Complete Works of Theocritus

by Theocritus

  Of his proper self bereavèd, Bacchus, unto thee we rear

  His brazen image here;

  We in Syracuse who sojourn, elsewhere born. Thus much we can

  Do for our countryman,

  Mindful of the debt we owe him. For, possessing ample store

  Of legendary lore,

  Many a wholesome word, to pilot youths and maids thro’ life, he spake:

  We honour him for their sake.

  XVIII. Epitaph of Cleita, Nurse of Medeius.

  The babe Medeius to his Thracian nurse

  This stone — inscribed To Cleita — reared in the midhighway.

  Her modest virtues oft shall men rehearse;

  Who doubts it? is not ‘Cleita’s worth’ a proverb to this day?

  XIX. To Archilochus.

  Pause, and scan well Archilochus, the bard of elder days,

  By east and west

  Alike’s confest

  The mighty lyrist’s praise.

  Delian Apollo loved him well, and well the sister-choir:

  His songs were fraught

  With subtle thought,

  And matchless was his lyre.

  XX. Under a statue of Peisander, who wrote the labours of Heracles.

  He whom ye gaze on was the first

  That in quaint song the deeds rehearsed

  Of him whose arm was swift to smite,

  Who dared the lion to the fight:

  That tale, so strange, so manifold,

  Peisander of Cameirus told.

  For this good work, thou may’st be sure,

  His country placed him here,

  In solid brass that shall endure

  Through many a month and year.

  XXI. Epitaph of Hipponax.

  Behold Hipponax’ burialplace,

  A true bard’s grave.

  Approach it not, if you’re a base

  And base-born knave.

  But if your sires were honest men

  And unblamed you,

  Sit down thereon serenely then,

  And eke sleep too.

  Tuneful Hipponax rests him here.

  Let no base rascal venture near.

  Ye who rank high in birth and mind

  Sit down — and sleep, if so inclined.

  XXII. On his own Book.

  Not my namesake of Chios, but I, who belong

  To the Syracuse burghers, have sung you my song.

  I’m Praxagoras’ son by Philinna the fair,

  And I never asked praise that was owing elsewhere.

  ANDREW LANG PROSE TRANSLATION, 1889

  Translated by Andrew Lang

  CONTENTS

  Idyls

  IDYL I

  IDYL II

  IDYL III

  IDYL IV

  IDYL V

  IDYL VI

  IDYL VII

  IDYL VIII

  IDYL IX

  IDYL X. THE REAPERS

  IDYL XI. THE CYCLOPS IN LOVE

  IDYL XII. THE PASSIONATE FRIEND

  IDYL XIII. HYLAS AND HERACLES

  IDYL XIV

  IDYL XV

  IDYL XVI

  IDYL XVII

  IDYL XVIII

  IDYL XIX

  IDYL XX

  IDYL XXI

  IDYL XXII. THE DIOSCURI

  IDYL XXIII. THE VENGEANCE OF LOVE

  IDYL XXIV. THE INFANT HERACLES

  IDYL XXV. HERACLES THE LION-SLAYER

  IDYL XXVI

  IDYL XXVII. THE WOOING OF DAPHNIS

  IDYL XXVIII

  IDYL XXIX

  FRAGMENT OF THE BERENICE.

  IDYL XXX. THE DEAD ADONIS

  Epigrams

  I. For a rustic Altar.

  II. For a Herdsman’s Offering.

  III. For a Picture.

  IV. Priapus.

  V. The rural Concert.

  VI. The Dead are beyond hope.

  VII. For a statue of Asclepius.

  VIII. Orthon’s Grave.

  IX. The Death of Cleonicus.

  X. A Group of the Muses.

  XI. The Grave of Eusthenes.

  XII. The Offering of Demoteles.

  XIII. For a statue of Aphrodite.

  XIV. The Grave of Euryrnedon.

  XV. The Grave of Eurymedon.

  XVI. For a statue of Anacreon.

  XVII. For a statue of Epicharmus.

  XVIII. The Grave of Cleita.

  XIX. The statue of Archilochus.

  XX. The statue of Pisander.

  XXI. The Grave of Hipponax.

  XXII. For the Bank of Caicus.

  XXIII. On his own Poems.

  Andrew Lang (1844-1912, the Scottish poet, novelist, literary critic, and contributor to the field of anthropology, best known as a collector of folk and fairy tales.

  Idyls

  IDYL I

  The shepherd Thyrsis meets a goatherd, in a shady place beside a spring, and at his invitation sings the Song of Daphnis. This ideal hero of Greek pastoral song had won for his bride the fairest of the Nymphs. Confident in the strength of his passion, he boasted that Love could never subdue him to a new question. Love avenged himself by making Daphnis desire a strange maiden, but to this temptation he never yielded, and so died a constant lover. The song tells how the cattle and the wild things of the wood bewailed him, how Hermes and Priapus gave him counsel in vain, and how with his last breath he retorted the taunts of the implacable Aphrodite.

  The scene is in Sicily.

  Thyrsis. Sweet, meseems, is the whispering sound of yonder pine tree, goatherd, that murmureth by the wells of water; and sweet are thy pipings. After Pan the second prize shalt thou bear away, and if he take the horned goat, the she-goat shalt thou win; but if he choose the she-goat for his meed, the kid falls to thee, and dainty is the flesh of kids e’er the age when thou milkest them.

  The Goatherd. Sweeter, O shepherd, is thy song than the music of yonder water that is poured from the high face of the rock! Yea, if the Muses take the young ewe for their gift, a stall-fed lamb shalt thou receive for thy meed; but if it please them to take the lamb, thou shalt lead away the ewe for the second prize.

  Thyrsis. Wilt thou, goatherd, in the nymphs’ name, wilt thou sit thee down here, among the tamarisks, on this sloping knoll, and pipe while in this place I watch thy flocks?

  Goatherd. Nay, shepherd, it may not be; we may not pipe in the noontide. ’Tis Pan we dread, who truly at this hour rests weary from the chase; and bitter of mood is he, the keen wrath sitting ever at his nostrils. But, Thyrsis, for that thou surely wert wont to sing The Affliction of Daphnis, and hast most deeply meditated the pastoral muse, come hither, and beneath yonder elm let us sit down, in face of Priapus and the fountain fairies, where is that resting-place of the shepherds, and where the oak trees are. Ah! if thou wilt but sing as on that day thou sangest in thy match with Chromis out of Libya, I will let thee milk, ay, three times, a goat that is the mother of twins, and even when she has suckled her kids her milk doth fill two pails. A deep bowl of ivy-wood, too, I will give thee, rubbed with sweet bees’-wax, a twy-eared bowl newly wrought, smacking still of the knife of the graver. Round its upper edges goes the ivy winding, ivy besprent with golden flowers; and about it is a tendril twisted that joys in its saffron fruit. Within is designed a maiden, as fair a thing as the gods could fashion, arrayed in a sweeping robe, and a snood on her head. Beside her two youths with fair love-locks are contending from either side, with alternate speech, but her heart thereby is all untouched. And now on one she glances, smiling, and anon she lightly flings the other a thought, while by reason of the long vigils of love their eyes are heavy, but their labour is all in vain.

  Beyond these an ancient fisherman and a rock are fashioned, a rugged rock, whereon with might and main the old man drags a great net for his cast, as one that labours stoutly. Thou wouldst say that he is fishing with all the might of his limbs, so big the sinews swell all about his neck, grey-haired though he be, but his strength is as the strength of youth.
Now divided but a little space from the sea-worn old man is a vineyard laden well with fire-red clusters, and on the rough wall a little lad watches the vineyard, sitting there. Round him two she-foxes are skulking, and one goes along the vine-rows to devour the ripe grapes, and the other brings all her cunning to bear against the scrip, and vows she will never leave the lad, till she strand him bare and breakfastless. But the boy is plaiting a pretty locust-cage with stalks of asphodel, and fitting it with reeds, and less care of his scrip has he, and of the vines, than delight in his plaiting.

  All about the cup is spread the soft acanthus, a miracle of varied work, a thing for thee to marvel on. For this bowl I paid to a Calydonian ferryman a goat and a great white cream cheese. Never has its lip touched mine, but it still lies maiden for me. Gladly with this cup would I gain thee to my desire, if thou, my friend, wilt sing me that delightful song. Nay, I grudge it thee not at all. Begin, my friend, for be sure thou canst in no wise carry thy song with thee to Hades, that puts all things out of mind!

  The Song of Thyrsis.

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! Thyrsis of Etna am I, and this is the voice of Thyrsis. Where, ah! where were ye when Daphnis was languishing; ye Nymphs, where were ye? By Peneus’s beautiful dells, or by dells of Pindus? for surely ye dwelt not by the great stream of the river Anapus, nor on the watch-tower of Etna, nor by the sacred water of Acis.

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  For him the jackals, for him the wolves did cry; for him did even the lion out of the forest lament. Kine and bulls by his feet right many, and heifers plenty, with the young calves bewailed him.

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  Came Hermes first from the hill, and said, ‘Daphnis, who is it that torments thee; child, whom dost thou love with so great desire?’ The neatherds came, and the shepherds; the goatherds came: all they asked what ailed him. Came also Priapus, —

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  And said: ‘Unhappy Daphnis, wherefore dost thou languish, while for thee the maiden by all the fountains, through all the glades is fleeting, in search of thee? Ah! thou art too laggard a lover, and thou nothing availest! A neatherd wert thou named, and now thou art like the goatherd:

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  ‘For the goatherd, when he marks the young goats at their pastime, looks on with yearning eyes, and fain would be even as they; and thou, when thou beholdest the laughter of maidens, dost gaze with yearning eyes, for that thou dost not join their dances.’

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  Yet these the herdsman answered not again, but he bare his bitter love to the end, yea, to the fated end he bare it.

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  Ay, but she too came, the sweetly smiling Cypris, craftily smiling she came, yet keeping her heavy anger; and she spake, saying: ‘Daphnis, methinks thou didst boast that thou wouldst throw Love a fall, nay, is it not thyself that hast been thrown by grievous Love?’

  Begin ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  But to her Daphnis answered again: ‘Implacable Cypris, Cypris terrible, Cypris of mortals detested, already dost thou deem that my latest sun has set; nay, Daphnis even in Hades shall prove great sorrow to Love.

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  ‘Where it is told how the herdsman with Cypris — Get thee to Ida, get thee to Anchises! There are oak trees — here only galingale blows, here sweetly hum the bees about the hives!

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  ‘Thine Adonis, too, is in his bloom, for he herds the sheep and slays the hares, and he chases all the wild beasts. Nay, go and confront Diomedes again, and say, “The herdsman Daphnis I conquered, do thou join battle with me.”

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  ‘Ye wolves, ye jackals, and ye bears in the mountain caves, farewell! The herdsman Daphnis ye never shall see again, no more in the dells, no more in the groves, no more in the woodlands. Farewell Arethusa, ye rivers, good-night, that pour down Thymbris your beautiful waters.

  Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!

  ‘That Daphnis am I who here do herd the kine, Daphnis who water here the bulls and calves.

  ‘O Pan, Pan! whether thou art on the high hills of Lycaeus, or rangest mighty Maenalus, haste hither to the Sicilian isle! Leave the tomb of Helice, leave that high cairn of the son of Lycaon, which seems wondrous fair, even in the eyes of the blessed.

  Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral song!

  ‘Come hither, my prince, and take this fair pipe, honey-breathed with wax-stopped joints; and well it fits thy lip: for verily I, even I, by Love am now haled to Hades.

  Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral song!

  ‘Now violets bear, ye brambles, ye thorns bear violets; and let fair narcissus bloom on the boughs of juniper! Let all things with all be confounded, — from pines let men gather pears, for Daphnis is dying! Let the stag drag down the hounds, let owls from the hills contend in song with the nightingales.’

  Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral song!

  So Daphnis spake, and ended; but fain would Aphrodite have given him back to life. Nay, spun was all the thread that the Fates assigned, and Daphnis went down the stream. The whirling wave closed over the man the Muses loved, the man not hated of the nymphs.

  Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral song!

  And thou, give me the bowl, and the she-goat, that I may milk her and poor forth a libation to the Muses. Farewell, oh, farewells manifold, ye Muses, and I, some future day, will sing you yet a sweeter song.

  The Goatherd. Filled may thy fair mouth be with honey, Thyrsis, and filled with the honeycomb; and the sweet dried fig mayst thou eat of Aegilus, for thou vanquishest the cicala in song! Lo here is thy cup, see, my friend, of how pleasant a savour! Thou wilt think it has been dipped in the well-spring of the Hours. Hither, hither, Cissaetha: do thou milk her, Thyrsis. And you young she-goats, wanton not so wildly lest you bring up the he-goat against you.

  IDYL II

  Simaetha, madly in love with Delphis, who has forsaken her, endeavours to subdue him to her by magic, and by invoking the Moon, in her character of Hecate, and of Selene. She tells the tale of the growth of her passion, and vows vengeance if her magic arts are unsuccessful.

  The scene is probably some garden beneath the moonlit shy, near the town, and within sound of the sea. The characters are Simaetha, and Thestylis, her handmaid.

  Where are my laurel leaves? come, bring them, Thestylis; and where are the love-charms? Wreath the bowl with bright-red wool, that I may knit the witch-knots against my grievous lover, who for twelve days, oh cruel, has never come hither, nor knows whether I am alive or dead, nor has once knocked at my door, unkind that he is! Hath Love flown off with his light desires by some other path — Love and Aphrodite? To-morrow I will go to the wrestling school of Timagetus, to see my love and to reproach him with all the wrong he is doing me. But now I will bewitch him with my enchantments! Do thou, Selene, shine clear and fair, for softly, Goddess, to thee will I sing, and to Hecate of hell. The very whelps shiver before her as she fares through black blood and across the barrows of the dead.

  Hail, awful Hecate! to the end be thou of our company, and make this medicine of mine no weaker than the spells of Circe, or of Medea, or of Perimede of the golden hair.

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  Lo, how the barley grain first smoulders in the fire, — nay, toss on the barley, Thestylis! Miserable maid, where are thy wits wandering? Even to thee, wretched that I am, have I become a laughing-stock, even to thee? Scatter the grain, and cry thus the while, ‘’Tis the bones of Delphis I am scattering!’

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  Delphis troubled me, and
I against Delphis am burning this laurel; and even as it crackles loudly when it has caught the flame, and suddenly is burned up, and we see not even the dust thereof, lo, even thus may the flesh of Delphis waste in the burning!

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  Even as I melt this wax, with the god to aid, so speedily may he by love be molten, the Myndian Delphis! And as whirls this brazen wheel, so restless, under Aphrodite’s spell, may he turn and turn about my doors.

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  Now will I burn the husks, and thou, O Artemis, hast power to move hell’s adamantine gates, and all else that is as stubborn. Thestylis, hark, ’tis so; the hounds are baying up and down the town! The Goddess stands where the three ways meet! Hasten, and clash the brazen cymbals.

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  Lo, silent is the deep, and silent the winds, but never silent the torment in my breast. Nay, I am all on fire for him that made me, miserable me, no wife but a shameful thing, a girl no more a maiden.

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  Three times do I pour libation, and thrice, my Lady Moon, I speak this spell: — Be it with a friend that he lingers, be it with a leman he lies, may he as clean forget them as Theseus, of old, in Dia — so legends tell — did utterly forget the fair-tressed Ariadne.

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  Coltsfoot is an Arcadian weed that maddens, on the hills, the young stallions and fleet-footed mares. Ah! even as these may I see Delphis; and to this house of mine, may he speed like a madman, leaving the bright palaestra.

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  This fringe from his cloak Delphis lost; that now I shred and cast into the cruel flame. Ah, ah, thou torturing Love, why clingest thou to me like a leech of the fen, and drainest all the black blood from my body?

  My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I love!

  Lo, I will crush an eft, and a venomous draught to-morrow I will bring thee!