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Ebook has 448 lines and 42222 words, and 9 pages

FRAGMENT FROM THE "BERENICE"

EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS:--

The Death of Daphnis.

THYRSIS. Sweet are the whispers of yon pine that makes Low music o'er the spring, and, Goatherd, sweet Thy piping; second thou to Pan alone. Is his the horned ram? then thine the goat. Is his the goat? to thee shall fall the kid; And toothsome is the flesh of unmilked kids.

GOATHERD. Shepherd, thy lay is as the noise of streams Falling and falling aye from yon tall crag. If for their meed the Muses claim the ewe, Be thine the stall-fed lamb; or if they choose The lamb, take thou the scarce less-valued ewe.

THYRSIS. Pray, by the Nymphs, pray, Goatherd, seat thee here Against this hill-slope in the tamarisk shade, And pipe me somewhat, while I guard thy goats.

GOATHERD. I durst not, Shepherd, O I durst not pipe At noontide; fearing Pan, who at that hour Rests from the toils of hunting. Harsh is he; Wrath at his nostrils aye sits sentinel. But, Thyrsis, thou canst sing of Daphnis' woes; High is thy name for woodland minstrelsy: Then rest we in the shadow of the elm Fronting Priapus and the Fountain-nymphs. There, where the oaks are and the Shepherd's seat, Sing as thou sang'st erewhile, when matched with him Of Libya, Chromis; and I'll give thee, first, To milk, ay thrice, a goat--she suckles twins, Yet ne'ertheless can fill two milkpails full;-- Next, a deep drinking-cup, with sweet wax scoured, Two-handled, newly-carven, smacking yet 0' the chisel. Ivy reaches up and climbs About its lip, gilt here and there with sprays Of woodbine, that enwreathed about it flaunts Her saffron fruitage. Framed therein appears A damsel In robe and snood: and suitors at her side With locks fair-flowing, on her right and left, Battle with words, that fail to reach her heart. She, laughing, glances now on this, flings now Her chance regards on that: they, all for love Wearied and eye-swoln, find their labour lost. Carven elsewhere an ancient fisher stands On the rough rocks: thereto the old man with pains Drags his great casting-net, as one that toils Full stoutly: every fibre of his frame Seems fishing; so about the gray-beard's neck the sinews swell. Hard by that wave-beat sire a vineyard bends Beneath its graceful load of burnished grapes; A boy sits on the rude fence watching them. Near him two foxes: down the rows of grapes One ranging steals the ripest; one assails With wiles the poor lad's scrip, to leave him soon Stranded and supperless. He plaits meanwhile With ears of corn a right fine cricket-trap, And fits it on a rush: for vines, for scrip, Little he cares, enamoured of his toy. The cup is hung all round with lissom briar, Triumph of AEolian art, a wondrous sight. It was a ferryman's of Calydon: A goat it cost me, and a great white cheese. Ne'er yet my lips came near it, virgin still It stands. And welcome to such boon art thou, If for my sake thou'lt sing that lay of lays. I jest not: up, lad, sing: no songs thou'lt own In the dim land where all things are forgot.

So spake he, and he never spake again. Fain Aphrodit? would have raised his head; But all his thread was spun. So down the stream Went Daphnis: closed the waters o'er a head Dear to the Nine, of nymphs not unbeloved. Now give me goat and cup; that I may milk The one, and pour the other to the Muse. Fare ye well, Muses, o'er and o'er farewell! I'll sing strains lovelier yet in days to be.

GOATHERD. Thyrsis, let honey and the honeycomb Fill thy sweet mouth, and figs of AEgilus: For ne'er cicala trilled so sweet a song. Here is the cup: mark, friend, how sweet it smells: The Hours, thou'lt say, have washed it in their well. Hither, Cissaetha! Thou, go milk her! Kids, Be steady, or your pranks will rouse the ram.

The Sorceress.

Hippomenes, when he a maid would wed, Took apples in his hand and on he sped. Famed Atalanta's heart was won by this; She marked, and maddening sank in Love's abyss.

From Othrys did the seer Melampus stray To Pylos with his herd: and lo there lay In a swain's arms a maid of beauty rare; Alphesiboea, wise of heart, she bare.

Did not Adonis rouse to such excess Of frenzy her whose name is Loveliness, That, dead, he's pillowed on her bosom still?

Endymion sleeps the sleep that changeth not: And, maiden mine, I envy him his lot! Envy Iasion's: his it was to gain Bliss that I dare not breathe in ears profane.

My head aches. What reck'st thou? I sing no more: E'en where I fell I'll lie, until the wolves Rend me--may that be honey in thy mouth!

The Herdsmen.

BATTUS. Who owns these cattle, Corydon? Philondas? Prythee say.

CORYDON. No, AEgon: and he gave them me to tend while he's away.

BATTUS. Dost milk them in the gloaming, when none is nigh to see?

CORYDON. The old man brings the calves to suck, and keeps an eye on me.

BATTUS. And to what region then hath flown the cattle's rightful lord?

CORYDON. Hast thou not heard? With Milo he vanished Elis-ward.

BATTUS. How! was the wrestler's oil e'er yet so much as seen by him?

CORYDON. Men say he rivals Heracles in lustiness of limb.

BATTUS. I'm Polydeuces' match and more.

CORYDON. --So off he started; with a spade, and of these ewes a score.

BATTUS. This Milo will be teaching wolves how they should raven next.

CORYDON. --And by these bellowings his kine proclaim how sore they're vexed.

BATTUS. Poor kine! they've found their master a sorry knave indeed.

CORYDON. They're poor enough, I grant you: they have not heart to feed.

BATTUS. Look at that heifer! sure there's naught, save bare bones, left of her. Pray, does she browse on dewdrops, as doth the grasshopper?

CORYDON. Not she, by heaven! She pastures now by AEsarus' glades, And handfuls fair I pluck her there of young and green grass-blades; Now bounds about Latymnus, that gathering-place of shades.

BATTUS. That bull again, the red one, my word but he is lean! I wish the Sybarite burghers aye may offer to the queen Of heaven as pitiful a beast: those burghers are so mean!

CORYDON. Yet to the Salt Lake's edges I drive him, I can swear; Up Physcus, up Neaethus' side--he lacks not victual there, With dittany and endive and foxglove for his fare.

BATTUS. Well, well! I pity AEgon. His cattle, go they must To rack and ruin, all because vain-glory was his lust. The pipe that erst he fashioned is doubtless scored with rust?

BATTUS. Sweet Amaryllis! thou alone, though dead, art unforgot. Dearer than thou, whose light is quenched, my very goats are not. Oh for the all-unkindly fate that's fallen to my lot!

CORYDON. Cheer up, brave lad! tomorrow may ease thee of thy pain: Aye for the living are there hopes, past' hoping are the slain: And now Zeus sends us sunshine, and now he sends us rain.

BATTUS. I'm better. Beat those young ones off! E'en now their teeth attack That olive's shoots, the graceless brutes! Back, with your white face, back!

CORYDON. Back to thy hill, Cymaetha! Great Pan, how deaf thou art! I shall be with thee presently, and in the end thou'lt smart. I warn thee, keep thy distance. Look, up she creeps again! Oh were my hare-crook in nay hand, I'd give it to her then!

BATTUS. For heaven's sake, Corydon, look here! Just now a bramble-spike Ran, there, into my instep--and oh how deep they strike, Those lancewood-shafts! A murrain light on that calf, I say! I got it gaping after her. Canst thou discern it, pray?

CORYDON. Ay, ay; and here I have it, safe in my finger-nails.

BATTUS. Eh! at how slight a matter how tall a warrior quails!

CORYDON. Ne'er range the hill-crest, Battus, all sandal-less and bare: Because the thistle and the thorn lift aye their plumed heads there.

BATTUS. --Say, Corydon, does that old man we wot of Still haunt the dark-browed little girl whom once he used to tease?

CORYDON. Ay my poor boy, that doth he: I saw them yesterday Down by the byre; and, trust me, loving enough were they.

BATTUS. Well done, my veteran light-o'-love! In deeming thee mere man, I wronged thy sire: some Satyr he, or an uncouth-limbed Pan.

The Battle of the Bards.

COMETAS. Goats, from a shepherd who stands here, from Lacon, keep away: Sibyrtas owns him; and he stole my goatskin yesterday.

LACON. Hi! lambs! avoid yon fountain. Have ye not eyes to see Cometas, him who filched a pipe but two days back from me?

COMETAS. Sibyrtas' bondsman own a pipe? whence gotst thou that, and how? Tootling through straws with Corydon mayhap's beneath thee now?

LACON. 'Twas Lycon's gift, your highness. But pray, Cometas, say, What is that skin wherewith thou saidst that Lacon walked away? Why, thy lord's self had ne'er a skin whereon his limbs to lay.

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