Complete Works of Theocritus

by Theocritus

  But haste, we’ll seek him: to my own fold I

  Will pilot thee; there haply find the King.”

  He said and went in front: but pondered much

  (As he surveyed the lion-skin and the club,

  Itself an armful) whence this stranger came;

  And fain had asked. But fear recalled the words

  That trembled on his lip, the fear to say

  Aught that his fiery friend might take amiss.

  For who can fathom all his fellow’s mind?

  The dogs perceived their coming, yet far off:

  They scented flesh, they heard the thud of feet:

  And with wild gallop, baying furiously,

  Ran at Amphitryon’s son: but feebly whined

  And fawned upon the old man at his side.

  Then Heracles, just lifting from the ground

  A pebble, scared them home, and with hard words

  Cursed the whole pack; and having stopped their din

  (Inly rejoiced, nathless, to see them guard

  So well an absent master’s house) he spake:

  “Lo! what a friend the royal gods have given

  Man in the dog! A trusty servant he!

  Had he withal an understanding heart,

  To teach him when to rage and when forbear,

  What brute could claim like praise? But, lacking wit,

  ’Tis but a passionate random-raving thing.”

  He spake: the dogs ran scurrying to their lairs.

  And now the sun wheeled round his westering car

  And led still evening on: from every field

  Came thronging the fat flocks to bield and byre.

  Then in their thousands, drove on drove, the kine

  Came into view; as rainclouds, onward driven

  By stress of gales, the west or mighty north,

  Come up o’er all the heaven; and none may count

  And naught may stay them as they sweep through air;

  Such multitudes the storm’s strength drives ahead,

  Such multitudes climb surging in the rear —

  So in swift sequence drove succeeded drove,

  And all the champaign, all the highways swarmed

  With tramping oxen; all the sumptuous leas

  Rang with their lowing. Soon enough the stalls

  Were populous with the laggard-footed kine,

  Soon did the sheep lie folded in their folds.

  Then of that legion none stood idle, none

  Gaped listless at the herd, with naught to do:

  But one drew near and milked them, binding clogs

  Of wood with leathern thongs around their feet:

  One brought, all hungering for the milk they loved,

  The longing young ones to the longing dams.

  One held the pail, one pressed the dainty cheese,

  Or drove the bulls home, sundered from the kine.

  Pacing from stall to stall, Augéas saw

  What revenue his herdsman brought him in.

  With him his son surveyed the royal wealth,

  And, strong of limb and purpose, Heracles.

  Then, though the heart within him was as steel,

  Framed to withstand all shocks, Amphitryon’s son

  Gazed in amazement on those thronging kine;

  For none had deemed or dreamed that one, or ten,

  Whose wealth was more than regal, owned those tribes:

  Such huge largess the Sun had given his child,

  First of mankind for multitude of flocks.

  The Sun himself gave increase day by day

  To his child’s herds: whatever diseases spoil

  The farmer, came not there; his kine increased

  In multitude and value year by year:

  None cast her young, or bare unfruitful males.

  Three hundred bulls, white-pasterned, crumple-horned,

  Ranged amid these, and eke two hundred roans,

  Sires of a race to be: and twelve besides

  Herded amongst them, sacred to the Sun.

  Their skin was white as swansdown, and they moved

  Like kings amid the beasts of laggard foot.

  Scorning the herd in uttermost disdain

  They cropped the green grass in untrodden fields:

  And when from the dense jungle to the plain

  Leapt a wild beast, in quest of vagrant cows;

  Scenting him first, the twelve went forth to war.

  Stern was their bellowing, in their eye sat death,

  Foremost of all for mettle and for might

  And pride of heart loomed Phaeton: him the swains

  Regarded as a star; so bright he shone

  Among the herd, the cynosure of eyes.

  He, soon as he descried the sun-dried skin

  Of the grim lion, made at Heracles

  (Whose eye was on him) — fain to make his crest

  And sturdy brow acquainted with his flanks.

  Straight the prince grasped him with no tender grasp

  By the left horn, and bowed that giant bulk

  To earth, neck foremost: then, by pressure brought

  To bear upon his shoulder, forced him back.

  The web of muscles that enwraps the nerves

  Stood out from the brute’s fore-arm plain to see.

  Marvelled the King, and Phyleus his brave son,

  At the strange prowess of Amphitryon’s child.

  Then townwards, leaving straight that rich champaign,

  Stout Heracles his comrade, Phyleus fared;

  And soon as they had gained the paven road,

  Making their way hotfooted o’er a path

  (Not o’er-conspicuous in the dim green wood)

  That left the farm and threaded through the vines,

  Out-spake unto the child of Zeus most high,

  Who followed in his steps, Augéas’ son,

  O’er his right shoulder glancing pleasantly.

  “O stranger, as some old familiar tale

  I seem to cast thy history in my mind.

  For there came one to Argos, young and tall,

  By birth a Greek from Helicè-on-seas,

  Who told this tale before a multitude:

  How that an Argive in his presence slew

  A fearful lion-beast, the dread and death

  Of herdsmen; which inhabited a den

  Or cavern by the grove of Nemean Zeus.

  He may have come from sacred Argos’ self,

  Or Tiryns, or Mycenæ: what know I?

  But thus he told his tale, and said the slayer

  Was (if my memory serves me) Perseus’ son.

  Methinks no islander had dared that deed

  Save thee: the lion’s skin that wraps thy ribs

  Argues full well some gallant feat of arms.

  But tell me, warrior, first — that I may know

  If my prophetic soul speak truth or not —

  Art thou the man of whom that stranger Greek

  Spoke in my hearing? Have I guessed aright?

  How slew you single-handed that fell beast?

  How came it among rivered Nemea’s glens?

  For none such monster could the eagerest eye

  Find in all Greece: Greece harbours bear and boar,

  And deadly wolf: but not this larger game.

  ’Twas this that made his listeners marvel then:

  They deemed he told them travellers’ tales, to win

  By random words applause from standers-by.”

  Then Phyleus from the mid-road edged away,

  That both might walk abreast, and he might catch

  More at his ease what fell from Heracles:

  Who journeying now alongside thus began: —

  “On the prior matter, O Augéas’ child,

  Thine own unaided wit hath ruled aright.

  But all that monster’s history, how it fell,

  Fain would I tell thee who hast ears to hear,

  Save only whence it came: for n
one of all

  The Argive host could read that riddle right.

  Some god, we dimly guessed, our niggard vows

  Resenting, had upon Phoroneus’ realm

  Let loose this very scourge of humankind.

  On peopled Pisa plunging like a flood

  The brute ran riot: notably it cost

  Its neighbours of Bembina woes untold.

  And here Eurystheus bade me try my first

  Passage of arms, and slay that fearsome thing.

  So with my buxom bow and quiver lined

  With arrows I set forth: my left hand held

  My club, a beetling olive’s stalwart trunk

  And shapely, still environed in its bark:

  This hand had torn from holiest Helicon

  The tree entire, with all its fibrous roots.

  And finding soon the lion’s whereabouts,

  I grasped my bow, and on the bent horn slipped

  The string, and laid thereon the shaft of death.

  And, now all eyes, I watched for that fell thing,

  In hopes to view him ere he spied out me.

  But midday came, and nowhere could I see

  One footprint of the beast or hear his roar:

  And, trust me, none appeared of whom to ask,

  Herdsman or labourer, in the furrowed lea;

  For wan dismay kept each man in his hut.

  Still on I footed, searching through and through

  The leafy mountain-passes, till I saw

  The creature, and forthwith essayed my strength.

  Gorged from some gory carcass, on he stalked

  At eve towards his lair; his grizzled mane,

  Shoulders, and grim glad visage, all adrip

  With carnage; and he licked his bearded lips.

  I, crouched among the shadows of the trees

  On the green hill-top, waited his approach,

  And as he came I aimed at his left flank.

  The barbèd shaft sped idly, nor could pierce

  The flesh, but glancing dropped on the green grass.

  He, wondering, raised forthwith his tawny head,

  And ran his eyes o’er all the vicinage,

  And snarled and gave to view his cavernous throat.

  Meanwhile I levelled yet another shaft,

  Ill pleased to think my first had fled in vain.

  In the mid-chest I smote him, where the lungs

  Are seated: still the arrow sank not in,

  But fell, its errand frustrate, at his feet.

  Once more was I preparing, sore chagrined,

  To draw the bowstring, when the ravenous beast

  Glaring around espied me, lashed his sides

  With his huge tail, and opened war at once.

  Swelled his vast neck, his dun locks stood on end

  With rage: his spine moved sinuous as a bow,

  Till all his weight hung poised on flank and loin.

  And e’en as, when a chariot-builder bends

  With practised skill his shafts of splintered fig,

  Hot from the fire, to be his axle-wheels;

  Flies the tough-rinded sapling from the hands

  That shape it, at a bound recoiling far:

  So from far-off the dread beast, all of a heap,

  Sprang on me, hungering for my life-blood. I

  Thrust with one hand my arrows in his face

  And my doffed doublet, while the other raised

  My seasoned cudgel o’er his crest, and drave

  Full at his temples, breaking clean in twain

  On the fourfooted warrior’s airy scalp

  My club; and ere he reached me, down he fell.

  Headlong he fell, and poised on tremulous feet

  Stood, his head wagging, and his eyes grown dim;

  For the shrewd stroke had shattered brain and bone.

  I, marking him beside himself with pain.

  Fell, ere recovering he should breathe again,

  At vantage on his solid sinewy neck,

  My bow and woven quiver thrown aside.

  With iron clasp I gripped him from the rear

  (His talons else had torn me) and, my foot

  Set on him, forced to earth by dint of heel

  His hinder parts, my flanks entrenched the while

  Behind his fore-arm; till his thews were stretched

  And strained, and on his haunches stark he stood

  And lifeless; hell received his monstrous ghost.

  Then with myself I counselled how to strip

  From off the dead beast’s limbs his shaggy hide,

  A task full onerous, since I found it proof

  Against all blows of steel or stone or wood.

  Some god at last inspired me with the thought,

  With his own claws to rend the lion’s skin.

  With these I flayed him soon, and sheathed and armed

  My limbs against the shocks of murderous war.

  Thus, sir, the Nemean lion met his end,

  Erewhile the constant curse of beast and man.”

  IDYLL XXVI. The Bacchanals.

  Agavè of the vermeil-tinted cheek

  And Ino and Autonoä marshalled erst

  Three bands of revellers under one hill-peak.

  They plucked the wild-oak’s matted foliage first,

  Lush ivy then, and creeping asphodel;

  And reared therewith twelve shrines amid the untrodden fell:

  To Semelè three, to Dionysus nine.

  Next, from a vase drew offerings subtly wrought,

  And prayed and placed them on each fresh green shrine;

  So by the god, who loved such tribute, taught.

  Perched on the sheer cliff, Pentheus could espy

  All, in a mastick hoar ensconced that grew thereby.

  Autonoä marked him, and with, frightful cries

  Flew to make havoc of those mysteries weird

  That must not be profaned by vulgar eyes.

  Her frenzy frenzied all. Then Pentheus feared

  And fled: and in his wake those damsels three,

  Each with her trailing robe up-gathered to the knee.

  “What will ye, dames,” quoth Pentheus. “Thou shalt guess

  At what we mean, untold,” Autonoä said.

  Agavè moaned — so moans a lioness

  Over her young one — as she clutched his head:

  While Ino on the carcass fairly laid

  Her heel, and wrenched away shoulder and shoulder-blade.

  Autonoä’s turn came next: and what remained

  Of flesh their damsels did among them share,

  And back to Thebes they came all carnage-stained,

  And planted not a king but aching there.

  Warned by this tale, let no man dare defy

  Great Bacchus; lest a death more awful he should die,

  And when he counts nine years or scarcely ten,

  Rush to his ruin. May I pass my days

  Uprightly, and be loved of upright men!

  And take this motto, all who covet praise:

  (’Twas Ægis-bearing Zeus that spake it first:)

  ‘The godly seed fares well: the wicked’s is accurst.’

  Now bless ye Bacchus, whom on mountain snows,

  Prisoned in his thigh till then, the Almighty laid.

  And bless ye fairfaced Semelè, and those

  Her sisters, hymned of many a hero-maid,

  Who wrought, by Bacchus fired, a deed which none

  May gainsay — who shall blame that which a god hath done?

  IDYLL XXVII. A Countryman’s Wooing.

  DAPHNIS. A MAIDEN.

  THE MAIDEN.

  How fell sage Helen? through a swain like thee.

  DAPHNIS.

  Nay the true Helen’s just now kissing me.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Satyr, ne’er boast: ‘what’s idler than a kiss?’

  DAPHNIS.

  Yet in such pleasant idling there is bliss.

  T
HE MAIDEN.

  I’ll wash my mouth: where go thy kisses then?

  DAPHNIS.

  Wash, and return it — to be kissed again.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Go kiss your oxen, and not unwed maids.

  DAPHNIS.

  Ne’er boast; for beauty is a dream that fades.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Past grapes are grapes: dead roses keep their smell.

  DAPHNIS.

  Come to yon olives: I have a tale to tell.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Not I: you fooled me with smooth words before.

  DAPHNIS.

  Come to yon elms, and hear me pipe once more.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Pipe to yourself: your piping makes me cry.

  DAPHNIS.

  A maid, and flout the Paphian? Fie, oh fie!

  THE MAIDEN.

  She’s naught to me, if Artemis’ favour last.

  DAPHNIS.

  Hush, ere she smite you and entrap you fast.

  THE MAIDEN.

  And let her smite me, trap me as she will!

  DAPHNIS.

  Your Artemis shall be your saviour still?

  THE MAIDEN.

  Unhand me! What, again? I’ll tear your lip.

  DAPHNIS.

  Can you, could damsel e’er, give Love the slip?

  THE MAIDEN.

  You are his bondslave, but not I by Pan!

  DAPHNIS.

  I doubt he’ll give thee to a worser man.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Many have wooed me, but I fancied none.

  DAPHNIS.

  Till among many came the destined one.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Wedlock is woe. Dear lad, what can I do?

  DAPHNIS.

  Woe it is not, but joy and dancing too.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Wives dread their husbands: so I’ve heard it said.

  DAPHNIS.

  Nay, they rule o’er them. What does woman dread?

  THE MAIDEN.

  Then children — Eileithya’s dart is keen.

  DAPHNIS.

  But the deliverer, Artemis, is your queen.

  THE MAIDEN.

  And bearing children all our grace destroys.

  DAPHNIS.

  Bear them and shine more lustrous in your boys.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Should I say yea, what dower awaits me then?

  DAPHNIS.

  Thine are my cattle, thine this glade and glen.

  THE MAIDEN.

  Swear not to wed, then leave me in my woe?

  DAPHNIS.

  Not I by Pan, though thou should’st bid me go.

  THE MAIDEN.

  And shall a cot be mine, with farm and fold!

  DAPHNIS.

  Thy cot’s half-built, fair wethers range this wold.

  THE MAIDEN.

  What, what to my old father must I say?

  DAPHNIS.

  Soon as he hears my name he’ll not say nay.