Idyll 1

1. Thyrsis, or the Song Thyrsis

Sweet is the whispering music of that pine, goatherd,

beside the springs, and sweet your own piping too;

after Pan you will carry off the second prize.

If he takes the horned he-goat, the she-goat is yours;

but if he takes the she-goat for his prize, the kid

falls to you—and kid's flesh is good, until you milk her.

Goatherd

Sweeter, shepherd, is your song than the splashing

of that water that streams down from the rock above.

If the Muses carry off the ewe as their gift,

you shall win the stall-fed lamb as your prize; but if it please them

to take the lamb, then you shall lead away the ewe instead.

Thyrsis

Will you, by the Nymphs—will you, goatherd, sit here

upon this sloping hillside among the tamarisks

and pipe? Meanwhile I will tend the goats in this place.

Goatherd

It is not lawful, shepherd, not at noon, not lawful for us

to pipe. It is Pan we fear; for at this hour he rests,

worn out from the hunt; and he is bitter,

and the sharp gall sits always at his nostrils.

But you, Thyrsis, who used to sing the sorrows of Daphnis

and reached the heights of the pastoral Muse—

come, let us sit here beneath the elm, facing Priapus

and the springs of the Nymphs, where the herdsmen's

seat is, and the oaks. And if you sing

as once you sang when you contended with Chromis of Libya,

I will give you a goat that bears twins, to milk three times,

who though she has two kids yields milk besides for two pails;

and a deep ivy-cup, washed over with sweet wax,

two-handled, newly made, still smelling of the knife.

Around its lips above twists curling ivy,

ivy dusted with golden helichryse; and along it

the tendril winds, glorying in its saffron fruit.

Within is fashioned a woman, such a marvel as the gods could make,

decked with robe and headband. Beside her are men

with beautiful long hair, contending in turn,

one from one side, one from the other, with their words. But these do not touch her heart;

now she glances at this one, laughing,

now she casts her thought toward the other. And they, worn with love,

their eyes long hollow with weariness, labor in vain.

Beyond these is fashioned an old fisherman and a rugged

rock, on which the old man eagerly hauls

a great net for the cast, like a man straining hard.

You would say he was fishing with all the strength of his limbs;

so the sinews stand swollen everywhere about his neck,

gray-haired though he is, and his strength is worthy of youth.

A little way off from the sea-worn old man

is a vineyard heavy with fine clusters reddening,

which a small boy guards, sitting

on the dry stone wall; and about him two foxes—

one ranges along the rows, plundering the ripe grapes,

the other brings all her cunning to bear upon his satchel,

and vows she will not let the child be until

she has set him down to breakfast on dry bread.

But he is plaiting a pretty cricket-cage of asphodel,

fitting it to a reed; and he cares neither for his satchel

nor for the vines so much as he delights in his weaving.

All round the cup is spread the soft acanthus;

an Aeolian wonder, a marvel to amaze your heart.

For this I gave a goat to the Calydonian ferryman

as its price, and a great cheese of white milk;

and never yet has it touched my lips, but still it lies

unstained. With this I would gladly please you,

if you, my friend, will sing me that lovely song.

And I am not mocking you. Come, good man; for your singing

you will hardly keep against the day Hades makes all forget.

Thyrsis

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

This is Thyrsis of Etna, and sweet is the voice of Thyrsis.

Where were you when Daphnis was wasting, where were you, Nymphs?

In the fair vales of Peneios, or on Pindos?

For you held not the great stream of the river Anapos,

nor the peak of Etna, nor the holy water of Acis.

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

For him the jackals howled, for him the wolves,

for him the lion out of the wood wept at his death.

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

Many cattle stood about his feet, and many bulls,

and many heifers and calves bewailed him.

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

Hermes came first from the mountain, and said: Daphnis,

who wears you out? For whom, good man, is so great a longing?

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

The cowherds came, the shepherds came, the goatherds came;

all asked what ailed him. Priapus came

and said: Poor Daphnis, why do you waste away, while the girl

goes wandering on foot by every spring, through every grove—

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song—

seeking you? Ah, you are a luckless lover and helpless.

A cowherd you were called, but now you are like a goatherd.

For the goatherd, when he sees the she-goats being mounted,

melts in his eyes, that he himself was not born a he-goat.

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

And you too, when you see the girls laughing,

melt in your eyes, that you do not dance among them.

To these the cowherd answered nothing, but bore

his own bitter love, and bore it to the end of his doom.

Begin again, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

But the sweet Cyprian came too, laughing,

laughing in secret, yet keeping heavy wrath in her heart,

and said: You boasted, Daphnis, that you would throw Love;

but have you not yourself been thrown by cruel Love?

Begin again, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

And to her Daphnis answered: Heavy Cyprian,

Cyprian the spiteful, Cyprian hateful to mortals;

already you think the sun has wholly set for me;

but Daphnis, even in Hades, will be a bitter grief to Love.

Begin again, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

Is it not said the cowherd—go to Ida,

go to Anchises. There are oaks, there is galingale;

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

And Adonis is in his prime, for he too herds his sheep,

and shoots the hares, and hunts all the wild beasts.

Begin, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

Again, may you stand and face Diomedes near at hand,

and say: I conquered Daphnis the cowherd—but fight with me.

Begin again, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

O wolves, O jackals, O bears denned in the mountains,

farewell. I, Daphnis the cowherd, am no more among the woods,

no more among the thickets, the groves. Farewell, Arethusa,

and you rivers, that pour your fair water down Thymbris.

Begin again, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

I am that Daphnis who pastured my cattle here,

Daphnis who watered the bulls and the calves here.

Begin again, dear Muses, begin the pastoral song.

O Pan, Pan, whether you are on the long ridges of Lycaeus,

or whether you range over great Maenalus, come to the island

of Sicily, and leave the steep mound and tomb

of Helice, that of Lycaon's son, admired even by the blessed.

Cease, dear Muses, come, cease the pastoral song.

Come, lord, and take this honey-breathing pipe,

a fair one of compacted wax, curved about the lip.

For I am now being dragged by love down to Hades.

Cease, dear Muses, come, cease the pastoral song.

Now bear violets, you brambles, bear them, you thorns,

and let the fair narcissus bloom upon the junipers;

let all be changed, since Daphnis dies; let the stag drag the hounds,

and from the hills let owls cry out to nightingales.

Cease, dear Muses, come, cease the pastoral song.

So much he said, and ceased; and Aphrodite

wished to raise him up; but all the thread was spent

from the Fates, and Daphnis went to the stream. The eddy washed over

the man dear to the Muses, the man not hated by the Nymphs.

Cease, dear Muses, come, cease the pastoral song.

And you, give me the goat and the cup, that I may milk her

and pour a libation to the Muses. Farewell, again and again, Muses,

farewell; and I will sing for you a sweeter song hereafter.

Goatherd

May your fair mouth, Thyrsis, be filled with honey,

filled with honeycomb, and may you eat the sweet fig

of Aegilus, since you sing better than the cicada.

Look, here is the cup; mark, friend, how sweet it smells;

you will think it has been washed at the springs of the Hours.

Come here, Cissaetha; and you, milk her. And you she-goats,

do not frisk now, or the he-goat will rise upon you.