‘Take courage, maiden, and dread not the swell of the deep. Behold I am
Zeus, even I, though, closely beheld, I wear the form of a bull, for I
can put on the semblance of what thing I will. But ’tis love of thee
that has compelled me to measure out so great a space of the salt sea, in
a bull’s shape. Lo, Crete shall presently receive thee, Crete that was
mine own foster-mother, where thy bridal chamber shall be. Yea, and from
me shalt thou bear glorious sons, to be sceptre-swaying kings over
earthly men.
So spake he, and all he spake was fulfilled. And verily Crete appeared,
and Zeus took his own shape again, and he loosed her girdle, and the
Hours arrayed their bridal bed. She that before was a maiden straightway
became the bride of Zeus, and she bare children to Zeus, yea, anon she
was a mother.
IDYL III
THE LAMENT FOR BION
WAIL, let me hear you wail, ye woodland glades, and thou Dorian water;
and weep ye rivers, for Bion, the well beloved! Now all ye green things
mourn, and now ye groves lament him, ye flowers now in sad clusters
breathe yourselves away. Now redden ye roses in your sorrow, and now wax
red ye wind-flowers, now thou hyacinth, whisper the letters on thee
graven, and add a deeper _ai ai_ to thy petals; he is dead, the beautiful
singer.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Ye nightingales that lament among the thick leaves of the trees, tell ye
to the Sicilian waters of Arethusa the tidings that Bion the herdsman is
dead, and that with Bion song too has died, and perished hath the Dorian
minstrelsy.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Ye Strymonian swans, sadly wail ye by the waters, and chant with
melancholy notes the dolorous song, even such a song as in his time with
voice like yours he was wont to sing. And tell again to the Œagrian
maidens, tell to all the Nymphs Bistonian, how that he hath perished, the
Dorian Orpheus.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
No more to his herds he sings, that beloved herdsman, no more ’neath the
lonely oaks he sits and sings, nay, but by Pluteus’s side he chants a
refrain of oblivion. The mountains too are voiceless: and the heifers
that wander by the bulls lament and refuse their pasture.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Thy sudden doom, O Bion, Apollo himself lamented, and the Satyrs mourned
thee, and the Priapi in sable raiment, and the Panes sorrow for thy song,
and the fountain fairies in the wood made moan, and their tears turned to
rivers of waters. And Echo in the rocks laments that thou art silent,
and no more she mimics thy voice. And in sorrow for thy fall the trees
cast down their fruit, and all the flowers have faded. From the ewes
hath flowed no fair milk, nor honey from the hives, nay, it hath perished
for mere sorrow in the wax, for now hath thy honey perished, and no more
it behoves men to gather the honey of the bees.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Not so much did the dolphin mourn beside the sea-banks, nor ever sang so
sweet the nightingale on the cliffs, nor so much lamented the swallow on
the long ranges of the hills, nor shrilled so loud the halcyon o’er his
sorrows;
(_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.)
Nor so much, by the grey sea-waves, did ever the sea-bird sing, nor so
much in the dells of dawn did the bird of Memnon bewail the son of the
Morning, fluttering around his tomb, as they lamented for Bion dead.
Nightingales, and all the swallows that once he was wont to delight, that
he would teach to speak, they sat over against each other on the boughs
and kept moaning, and the birds sang in answer, ‘Wail, ye wretched ones,
even ye!’
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Who, ah who will ever make music on thy pipe, O thrice desired Bion, and
who will put his mouth to the reeds of thine instrument? who is so bold?
For still thy lips and still thy breath survive, and Echo, among the
reeds, doth still feed upon thy songs. To Pan shall I bear the pipe?
Nay, perchance even he would fear to set his mouth to it, lest, after
thee, he should win but the second prize.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Yea, and Galatea laments thy song, she whom once thou wouldst delight, as
with thee she sat by the sea-banks. For not like the Cyclops didst thou
sing—him fair Galatea ever fled, but on thee she still looked more kindly
than on the salt water. And now hath she forgotten the wave, and sits on
the lonely sands, but still she keeps thy kine.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
All the gifts of the Muses, herdsman, have died with thee, the delightful
kisses of maidens, the lips of boys; and woful round thy tomb the loves
are weeping. But Cypris loves thee far more than the kiss wherewith she
kissed the dying Adonis.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
This, O most musical of rivers, is thy second sorrow, this, Meles, thy
new woe. Of old didst thou lose Homer, that sweet mouth of Calliope, and
men say thou didst bewail thy goodly son with streams of many tears, and
didst fill all the salt sea with the voice of thy lamentation—now again
another son thou weepest, and in a new sorrow art thou wasting away.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Both were beloved of the fountains, and one ever drank of the Pegasean
fount, but the other would drain a draught of Arethusa. And the one sang
the fair daughter of Tyndarus, and the mighty son of Thetis, and Menelaus
Atreus’s son, but that other,—not of wars, not of tears, but of Pan,
would he sing, and of herdsmen would he chant, and so singing, he tended
the herds. And pipes he would fashion, and would milk the sweet heifer,
and taught lads how to kiss, and Love he cherished in his bosom and woke
the passion of Aphrodite.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Every famous city laments thee, Bion, and all the towns. Ascra laments
thee far more than her Hesiod, and Pindar is less regretted by the
forests of Boeotia. Nor so much did pleasant Lesbos mourn for Alcaeus,
nor did the Teian town so greatly bewail her poet, while for thee more
than for Archilochus doth Paros yearn, and not for Sappho, but still for
thee doth Mytilene wail her musical lament;
[_Here seven verses are lost_.]
And in Syracuse Theocritus; but I sing thee the dirge of an Ausonian
sorrow, I that am no stranger to the pastoral song, but heir of the Doric
Muse which thou didst teach thy pupils. This was thy gift to me; to
others didst thou leave thy wealth, to me thy minstrelsy.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Ah me, when the mallows wither in the garden, and the green parsley, and
the curled tendrils of the anise, on a later day they live again, and
spring in another year; but we men, we, the great and mighty, or wise,
when once we have died, in hollow earth we sleep, gone down into silence;
a right long, and endless, and unawakening sleep. And thou too, in the
earth wilt be lapped in silence, but the nymphs have thought good that
the frog should eternally sing. Nay, him I would not envy, for ’tis no
sweet song he singeth.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
Poison came, Bion, to thy mouth, thou didst know poison. To such lips as
thine did it come, and was not sweetened? What mortal was so cruel that
could mix poison for thee, or who could give thee the venom that heard
thy voice? surely he had no music in his soul.
_Begin_, _ye Sicilian Muses_, _begin the dirge_.
But justice hath overtaken them all. Still for this sorrow I weep, and
bewail thy ruin. But ah, if I might have gone down like Orpheus to
Tartarus, or as once Odysseus, or Alcides of yore, I too would speedily
have come to the house of Pluteus, that thee perchance I might behold,
and if thou singest to Pluteus, that I might hear what is thy song. Nay,
sing to the Maiden some strain of Sicily, sing some sweet pastoral lay.
And she too is Sicilian, and on the shores by Aetna she was wont to play,
and she knew the Dorian strain. Not unrewarded will the singing be; and
as once to Orpheus’s sweet minstrelsy she gave Eurydice to return with
him, even so will she send thee too, Bion, to the hills. But if I, even
I, and my piping had aught availed, before Pluteus I too would have sung.