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  My hornèd ewes: in Sybaris’ fount to-morrow all shall dip.

  Ho! you, sir, with the glossy coat and dangerous crest; you dare

  Look at a ewe, till I have slain my lamb, and ill you’ll fare.

  What! is he at his tricks again? He is, and he will get

  (Or my name’s not Cometas) a proper pounding yet.

  IDYLL VI. The Drawn Battle.

  DAPHNIS. DAMOETAS.

  Daphnis the herdsman and Damoetas once

  Had driven, Aratus, to the selfsame glen.

  One chin was yellowing, one shewed half a beard.

  And by a brookside on a summer noon

  The pair sat down and sang; but Daphnis led

  The song, for Daphnis was the challenger.

  DAPHNIS.

  “See! Galatea pelts thy flock with fruit,

  And calls their master ‘Lack-love,’ Polypheme.

  Thou mark’st her not, blind, blind, but pipest aye

  Thy wood-notes. See again, she smites thy dog:

  Sea-ward the fleeced flocks’ sentinel peers and barks,

  And, through the clear wave visible to her still,

  Careers along the gently babbling beach.

  Look that he leap not on the maid new-risen

  From her sea-bath and rend her dainty limbs.

  She fools thee, near or far, like thistle-waifs

  In hot sweet summer: flies from thee when wooed,

  Unwooed pursues thee: risks all moves to win;

  For, Polypheme, things foul seem fair to Love.”

  And then, due prelude made, Damoetas sang.

  DAMOETAS.

  “I marked her pelt my dog, I was not blind,

  By Pan, by this my one my precious eye

  That bounds my vision now and evermore!

  But Telemus the Seer, be his the woe,

  His and his children’s, that he promised me!

  Yet do I too tease her; I pass her by,

  Pretend to woo another: — and she hears

  (Heaven help me!) and is faint with jealousy;

  And hurrying from the sea-wave as if stung,

  Scans with keen glance my grotto and my flock.

  ’Twas I hissed on the dog to bark at her;

  For, when I loved her, he would whine and lay

  His muzzle in her lap. These things she’ll note

  Mayhap, and message send on message soon:

  But I will bar my door until she swear

  To make me on this isle fair bridal-bed.

  And I am less unlovely than men say.

  I looked into the mere (the mere was calm),

  And goodly seemed my beard, and goodly seemed

  My solitary eye, and, half-revealed,

  My teeth gleamed whiter than the Parian marl.

  Thrice for good luck I spat upon my robe:

  That learned I of the hag Cottytaris — her

  Who fluted lately with Hippocoön’s mowers.”

  Damoetas then kissed Daphnis lovingly:

  One gave a pipe and one a goodly flute.

  Straight to the shepherd’s flute and herdsman’s pipe

  The younglings bounded in the soft green grass:

  And neither was o’ermatched, but matchless both.

  IDYLL VII. Harvest-Home.

  Once on a time did Eucritus and I

  (With us Amyntas) to the riverside

  Steal from the city. For Lycopeus’ sons

  Were that day busy with the harvest-home,

  Antigenes and Phrasidemus, sprung

  (If aught thou holdest by the good old names)

  By Clytia from great Chalcon — him who erst

  Planted one stalwart knee against the rock,

  And lo, beneath his foot Burinè’s rill

  Brake forth, and at its side poplar and elm

  Shewed aisles of pleasant shadow, greenly roofed

  By tufted leaves. Scarce midway were we now,

  Nor yet descried the tomb of Brasilas:

  When, thanks be to the Muses, there drew near

  A wayfarer from Crete, young Lycidas.

  The horned herd was his care: a glance might tell

  So much: for every inch a herdsman he.

  Slung o’er his shoulder was a ruddy hide

  Torn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,

  That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt clasped

  A patched cloak round his breast, and for a staff

  A gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.

  Soon with a quiet smile he spoke — his eye

  Twinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:

  “And whither ploddest thou thy weary way

  Beneath the noontide sun, Simichidas?

  For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,

  The crested lark folds now his wandering wing.

  Dost speed, a bidden guest, to some reveller’s board?

  Or townward to the treading of the grape?

  For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feet

  The pavement-stones ring out right merrily.”

  Then I: “Friend Lycid, all men say that none

  Of haymakers or herdsmen is thy match

  At piping: and my soul is glad thereat.

  Yet, to speak sooth, I think to rival thee.

  Now look, this road holds holiday to-day:

  For banded brethren solemnise a feast

  To richly-dight Demeter, thanking her

  For her good gifts: since with no grudging hand

  Hath the boon goddess filled the wheaten floors.

  So come: the way, the day, is thine as mine:

  Try we our woodcraft — each may learn from each.

  I am, as thou, a clarion-voice of song;

  All hail me chief of minstrels. But I am not,

  Heaven knows, o’ercredulous: no, I scarce can yet

  (I think) outvie Philetas, nor the bard

  Of Samos, champion of Sicilian song.

  They are as cicadas challenged by a frog.”

  I spake to gain mine ends; and laughing light

  He said: “Accept this club, as thou’rt indeed

  A born truth-teller, shaped by heaven’s own hand!

  I hate your builders who would rear a house

  High as Oromedon’s mountain-pinnacle:

  I hate your song-birds too, whose cuckoo-cry

  Struggles (in vain) to match the Chian bard.

  But come, we’ll sing forthwith, Simichidas,

  Our woodland music: and for my part I —

  List, comrade, if you like the simple air

  I forged among the uplands yesterday.

  [Sings] Safe be my true-love convoyed o’er the main

  To Mitylenè — though the southern blast

  Chase the lithe waves, while westward slant the Kids,

  Or low above the verge Orion stand —

  If from Love’s furnace she will rescue me,

  For Lycidas is parched with hot desire.

  Let halcyons lay the sea-waves and the winds,

  Northwind and Westwind, that in shores far-off

  Flutters the seaweed — halcyons, of all birds

  Whose prey is on the waters, held most dear

  By the green Nereids: yea let all things smile

  On her to Mitylenè voyaging,

  And in fair harbour may she ride at last.

  I on that day, a chaplet woven of dill

  Or rose or simple violet on my brow,

  Will draw the wine of Pteleas from the cask

  Stretched by the ingle. They shall roast me beans,

  And elbow-deep in thyme and asphodel

  And quaintly-curling parsley shall be piled

  My bed of rushes, where in royal ease

  I sit and, thinking of my darling, drain

  With stedfast lip the liquor to the dregs.

  I’ll have a pair of pipers, shepherds both,

  This from Acharnæ, from Lycopè that;

  And Tityrus shall be nea
r me and shall sing

  How the swain Daphnis loved the stranger-maid;

  And how he ranged the fells, and how the oaks

  (Such oaks as Himera’s banks are green withal)

  Sang dirges o’er him waning fast away

  Like snow on Athos, or on Hæmus high,

  Or Rhodopè, or utmost Caucasus.

  And he shall sing me how the big chest held

  (All through the maniac malice of his lord)

  A living goatherd: how the round-faced bees,

  Lured from their meadow by the cedar-smell,

  Fed him with daintiest flowers, because the Muse

  Had made his throat a well-spring of sweet song.

  Happy Cometas, this sweet lot was thine!

  Thee the chest prisoned, for thee the honey-bees

  Toiled, as thou slavedst out the mellowing year:

  And oh hadst thou been numbered with the quick

  In my day! I had led thy pretty goats

  About the hill-side, listening to thy voice:

  While thou hadst lain thee down ‘neath oak or pine,

  Divine Cometas, warbling pleasantly.”

  He spake and paused; and thereupon spake I.

  “I too, friend Lycid, as I ranged the fells,

  Have learned much lore and pleasant from the Nymphs,

  Whose fame mayhap hath reached the throne of Zeus.

  But this wherewith I’ll grace thee ranks the first:

  Thou listen, since the Muses like thee well.

  [Sings] On me the young Loves sneezed: for hapless I

  Am fain of Myrto as the goats of Spring.

  But my best friend Aratus inly pines

  For one who loves him not. Aristis saw —

  (A wondrous seer is he, whose lute and lay

  Shrinèd Apollo’s self would scarce disdain) —

  How love had scorched Aratus to the bone.

  O Pan, who hauntest Homolè’s fair champaign,

  Bring the soft charmer, whosoe’er it be,

  Unbid to his sweet arms — so, gracious Pan,

  May ne’er thy ribs and shoulderblades be lashed

  With squills by young Arcadians, whensoe’er

  They are scant of supper! But should this my prayer

  Mislike thee, then on nettles mayest thou sleep,

  Dinted and sore all over from their claws!

  Then mayest thou lodge amid Edonian hills

  By Hebrus, in midwinter; there subsist,

  The Bear thy neighbour: and, in summer, range

  With the far Æthiops ‘neath the Blemmyan rocks

  Where Nile is no more seen! But O ye Loves,

  Whose cheeks are like pink apples, quit your homes

  By Hyetis, or Byblis’ pleasant rill,

  Or fair Dionè’s rocky pedestal,

  And strike that fair one with your arrows, strike

  The ill-starred damsel who disdains my friend.

  And lo, what is she but an o’er-ripe pear?

  The girls all cry ‘Her bloom is on the wane.’

  We’ll watch, Aratus, at that porch no more,

  Nor waste shoe-leather: let the morning cock

  Crow to wake others up to numb despair!

  Let Molon, and none else, that ordeal brave:

  While we make ease our study, and secure

  Some witch, to charm all evil from our door.”

  I ceased. He smiling sweetly as before,

  Gave me the staff, ‘the Muses’ parting gift,’

  And leftward sloped toward Pyxa. We the while,

  Bent us to Phrasydeme’s, Eucritus and I,

  And baby-faced Amyntas: there we lay

  Half-buried in a couch of fragrant reed

  And fresh-cut vineleaves, who so glad as we?

  A wealth of elm and poplar shook o’erhead;

  Hard by, a sacred spring flowed gurgling on

  From the Nymphs’ grot, and in the sombre boughs

  The sweet cicada chirped laboriously.

  Hid in the thick thorn-bushes far away

  The treefrog’s note was heard; the crested lark

  Sang with the goldfinch; turtles made their moan,

  And o’er the fountain hung the gilded bee.

  All of rich summer smacked, of autumn all:

  Pears at our feet, and apples at our side

  Rolled in luxuriance; branches on the ground

  Sprawled, overweighed with damsons; while we brushed

  From the cask’s head the crust of four long years.

  Say, ye who dwell upon Parnassian peaks,

  Nymphs of Castalia, did old Chiron e’er

  Set before Heracles a cup so brave

  In Pholus’ cavern — did as nectarous draughts

  Cause that Anapian shepherd, in whose hand

  Rocks were as pebbles, Polypheme the strong,

  Featly to foot it o’er the cottage lawns: —

  As, ladies, ye bid flow that day for us

  All by Demeter’s shrine at harvest-home?

  Beside whose cornstacks may I oft again

  Plant my broad fan: while she stands by and smiles,

  Poppies and cornsheaves on each laden arm.

  IDYLL VIII. The Triumph of Daphnis.

  DAPHNIS. MENALCAS. A GOATHERD.

  Daphnis, the gentle herdsman, met once, as legend tells,

  Menalcas making with his flock the circle of the fells.

  Both chins were gilt with coming beards: both lads could sing and play:

  Menalcas glanced at Daphnis, and thus was heard to say: —

  “Art thou for singing, Daphnis, lord of the lowing kine?

  I say my songs are better, by what thou wilt, than thine.”

  Then in his turn spake Daphnis, and thus he made reply:

  “O shepherd of the fleecy flock, thou pipest clear and high;

  But come what will, Menalcas, thou ne’er wilt sing as I.”

  MENALCAS.

  This art thou fain to ascertain, and risk a bet with me?

  DAPHNIS.

  This I full fain would ascertain, and risk a bet with thee.

  MENALCAS.

  But what, for champions such as we, would, seem a fitting prize?

  DAPHNIS.

  I stake a calf: stake thou a lamb, its mother’s self in size.

  MENALCAS.

  A lamb I’ll venture never: for aye at close of day

  Father and mother count the flock, and passing strict are they.

  DAPHNIS.

  Then what shall be the victor’s fee? What wager wilt thou lay?

  MENALCAS.

  A pipe discoursing through nine mouths I made, full fair to view;

  The wax is white thereon, the line of this and that edge true.

  I’ll risk it: risk my father’s own is more than I dare do.

  DAPHNIS.

  A pipe discoursing through nine mouths, and fair, hath Daphnis too:

  The wax is white thereon, the line of this and that edge true.

  But yesterday I made it: this finger feels the pain

  Still, where indeed the rifted reed hath cut it clean in twain.

  But who shall be our umpire? who listen to our strain?

  MENALCAS.

  Suppose we hail yon goatherd; him at whose horned herd now

  The dog is barking — yonder dog with white upon his brow.

  Then out they called: the goatherd marked them, and up came he;

  Then out they sang; the goatherd their umpire fain would be.

  To shrill Menalcas’ lot it fell to start the woodland lay:

  Then Daphnis took it up. And thus Menalcas led the way.

  MENALCAS.

  “Rivers and vales, a glorious birth! Oh if Menalcas e’er

  Piped aught of pleasant music in your ears:

  Then pasture, nothing loth, his lambs; and let young Daphnis fare

  No worse, should he stray hither with his steers.”

  DAPHNIS.

  “Pastures an
d rills, a bounteous race! If Daphnis sang you e’er

  Such songs as ne’er from nightingale have flowed;

  Then to his herd your fatness lend; and let Menalcas share

  Like boon, should e’er he wend along this road.”

  MENALCAS.

  “’Tis spring, ’tis greenness everywhere; with milk the udders teem,

  And all things that are young have life anew,

  Where my sweet maiden wanders: but parched and withered seem,

  When she departeth, lawn and shepherd too.”

  DAPHNIS.

  “Fat are the sheep, the goats bear twins, the hives are thronged with

  bees,

  Rises the oak beyond his natural growth,

  Where falls my darling’s footstep: but hungriness shall seize,

  When she departeth, herd and herdsman both.”

  MENALCAS.

  “Come, ram, with thy blunt-muzzled kids and sleek wives at thy side,

  Where winds the brook by woodlands myriad-deep:

  There is her haunt. Go, Stump-horn, tell her how Proteus plied

  (A god) the shepherd’s trade, with seals for sheep.”

  DAPHNIS.

  “I ask not gold, I ask not the broad lands of a king;

  I ask not to be fleeter than the breeze;

  But ‘neath this steep to watch my sheep, feeding as one, and fling

  (Still clasping her) my carol o’er the seas.”

  MENALCAS.

  “Storms are the fruit-tree’s bane; the brook’s, a summer hot and dry;

  The stag’s a woven net, a gin the dove’s;

  Mankind’s, a soft sweet maiden. Others have pined ere I:

  Zeus! Father! hadst not thou thy lady-loves?”

  Thus far, in alternating strains, the lads their woes rehearst:

  Then each one gave a closing stave. Thus sang Menalcas first: —

  MENALCAS.

  “O spare, good wolf, my weanlings! their milky mothers spare!

  Harm not the little lad that hath so many in his care!

  What, Firefly, is thy sleep so deep? It ill befits a hound,

  Tending a boyish master’s flock, to slumber over-sound.

  And, wethers, of this tender grass take, nothing coy, your fill:

  So, when it comes, the after-math shall find you feeding still.

  So! so! graze on, that ye be full, that not an udder fail:

  Part of the milk shall rear the lambs, and part shall fill my pail.”

  Then Daphnis flung a carol out, as of a nightingale: —

  DAPHNIS.

  “Me from her grot but yesterday a girl of haughty brow

  Spied as I passed her with my kine, and said, “How fair art thou!”

  I vow that not one bitter word in answer did I say,