Once on a time did Eucritus and I

(With us Amyntas) to the riverside

Steal from the city. For Lycopeus' sons

Were that day busy with the harvest-home,

Antigenes and Phrasidemus, sprung

(If aught thou holdest by the good old names)

By Clytia from great Chalcon—him who erst

Planted one stalwart knee against the rock,

And lo, beneath his foot BurinÈ's rill

Brake forth, and at its side poplar and elm

Shewed aisles of pleasant shadow, greenly roofed

By tufted leaves. Scarce midway were we now,

Nor yet descried the tomb of Brasilas:

When, thanks be to the Muses, there drew near

A wayfarer from Crete, young Lycidas.

The horned herd was his care: a glance might tell

So much: for every inch a herdsman he.

Slung o'er his shoulder was a ruddy hide

Torn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,

That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt clasped

A patched cloak round his breast, and for a staff

A gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.

Soon with a quiet smile he spoke—his eye

Twinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:

"And whither ploddest thou thy weary way

Beneath the noontide sun, Simichidas?

For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,

The crested lark folds now his wandering wing.

Dost speed, a bidden guest, to some reveller's board?

Or townward to the treading of the grape?

For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feet

The pavement-stones ring out right merrily."

Then I: "Friend Lycid, all men say that none

Of haymakers or herdsmen is thy match

At piping: and my soul is glad thereat.

Yet, to speak sooth, I think to rival thee.

Now look, this road holds holiday to-day:

For banded brethren solemnise a feast

To richly-dight Demeter, thanking her

For her good gifts: since with no grudging hand

Hath the boon goddess filled the wheaten floors.

So come: the way, the day, is thine as mine:

Try we our woodcraft—each may learn from each.

I am, as thou, a clarion-voice of song;

All hail me chief of minstrels. But I am not,

Heaven knows, o'ercredulous: no, I scarce can yet

(I think) outvie Philetas, nor the bard

Of Samos, champion of Sicilian song.

They are as cicadas challenged by a frog."

I spake to gain mine ends; and laughing light

He said: "Accept this club, as thou'rt indeed

A born truth-teller, shaped by heaven's own hand!

I hate your builders who would rear a house

High as Oromedon's mountain-pinnacle:

I hate your song-birds too, whose cuckoo-cry

Struggles (in vain) to match the Chian bard.

But come, we'll sing forthwith, Simichidas,

Our woodland music: and for my part I—

List, comrade, if you like the simple air

I forged among the uplands yesterday.

[Sings] Safe be my true-love convoyed o'er the main

To MitylenÈ—though the southern blast

Chase the lithe waves, while westward slant the Kids,

Or low above the verge Orion stand—

If from Love's furnace she will rescue me,

For Lycidas is parched with hot desire.

Let halcyons lay the sea-waves and the winds,

Northwind and Westwind, that in shores far-off

Flutters the seaweed—halcyons, of all birds

Whose prey is on the waters, held most dear

By the green Nereids: yea let all things smile

On her to MitylenÈ voyaging,

And in fair harbour may she ride at last.

I on that day, a chaplet woven of dill

Or rose or simple violet on my brow,

Will draw the wine of Pteleas from the cask

Stretched by the ingle. They shall roast me beans,

And elbow-deep in thyme and asphodel

And quaintly-curling parsley shall be piled

My bed of rushes, where in royal ease

I sit and, thinking of my darling, drain

With stedfast lip the liquor to the dregs.

I'll have a pair of pipers, shepherds both,

This from AcharnÆ, from LycopÈ that;

And Tityrus shall be near me and shall sing

How the swain Daphnis loved the stranger-maid;

And how he ranged the fells, and how the oaks

(Such oaks as Himera's banks are green withal)

Sang dirges o'er him waning fast away

Like snow on Athos, or on HÆmus high,

Or RhodopÈ, or utmost Caucasus.

And he shall sing me how the big chest held

(All through the maniac malice of his lord)

A living goatherd: how the round-faced bees,

Lured from their meadow by the cedar-smell,

Fed him with daintiest flowers, because the Muse

Had made his throat a well-spring of sweet song.

Happy Cometas, this sweet lot was thine!

Thee the chest prisoned, for thee the honey-bees

Toiled, as thou slavedst out the mellowing year:

And oh hadst thou been numbered with the quick

In my day! I had led thy pretty goats

About the hill-side, listening to thy voice:

While thou hadst lain thee down 'neath oak or pine,

Divine Cometas, warbling pleasantly."

He spake and paused; and thereupon spake I.

"I too, friend Lycid, as I ranged the fells,

Have learned much lore and pleasant from the Nymphs,

Whose fame mayhap hath reached the throne of Zeus.

But this wherewith I'll grace thee ranks the first:

Thou listen, since the Muses like thee well.

[Sings] On me the young Loves sneezed: for hapless I

Am fain of Myrto as the goats of Spring.

But my best friend Aratus inly pines

For one who loves him not. Aristis saw—

(A wondrous seer is he, whose lute and lay

ShrinÈd Apollo's self would scarce disdain)—

How love had scorched Aratus to the bone.

O Pan, who hauntest HomolÈ's fair champaign,

Bring the soft charmer, whosoe'er it be,

Unbid to his sweet arms—so, gracious Pan,

May ne'er thy ribs and shoulderblades be lashed

With squills by young Arcadians, whensoe'er

They are scant of supper! But should this my prayer

Mislike thee, then on nettles mayest thou sleep,

Dinted and sore all over from their claws!

Then mayest thou lodge amid Edonian hills

By Hebrus, in midwinter; there subsist,

The Bear thy neighbour: and, in summer, range

With the far Æthiops 'neath the Blemmyan rocks

Where Nile is no more seen! But O ye Loves,

Whose cheeks are like pink apples, quit your homes

By Hyetis, or Byblis' pleasant rill,

Or fair DionÈ's rocky pedestal,

And strike that fair one with your arrows, strike

The ill-starred damsel who disdains my friend.

And lo, what is she but an o'er-ripe pear?

The girls all cry 'Her bloom is on the wane.'

We'll watch, Aratus, at that porch no more,

Nor waste shoe-leather: let the morning cock

Crow to wake others up to numb despair!

Let Molon, and none else, that ordeal brave:

While we make ease our study, and secure

Some witch, to charm all evil from our door."

I ceased. He smiling sweetly as before,

Gave me the staff, 'the Muses' parting gift,'

And leftward sloped toward Pyxa. We the while,

Bent us to Phrasydeme's, Eucritus and I,

And baby-faced Amyntas: there we lay

Half-buried in a couch of fragrant reed

And fresh-cut vineleaves, who so glad as we?

A wealth of elm and poplar shook o'erhead;

Hard by, a sacred spring flowed gurgling on

From the Nymphs' grot, and in the sombre boughs

The sweet cicada chirped laboriously.

Hid in the thick thorn-bushes far away

The treefrog's note was heard; the crested lark

Sang with the goldfinch; turtles made their moan,

And o'er the fountain hung the gilded bee.

All of rich summer smacked, of autumn all:

Pears at our feet, and apples at our side

Rolled in luxuriance; branches on the ground

Sprawled, overweighed with damsons; while we brushed

From the cask's head the crust of four long years.

Say, ye who dwell upon Parnassian peaks,

Nymphs of Castalia, did old Chiron e'er

Set before Heracles a cup so brave

In Pholus' cavern—did as nectarous draughts

Cause that Anapian shepherd, in whose hand

Rocks were as pebbles, Polypheme the strong,

Featly to foot it o'er the cottage lawns:—

As, ladies, ye bid flow that day for us

All by Demeter's shrine at harvest-home?

Beside whose cornstacks may I oft again

Plant my broad fan: while she stands by and smiles,

Poppies and cornsheaves on each laden arm.