originals of elegiac odes in English not surpassed in beauty and power by any minor poems in the language. We refer to Milton's Lycidas and Shelley's Adonais. The latter poems are modeled, not at all in servile imitation, but simply in elegant reminiscence and allusion, upon Bion's Lament for Adonis, and Moschus's still more famous Lament for Bion. The two disciples and followers of Theocritus-Bion and Moschus-are less simple, less natural, less genuine, as well as less vigorous, than their master. We begin by presenting them in a few specimen extracts out of the two poems just mentioned from their hands. Of Bion and Moschus, the men, we know literally nothing-unless as to Bion, Moschus's elegy on his friend be taken to afford a trace, faint indeed, of biographic information. Here are a few stanzas from Bion's elegy, entitled The Epitaph of Adonis. The translator is Mr. J. M. Chapman : I and the Loves Adonis dead deplore: Departed, parted from us. Sleep no more Lament him. O! her grief to see him bleed, "Alas for Cypris!" sigh the Loves, "deprived But with Adonis all her beauty died." Mountains, and oaks, and streams, that broadly glide, Or wail or weep for her; in tearful rills For her gush fountains from the mountain side; With ditties sadly wild, lorn Cytherea fills. Their curls are shorn: one breaks his bow; another And takes Adonis' sandal off; his brother This bathes his thighs; that fans him with his wings. Of love is only heard the doleful "weal-away." Now the lament for Bion by Moschus, in the excellent prose translation of Mr. Banks. The title is, The Epitaph of Bion, a Loving Herdsman : Plaintively groan at my bidding, ye woodland dells, and thou Dorian water, and weep, rivers, the lovely Bion; now wail at my bidding, ye plants, and now, groves, utter a wail; now may ye flowers breathe forth your life in sad clusters; blush now sorrowfully, ye roses, now, thou anemone; now, hyacinth, speak thy letters, and with thy leaves lisp 'ai,' 'ai,' more than is thy wont: a noble minstrel is dead. Begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the lament. Ye nightingales, that wail in the thick foliage, tell the news to the Sicilian waters of Ar-e-thu'sa, that Bion the herdsman is dead, that with him both the song is dead, and perished is Doric minstrelsy. Begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the lament. Echo amid the rocks laments, because thou art mute, and mimics no more thy lips; and at thy death the trees have cast off their fruit, and the flowers have all withered; good milk hath not flowed from ewes ; nor honey from hives; but it has perished in the wax wasted with grief; for no longer is it meet, now that thy honey is lost, to gather that. Begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the lament. All along with thee, O herdsman, have perished the Muses' gifts, charming kisses of maidens, lips of boys: and around thy tomb weep sad-visaged Loves. Venus loves thee far more than the kiss, with which lately she kissed dying Adonis. This is a second grief to thee, most musical of rivers! This, O Me'les, is a fresh grief; to thy sorrow perished Homer aforetime, that sweet mouth of Cal-li'o-pe, and men say thou didst deplore thine illustrious son in streams of much weeping, and didst fill all the sea with thy voice: now again thou weepest another son, and pinest over a fresh woe. Both were beloved by the fountains ; the one indeed was wont to drink of the Peg-a-seʼan spring; the other, to enjoy a draught of the Arethusa. And the one sang the fair daughter of Tyn'da-rus, and the mighty son of Thetis, and Men-e-la'us, son of A'treus but the other would sing not of wars, nor tears, but Pan; and would sound the praise of herdsmen, and feed the herd as he sang: and he was wont to fashion Pan's pipes, and to milk the sweet heifer, and to teach the lips of youths, and to cherish Eros in his bosom, and rouse a passion in Aphrodite. Begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the lament. Alas, alas, when once in a garden the mallows have died, or the green parsley, or blooming crisp dill, they live again after, and spring up another year. But we, the great, and brave, or wise of men, after we have once died, unheard of in hollow earth, sleep a right long and boundless slumber, from which none are roused. Yet were I able, like Or'pheus, having gone down to Tar'ta-rus, like Ulysses once, or as Al-ci'des in days of yore, I too would haply descend to the home of Pluto, that I might see thee, and, if thou singest to Pluto, that I might hear what thou singest. Nay, but in the presence of the damsel (Pro-ser'pine) warble some Sicilian strain, sing some pleasant pastoral. She too, being Sicilian, sported on the Ætnæan shores, and knew the Doric song: nor will thy strain be unhonored; and as of old to Orpheus, sweetly singing to his lyre, she gave Eu-ryd'i-ce to return, so will she send thee, Bion, to thy hills. (For mythologic and other allusions, see Index.) Of Theocritus personally we know almost as little as of Bion and Moschus. He is generally referred to Syracuse of Sicily, but we guess, with much confidence, that he must also have passed a part of his life in Alexandria. There is strong internal evidence that he knew something of Hebrew literature, that is, of the Bible. This would have been quite natural, since his time coincided with that of the making of the famous Septuagint Greek version of the Old Testament, executed at Alexandria under the auspices of Ptolemy Philadelphus. There are suggestions of Scripture imagery and phrase in a number of the Theocritan idylls. The date of Theocritus's birth is placed between 284 and 280 B. C. As a specimen of Theocritus in his purely bucolic or pastoral vein, we select the first idyll. This is entitled The Death of Daphnis. It is a dialogue between two shepherds, including a song from one of them, drawn out by invitation of the other, to the memory of Daphnis, a herdsman that has died. The poem belongs in the same company with those which we have already given from Bion and Moschus. This is the original of which those are echoes. (The possible original, of which this also is an echo, has been lost.) We omit, for brevity's sake, the conversation between the shepherds introductory to that song itself on the death of Daphnis which gives its name to the idyll, and which really constitutes the substance of the poem. The lines of highly realistic conclusion, after the song, we give to show the poet's art in ending. The "sweet Maids" of the refrain are the Muses invoked for assistance to the singer. The death of Daphnis is a case of pining away under disappointment in love. We condense from Mr. C. S. Calverley's delightfully sympathetic translation : THYRSIS [sings]. Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. The voice of Thyrsis. Ætna's Thyrsis I. Where were ye, Nymphs, O where, while Daphnis pined? For great Anapus' stream was not your haunt, Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. First from the mountain Hermes came, and said, Daphnis, who frets thee? Lad, whom lov'st thou so?" Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. Came Aphroditè, smiles on her sweet face, False smiles, for heavy was her heart, and spake : "So, Daphnis, thou must try a fall with Love! But stalwart Love hath won the fall of thee." Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. Say'st thou mine hour is come, my sun hath set? Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 'Farewell, wolf, jackal, mountain-prisoned bear! Ye'll see no more by grove or glade or glen Your herdsman Daphnis! Arethuse, farewell, And the bright streams that pour down Thymbris' side. Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song. Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song. Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song." Now give me goat and cup; that I may milk GOATHERD. Thyrsis, let honey and the honeycomb |