Part 8 (1/2)

So sang the lads; and the goatherd thus bespoke them, 'Sweet is thy mouth, O Daphnis, and delectable thy song! Better is it to listen to thy singing, than to taste the honeycomb. Take thou the pipe, for thou hast conquered in the singing match. Ah, if thou wilt but teach some lay, even to me, as I tend the goats beside thee, this blunt- horned she-goat will I give thee, for the price of thy teaching, this she-goat that ever fills the milking pail above the brim.'

Then was the boy as glad,--and leaped high, and clapped his hands over his victory,--as a young fawn leaps about his mother.

But the heart of the other was wasted with grief, and desolate, even as a maiden sorrows that is newly wed.

From this time Daphnis became the foremost among the shepherds, and while yet in his earliest youth, he wedded the nymph Nais.

IDYL IX

Daphnis and Menalcas, at the bidding of the poet, sing the joys of the neatherds and of the shepherds life. Both receive the thanks of the poet, and rustic prizes--a staff and a horn, made of a spiral sh.e.l.l. Doubts have been expressed as to the authenticity of the prelude and concluding verses. The latter breathe all Theocritus's enthusiastic love of song.

Sing, Daphnis, a pastoral lay, do thou first begin the song, the song begin, O Daphnis; but let Menalcas join in the strain, when ye have mated the heifers and their calves, the barren kine and the bulls.

Let them all pasture together, let them wander in the coppice, but never leave the herd. Chant thou for me, first, and on the other side let Menalcas reply.

Daphnis. Ah, sweetly lows the calf, and sweetly the heifer, sweetly sounds the neatherd with his pipe, and sweetly also I! My bed of leaves is strown by the cool water, and thereon are heaped fair skins from the white calves that were all browsing upon the arbutus, on a time, when the south-west wind dashed me them from the height.

And thus I heed no more the scorching summer, than a lover cares to heed the words of father or of mother.

So Daphnis sang to me, and thus, in turn, did Menalcas sing.

Menalcas. Aetna, mother mine, I too dwell in a beautiful cavern in the chamber of the rock, and, lo, all the wealth have I that we behold in dreams; ewes in plenty and she-goats abundant, their fleeces are strown beneath my head and feet. In the fire of oak- f.a.ggots puddings are hissing-hot, and dry beech-nuts roast therein, in the wintry weather, and, truly, for the winter season I care not even so much as a toothless man does for walnuts, when rich pottage is beside him.

Then I clapped my hands in their honour, and instantly gave each a gift, to Daphnis a staff that grew in my father's close, self-shapen, yet so straight, that perchance even a craftsman could have found no fault in it. To the other I gave a goodly spiral sh.e.l.l, the meat that filled it once I had eaten after stalking the fish on the Icarian rocks (I cut it into five shares for five of us),--and Menalcas blew a blast on the sh.e.l.l.

Ye pastoral Muses, farewell! Bring ye into the light the song that I sang there to these shepherds on that day! Never let the pimple grow on my tongue-tip. {53}

Cicala to cicala is dear, and ant to ant, and hawks to hawks, but to me the Muse and song. Of song may all my dwelling be full, for sleep is not more sweet, nor sudden spring, nor flowers are more delicious to the bees--so dear to me are the Muses. {54} Whom they look on in happy hour, Circe hath never harmed with her enchanted potion.

IDYL X--THE REAPERS

This is an idyl of the same genre as Idyl IV. The st.u.r.dy reaper, Milon, as he levels the swathes of corn, derides his languid and love-worn companion, b.u.t.tus. The latter defends his gipsy love in verses which have been the keynote of much later poetry, and which echo in the fourth book of Lucretius, and in the Misanthrope of Moliere. Milon replies with the song of Lityerses--a string, apparently, of popular rural couplets, such as Theocritus may have heard chanted in the fields.

Milan. Thou toilsome clod; what ails thee now, thou wretched fellow?

Canst thou neither cut thy swathe straight, as thou wert wont to do, nor keep time with thy neighbour in thy reaping, but thou must fall out, like an ewe that is foot-p.r.i.c.ked with a thorn and straggles from the herd? What manner of man wilt thou prove after mid-noon, and at evening, thou that dost not prosper with thy swathe when thou art fresh begun?

Battus. Milon, thou that canst toil till late, thou chip of the stubborn stone, has it never befallen thee to long for one that was not with thee?

Milan. Never! What has a labouring man to do with hankering after what he has not got?

Battus. Then it never befell thee to lie awake for love?

Milan. Forbid it; 'tis an ill thing to let the dog once taste of pudding.

Battus. But I, Milon, am in love for almost eleven days!