe_, _woe for Cytherea_, _he hath perished_, _the lovely Adonis_!
And Echo cried in answer, _He hath perished_, _the lovely Adonis_. Nay,
who but would have lamented the grievous love of Cypris? When she saw,
when she marked the unstaunched wound of Adonis, when she saw the bright
red blood about his languid thigh, she cast her arms abroad and moaned,
‘Abide with me, Adonis, hapless Adonis abide, that this last time of all
I may possess thee, that I may cast myself about thee, and lips with lips
may mingle. Awake Adonis, for a little while, and kiss me yet again, the
latest kiss! Nay kiss me but a moment, but the lifetime of a kiss, till
from thine inmost soul into my lips, into my heart, thy life-breath ebb,
and till I drain thy sweet love-philtre, and drink down all thy love.
This kiss will I treasure, even as thyself; Adonis, since, ah ill-fated,
thou art fleeing me, thou art fleeing far, Adonis, and art faring to
Acheron, to that hateful king and cruel, while wretched I yet live, being
a goddess, and may not follow thee! Persephone, take thou my lover, my
lord, for thy self art stronger than I, and all lovely things drift down
to thee. But I am all ill-fated, inconsolable is my anguish, and I
lament mine Adonis, dead to me, and I have no rest for sorrow.
‘Thou diest, O thrice-desired, and my desire hath flown away as a dream.
Nay, widowed is Cytherea, and idle are the Loves along the halls! With
thee has the girdle of my beauty perished. For why, ah overbold, didst
thou follow the chase, and being so fair, why wert thou thus overhardy to
fight with beasts?’
So Cypris bewailed her, the Loves join in the lament:
_Woe_, _woe for Cytherea_, _he hath perished the lovely Adonis_!
A tear the Paphian sheds for each blood-drop of Adonis, and tears and
blood on the earth are turned to flowers. The blood brings forth the
rose, the tears, the wind-flower.
_Woe_, _woe for Adonis_, _he hath perished_; _the lovely Adonis_!
No more in the oak-woods, Cypris, lament thy lord. It is no fair couch
for Adonis, the lonely bed of leaves! Thine own bed, Cytherea, let him
now possess,—the dead Adonis. Ah, even in death he is beautiful,
beautiful in death, as one that hath fallen on sleep. Now lay him down
to sleep in his own soft coverlets, wherein with thee through the night
he shared the holy slumber in a couch all of gold, that yearns for
Adonis, though sad is he to look upon. Cast on him garlands and
blossoms: all things have perished in his death, yea all the flowers are
faded. Sprinkle him with ointments of Syria, sprinkle him with unguents
of myrrh. Nay, perish all perfumes, for Adonis, who was thy perfume,
hath perished.
He reclines, the delicate Adonis, in his raiment of purple, and around
him the Loves are weeping, and groaning aloud, clipping their locks for
Adonis. And one upon his shafts, another on his bow is treading, and one
hath loosed the sandal of Adonis, and another hath broken his own
feathered quiver, and one in a golden vessel bears water, and another
laves the wound, and another from behind him with his wings is fanning
Adonis.
_Woe_, _woe for Cytherea_, _the Loves join in the lament_!
Every torch on the lintels of the door has Hymenaeus quenched, and hath
torn to shreds the bridal crown, and _Hymen_ no more, _Hymen_ no more is
the song, but a new song is sung of wailing.
‘_Woe_, _woe for Adonis_,’ rather than the nuptial song the Graces are
shrilling, lamenting the son of Cinyras, and one to the other declaring,
_He hath perished_, _the lovely Adonis_.
And _woe_, _woe for Adonis_, shrilly cry the Muses, neglecting Paeon, and
they lament Adonis aloud, and songs they chant to him, but he does not
heed them, not that he is loth to hear, but that the Maiden of Hades doth
not let him go.
Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from thy dirges.
Thou must again bewail him, again must weep for him another year.
II
THE LOVE OF ACHILLES
_Lycidas sings to Myrson a fragment about the loves of Achilles and
Deidamia_.
* * * * *
_Myrson_. Wilt thou be pleased now, Lycidas, to sing me sweetly some
sweet Sicilian song, some wistful strain delectable, some lay of love,
such as the Cyclops Polyphemus sang on the sea-banks to Galatea?
_Lycidas_. Yes, Myrson, and I too fain would pipe, but what shall I
sing?
_Myrson_. A song of Scyra, Lycidas, is my desire,—a sweet
love-story,—the stolen kisses of the son of Peleus, the stolen bed of
love how he, that was a boy, did on the weeds of women, and how he belied
his form, and how among the heedless daughters of Lycomedes, Deidamia
cherished Achilles in her bower. {176}
_Lycidas_. The herdsman bore off Helen, upon a time, and carried her to
Ida, sore sorrow to Œnone. And Lacedaemon waxed wroth, and gathered
together all the Achaean folk; there was never a Hellene, not one of the
Mycenaeans, nor any man of Elis, nor of the Laconians, that tarried in
his house, and shunned the cruel Ares.
But Achilles alone lay hid among the daughters of Lycomedes, and was
trained to work in wools, in place of arms, and in his white hand held
the bough of maidenhood, in semblance a maiden. For he put on women’s
ways, like them, and a bloom like theirs blushed on his cheek of snow,
and he walked with maiden gait, and covered his locks with the snood.
But the heart of a man had he, and the love of a man. From dawn to dark
he would sit by Deidamia, and anon would kiss her hand, and oft would
lift the beautiful warp of her loom and praise the sweet threads, having
no such joy in any other girl of her company. Yea, all things he
essayed, and all for one end, that they twain might share an undivided
sleep.