IDYL VII.

THALYSIA.

'Twas when Amyntas, Eucritus, and I,
Did from the city to sweet Haleus hie;
The harvest-feast by that abounding river
Was kept, in honour of the harvest-giver,
By Phrasidamus and Antigenes,

Sons of Lycopeus both, and good men these,
If good there is from old and high descent,
From Clytia and from Calchon, who, knee-bent
Firmly against the rock, did make outflow
The spring Burinna with a foot-struck blow,
Near which a thickly wooded grove is seen,
Poplars and elms, high overarching green.
Midway not reached, nor tomb of Brasilas,
We chanced upon Cydonian Lycidas,

By favour of the muses: who not knew
That famous goatherd as he came in view?
A tawny, shaggy goat-skin on his back,
That of the suppling pickle yet did smack;
Bound by a belt of straw the traveller wore
An aged jerkin; in his hand he bore
A crook of the wild olive; coming nigh,
With widely parted lips, and smiling eye –
The laughter on his lip was plain to see —
He quietly addressed himself to me:

"Whither so fast at noon-tide, when no more The crested larks their sunny paths explore, And in the thorn-hedge lizards lie asleep? To feast or to a wine-press do you leap? The stones ring to your buskins as you pass."

To him I made reply-" Dear Lycidas!

All say you are the piper--far the best 'Mid shepherds and the reapers; this confest Gladdens my heart; and yet (to put in speech

My fancy), I expect your skill to reach.

Our way is to a harvest-feast, which cater

Dear friends of ours for richly robed Damater,

Her bounteous love hath filled to running o'er.
Let us with pastoral song beguile the way;
Common the path, and common is the day.
We shall each other, it may be, content;
For I, too, am a mouth-piece eloquent
Of the dear Muses; and all men esteem,

And call me minstrel good — not that I deem,

Not I by Earth! Philetas I

-

surpass,

Nor the famed Samian bard, Sicelidas,

A frog compared with locusts I beguile

The time with song." He answered with a smile :

"This crook I give thee-for thou art all over

An imp of Zeus, a genuine truth-lover.

Who strives to build, the lowly plain upon,

A mansion high as is Oromedon,

I hate exceedingly; and for that matter

The muse-birds, who like cuckoos, idly chatter
Against the Chian minstrel, toil in vain :
Let us at once begin the pastoral strain;
Here is a little song, which I did late,
Musing along the highlands, meditate:

"To Mitylene sails my heart-dear love :

Safe be the way, and fair the voyage prove,

E'en when the south the moist wave dashes high on

The setting Kids, and tempest-veiled Orion

Places his feet on ocean; and, returned,

My love be kind to me by Cypris burned;

For hot love burns me: may the Halcyons smooth
The swell o' the sea, the south and east winds soothe,
That from the lowest deep the sea-weed stir-
Best Halcyons! whom of all the birds that skir
The waves for prey, the Nereids love the most.
Safe may my loved one reach the Lesbian coast,
And on the way be wind and weather fair!
With dill or roses will I twine my hair,

Or on my head will put a coronet,
Wreathed with the fragrance of the violet.

I by the fire will quaff the Ptelean wine,
And one shall roast me beans, while I recline
Luxurious, lying on a fragrant heap

Of asphodel and parsley, elbow-deep;

And mindful of my love the goblet clip,

Until the last lees trickle to my lip.

Two swains shall play the flute; and Tityrus sing

How love for Xenea did our Daphnis sting,

How on the mountain he was wont to stray,
How wailed for him the oaks of Himera,
When he, dissolving, passed away from us,
Like snow on Hæmus, or far Caucasus,
Athos or Rhodope: or in his song
Recite, how by his master's cruel wrong
The Swain was in a cedar ark shut up,

While quick and how from many a flower-cup

The flat-nosed bees to his sweet prison flew,

And there sustained him with the honey-dew,
For that the Muse into his lip distilled

Sweet nectar: blest Comatas! that fulfilled

A whole spring,

Shut in an ark!

feeding on the bag o' the bee,

How had it gladdened me, (Would only thou wert of the living now!) To tend thy goats along the mountain's brow, And hear thee sweetly sing, O bard divine! Lying at leisure under oak or pine!"

He ceased: I in my turn: "Dear Lycidas! Whilst on the highlands with my herd I pass, The Nymphs have taught me precious ditties oft, Which haply Fame has borne to Zeus aloft.