Theocritus Part 9

I loved thee, maiden, when thou cam'st long since, To pluck the hyacinth-blossom on the fell, Thou and my mother, piloted by me.

I saw thee, see thee still, from that day forth For ever; but 'tis naught, ay naught, to thee.

I know, sweet maiden, why thou art so coy: s.h.a.ggy and huge, a single eyebrow spans From ear to ear my forehead, whence one eye Gleams, and an o'erbroad nostril tops my lip.

Yet I, this monster, feed a thousand sheep That yield me sweetest draughts at milking-tide: In summer, autumn, or midwinter, still Fails not my cheese; my milkpail aye o'erflows.

Then I can pipe as ne'er did Giant yet, Singing our loves--ours, honey, thine and mine-- At dead of night: and hinds I rear eleven (Each with her fawn) and bearcubs four, for thee.

Oh come to me--thou shalt not rue the day-- And let the mad seas beat against the sh.o.r.e!

'Twere sweet to haunt my cave the livelong night: Laurel, and cypress tall, and ivy dun, And vines of sumptuous fruitage, all are there: And a cold spring that pine-clad aetna flings Down from, the white snow's midst, a draught for G.o.ds!

Who would not change for this the ocean-waves?

"But thou mislik'st my hair? Well, oaken logs Are here, and embers yet aglow with fire.

Burn (if thou wilt) my heart out, and mine eye, Mine only eye wherein is my delight.

Oh why was I not born a finny thing, To float unto thy side and kiss thy hand, Denied thy lips--and bring thee lilies white And crimson-petalled poppies' dainty bloom!

Nay--summer hath his flowers and autumn his; I could not bring all these the selfsame day.

Lo, should some mariner hither oar his road, Sweet, he shall teach me straightway how to swim, That haply I may learn what bliss ye find In your sea-homes. O Galatea, come Forth from yon waves, and coming forth forget (As I do, sitting here) to get thee home: And feed my flocks and milk them, nothing loth, And pour the rennet in to fix my cheese!

"The blame's my mother's; she is false to me; Spake thee ne'er yet one sweet word for my sake, Though day by day she sees me pine and pine.

I'll feign strange throbbings in my head and feet To anguish her--as I am anguished now."

O Cyclops, Cyclops, where are flown thy wits?

Go plait rush-baskets, lop the olive-boughs To feed thy lambkins--'twere the shrewder part.

Chase not the recreant, milk the willing ewe: The world hath Galateas fairer yet.

"--Many a fair damsel bids me sport with her The livelong night, and smiles if I give ear.

On land at least I still am somebody."

Thus did the Giant feed his love on song, And gained more ease than may be bought with gold.

IDYLL XII.

The Comrades

Thou art come, lad, come! Scarce thrice hath dusk to day Given place--but lovers in an hour grow gray.

As spring's more sweet than winter, grapes than thorns, The ewe's fleece richer than her latest-born's; As young girls' charms the thrice-wed wife's outs.h.i.+ne, As fawns are lither than the ungainly kine, Or as the nightingale's clear notes outvie The mingled music of all birds that fly; So at thy coming pa.s.sing glad was I.

I ran to greet thee e'en as pilgrims run To beechen shadows from the scorching sun: Oh if on us accordant Loves would breathe, And our two names to future years bequeath!

'These twain'--let men say--'lived in olden days.

This was a _yokel_ (in their country-phrase), That was his _mate_ (so talked these simple folk): And lovingly they bore a mutual yoke.

The hearts of men were made of sterling gold, When troth met troth, in those brave days of old,'

O Zeus, O G.o.ds who age not nor decay!

Let e'en two hundred ages roll away, But at the last these tidings let me learn, Borne o'er the fatal pool whence none return:-- "By every tongue thy constancy is sung, Thine and thy favourite's--chiefly by the young."

But lo, the future is in heaven's high hand: Meanwhile thy graces all my praise demand, Not false lip-praise, not idly bubbling froth-- For though thy wrath be kindled, e'en thy wrath Hath no sting in it: doubly I am caressed, And go my way repaid with interest.

Oarsmen of Megara, ruled by Nisus erst!

Yours be all bliss, because ye honoured first That true child-lover, Attic Diocles.

Around his gravestone with the first spring-breeze Flock the bairns all, to win the kissing-prize: And whoso sweetliest lip to lip applies Goes crown-clad home to its mother. Blest is he Who in such strife is named the referee: To brightfaced Ganymede full oft he'll cry To lend his lip the potencies that lie Within that stone with which the usurers Detect base metal, and which never errs.

IDYLL XIII.

Hylas.

Not for us only, Nicias, (vain the dream,) Sprung from what G.o.d soe'er, was Eros born: Not to us only grace doth graceful seem, Frail things who wot not of the coming morn.

No--for Amphitryon's iron-hearted son, Who braved the lion, was the slave of one:--

A fair curled creature, Hylas was his name.

He taught him, as a father might his child, All songs whereby himself had risen to fame; Nor ever from his side would be beguiled When noon was high, nor when white steeds convey Back to heaven's gates the chariot of the day,

Nor when the hen's shrill brood becomes aware Of bed-time, as the mother's flapping wings Shadow the dust-browned beam. 'Twas all his care To shape unto his own imaginings And to the harness train his favourite youth, Till he became a man in very truth.

Meanwhile, when kingly Jason steered in quest Of the Gold Fleece, and chieftains at his side Chosen from all cities, proffering each her best, To rich Iolchos came that warrior tried, And joined him unto trim-built Argo's crew; And with Alcmena's son came Hylas too.

Through the great gulf shot Argo like a bird-- And by-and-bye reached Phasis, ne'er o'erta'en By those in-rus.h.i.+ng rocks, that have not stirred Since then, but bask, twin monsters, on the main.

But now, when waned the spring, and lambs were fed In far-off fields, and Pleiads gleamed overhead,

That cream and flower of knighthood looked to sail.

They came, within broad Argo safely stowed, (When for three days had blown the southern gale) To h.e.l.lespont, and in Propontis rode At anchor, where Cianian oxen now Broaden the furrows with the busy plough.

They leapt ash.o.r.e, and, keeping rank, prepared Their evening meal: a gra.s.sy meadow spread Before their eyes, and many a warrior shared (Thanks to its verdurous stores) one lowly bed.

And while they cut tall marigolds from their stem And sworded bulrush, Hylas slipt from them.

Water the fair lad wont to seek and bring To Heracles and stalwart Telamon, (The comrades aye partook each other's fare,) Bearing a brazen pitcher. And anon, Where the ground dipt, a fountain he espied, And rushes growing green about its side.

There rose the sea-blue swallow-wort, and there The pale-hued maidenhair, with parsley green And vagrant marsh-flowers; and a revel rare In the pool's midst the water-nymphs were seen To hold, those maidens of unslumbrous eyes Whom the belated peasant sees and flies.

And fast did Malis and Eunica cling, And young Nychea with her April face, To the lad's hand, as stooping o'er the spring He dipt his pitcher. For the young Greek's grace Made their soft senses reel; and down he fell, All of a sudden, into that black well.

So drops a red star suddenly from sky To sea--and quoth some sailor to his mate: "Up with the tackle, boy! the breeze is high."

Him the nymphs pillowed, all disconsolate, On their sweet laps, and with soft words beguiled; But Heracles was troubled for the child.

Forth went he; Scythian-wise his bow he bore And the great club that never quits his side; And thrice called 'Hylas'--ne'er came l.u.s.tier roar From that deep chest. Thrice Hylas heard and tried To answer, but in tones you scarce might hear; The water made them distant though so near.

And as a lion, when he hears the bleat Of fawns among the mountains far away, A murderous lion, and with hurrying feet Bounds from his lair to his predestined prey: So plunged the strong man in the untrodden brake-- (Lovers are maniacs)--for his darling's sake.

He scoured far fields--what hill or oaken glen Remembers not that pilgrimage of pain?

His troth to Jason was forgotten then.

Long time the good s.h.i.+p tarried for those twain With hoisted sails; night came and still they cleared The hatches, but no Heracles appeared.

On he was wandering, reckless where he trod, So mad a pa.s.sion on his vitals preyed: While Hylas had become a blessed G.o.d.

But the crew cursed the runaway who had stayed Sixty good oars, and left him there to reach Afoot bleak Phasis and the Colchian beach.