OVERFLOWINGS OF THE JAR.
THE JOURNEY TO THE FEAST.
(FROM THEOCRITUS.)
This, instead of an “overflowing,” ought to have been a constituent part of the Jar, because it supplies what has been wanting to complete our specimens of Theocritus; namely, a sample of the happiest and most enjoying portion of his genius. The original is one of his finest productions. The chief part of it relates what befell him on his way to a friend’s house out of town, to join a party at harvest-home. He overtakes a brother poet, who, in respect to his condition in life, might have been to Theocritus what a Burns from the plough might have been to a “gentleman,” had any such rival poet existed in Burns’ time. This inspired rustic, who (with the propriety noticed in our remarks on the subject) speaks as well as the gentleman himself, is represented as reciting a poem of his composition, to beguile the way. Theocritus, in return, recites a composition of his own; and the whole piece concludes with a description of the luxurious orchard nest which awaited our author on his arrival at the house he was going to:—
Once on a time myself and Eùcritus
Went out of town, taking Amyntas with us,
To join a feast of Ceres, that was given
By Phrasidàmus and Antìgenes,
Sons of Lycòpeus, and descended too
(If that is anything) from Clitias,
Ay, and from Calcon, who with his strong foot
Dug from the rock the fount there, at Burinna,
Where you perceive such a thick bower of elms
And poplars, making quite a roof o’erhead.
We had not got half way, nor yet discern’d
The tomb of Brasilas, when we overtook,
Travelling along, a favourite of the Muse,—
A goatherd, of the name of Lycidas;
And goatherd well he seem’d; for on his shoulders
Hung a right simple goatskin, hairy and thick,
Smelling as if ’twas new; about his body
Was an old jerkin, tied with platted straw;
And in his hand he bore a crooked stick
Made of wild olive. Placidly he turned,
A little smile parting his kindly lips,
And with a genial eye accosting me,
Said, “Ah, Theocritus! and where go you
At noon, when all the lizards are asleep,
And not a lark but sobers? Is’t a feast
You’re making haste to, or some vintager’s,
That thus you dash the pebbles with your sandals?”
“Lycidas,” answered I, “the world, my friend,
Shepherds, reapers, and all, count you a poet
Of the first pastoral order,—which delights me:
Nevertheless, I hope you see another.
It is a feast we’re going to. Some friends
Keep one to-day to holy Mother Earth,
For gratitude, their garners are so full.
But come;—as we are going the same way,
And love the same good pastime, let’s indulge
Each other’s vein a little; for my lips
Breathe also of the Muse; and people call me
Greatest of living song;—a praise, however,
Of which I am not credulous,—no, by Earth;
For there’s Philetas, and our Samian too,
Whom I no more pretend to have surpass’d,
Than frogs the grasshoppers.”
Well;—we agreed;
And Lycidas, with one of his sweet smiles,
Said, “You must let me give you, when we finish,
This olive-stick, for you have proved yourself
A scion truly from the stock of Jove.
I also hate the builder that pretends
To rival mountain-tops, and just as much
Those dunghill cocks that tear their throats in vain
With trying to outcrow Homer himself!
But come, let us begin, Theocritus.—
Well,—I’ll be first then. Tell me if you like
This little piece, friend, which I hammered out
The other day as I was pacing Ætna.”
Lycidas here commences his recitation of the following verses, which are in honour of a friend who has gone abroad, and include the Legend of Comatas:—
“Ageanax, if he forgets me not
His faithful friend, shall safely cross the seas
To Mitylene, both when the south wind,
Warned by the westering Kids,[19] adds wet to wet,
And when Orion dips his sparkling feet.
Let halcyons smooth the billows, and make still
The west wind and the fiercer east, which stirs
The lowest sea-weeds;—halcyons, of all birds
Dear to the blue-eyed Nymphs, and fed by them.
Let all things favour the kind voyager,
And land him safely;—and that day, will I,
Wearing a crown of roses or white violets,
Quaff by my fireside Pteleatic wine;
And some one shall dress beans; and I will have
A noble couch, to lie at ease upon,
Heaped up of asphodel and yielding herbs;
And there I’ll drink in a divine repose,
Calling to mind Ageanax, and drain
With clinging lips the goblet to the dregs:
And there shall be two shepherds to play to me
Upon the pipe; and Tityrus, standing by,
Shall sing how Daphnis was in love with Xenia,
And used to walk the Mountain, while the oaks
Moaned to him on the banks of Himera;
And how he melted in his love away,
Like snows on Athos, or on Rhodope,
Or Hæmus, or the farthest Caucasus;—
And Tityrus shall sing also, how of old
The goatherd by his cruel lord was bound,
And left to die in a great chest; and how
The busy bees, up coming from the meadows
To the sweet cedar, fed him with soft flowers,
Because the Muse had filled his mouth with nectar.
Yes, all those sweets were thine, blessed Comatas
And thou wast put into the chest, and fed
By the blithe bees, and passed a pleasant time.
Would that in my time also thou wert living,
That we might keep our flocks upon the Mountain,
And I might hear thy voice, while thou shouldst lie
Under the oak-trees or the pines, and modulate
Thy pipe deliciously, divine Comatas.”
Here ended he his song, and thus in turn
I took up mine:—“Dear Lycidas, the Nymphs
Have taught me also, while I kept my flocks,
Excellent subjects; and the best of all
I’ll tell you now, since you are dear to them.”
Theocritus here commences his recitation in turn, the subject of which is an unsuccessful passion of his friend Aratus, supposed to be the contemporary poet of that name, author of the Phænomena:—
“—’Twas on the unlucky side the Loves sneezed to me,
For I love Myrto, as the goats love spring,
But to no purpose. Meanwhile too, Aratus,
My best of friends, becomes in love with Pholoe.
Aristis has long known it,—good Aristis,
To whom Apollo’s self would not disdain
To play his harp from his own golden seat.—
O Pan, who gained by lot the lovely grounds
Of Homole,—Oh, send her to his arms,
Her, or another girl as beautiful!
Oh, do but so, and the Arcadian youth
Shall scourge thee not with squills, when they have miss’d
Their hunted game:—but if thou dost it not,
Thou shalt be flayed, and sent to sleep in straw:
In mountains and by rivers of the north
Mid winter shalt thou pass; and then in summer
Be changed to utmost Æthiopia, there
To tend thy flocks under the Blemyan rock,
Where thou canst see not Nile.[20]—But you, ye Loves,
With your sweet apple cheeks, leave the moist nooks
Of Hyetis and Byblis and fly up
To Venus’s own heaven, and thence, ah thence,
Shoot with your arrows for me this desir’d one,
Shoot,—since she pities not my friend and guest.
Riper is she than the moist pear; and yet
The women say to her, ‘Alas, alas,
Your flower will wither, Pholoe, on the stalk!’
Come then, Aratus; let us lie no more
At these proud doors, nor wear our feet with journeys;
But let another, if he chooses, start
With sleepless eyes to hear the crowing cock;
And leave such labours to the wrestler Molon.
Care we for nought but comfort: let us seek
Some ancient dame, who, muttering o’er a charm,
Shall keep away from us all things unkindly.”
I ended; and with one of his old smiles,
He gave me his poetic gift, the olive-stick;
And turning to the left, struck off for Pyxa.
We then went on to Phrasidamus’s,—
Eucritus, I, and the good little Amyntas,—
And gladly rested upon deep thick couches
Of lentisk, and of vine-leaves freshly cut.
Above our heads a throng of elms and poplars
Kept stirring; and from out a cave o’ the Nymphs
A sacred runnel, pouring forth, ran gurgling.
Hot in the greenest leaves, labour’d away
Those chatterers the cicadas; the sad tree-frog
Kept his good distance in the thorny bush;
The larks and linnets sang; the stock-dove mourned;
And round the fountain spun the yellow bees:
All things smelt rich of summer, rich of autumn:
Pears were about our feet, and by our side
Apples on apples roll’d; the boughs bent down
To the very earth with loads of damson plums;
And from the casks of wine of four years old,
We broke the corking pitch.—O ye who keep
Parnassus’ top, ye Nymphs of Castaly,
Did ever Chiron, in the rocky cave
Of Pholos, set such goblets before Hercules?
Did ever that old shepherd of Anapus,
Great Polyphemus, who could throw the rocks,
Compose such nectar to go dance withal,—
As on that day ye broached for us, O Nymphs,
Before the altar of Earth’s generous Mother?
Oh, may I riot in her heaps again
With a great winnow; while she stands and smiles,
Holding, in either hand, poppies and wheat.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BION.