Nor Pelopians, and their boldest;
Nor Pelasgians, Greece's oldest.
Bless us then, Adonis dear,
And bring us joy another year;
Dearly hast thou come again,
And dearly shalt be welcomed then.
GORGO. Well; if that's not a clever creature, trust me! Lord! what a quantity of things she knows!
And what a charming voice!-T is time to go, though,
For there's my husband has 'nt had his dinner,
I'd best come across him when he wants it!
Good bye, Adonis, darling. Come again.
SPECIMENS OF THE PATHOS AND PASTORAL OF THEOCRITUS. THE CYCLOPS IN LOVE.-POETICAL FEELING AMONG UNEDUCATED CLASSES IN THE SOUTH.-PASSAGES FROM THEOCRITUS'S FIRST IDYLL. HIS VERSIFICATION AND MUSIC.-PASTORAL OF BION AND MOSCHUS.
pathos, and conclude with him as the Prince of Pastoral. We shall find the one leading to the other, or rather identified with it, for Polyphemus was himself a shepherd, and all his imagery and associations are drawn from pastoral life. Our English, it is to be borne in mind, is not the Greek. The poet must have all the
benefit of that admission. But at any rate we have done our best not to spoil the original with such artificial modes of speech as destroy all pathos; and feeling has a common language everywhere, which he who is thoroughly moved by it, can never wholly misrepresent.
The story is that of Polyphemus under the circumstances alluded to in our second chapter. It is addressed to the poet's friend Nicias, and is the earliest evidence of that particular personal regard for the medical profession, which is so observable in the history of men of letters; for Nicias was a physician.
There is no other medicine against love,
My Nicias (so at least it seems to me),
Either to cure it or to calm, but song.
That, that indeed is balmy to men's minds,
And sweet; but 't is a balm rare to be found;
Though not by you, my friend, who are at once
Physician, and belov'd by all the Nine.
It was by this the Cyclops liv'd among us,
I mean that ancient shepherd, Polypheme,
Who lov'd the sea-nymph, when he budded first
About the lips and curling temples;-lov'd,
Not in the little present-making style,
With baskets of new fruit and pots of roses,
But with consuming passion. Many a time
Would his flocks go home by themselves at eve,
Leaving him wasting by the dark sea-shore;
And sun-rise would behold him wasting still.
Yet ev'n a love like his found balm in verse,
For he would sit, and look along the sea,
And from his rock pipe to some strain like this:
O my white love, my Galatea, why Avoid me thus? O whiter than the curd,
Gentler than any lamb, fuller of play
Than kids, yet bitterer than the bright young grape,
You come sometimes, when sweet sleep holds me fast;
You break away, when sweet sleep lets me loose;
Gone, like a lamb at sight of the grey wolf.
Sweet, I began to love you, when you first
Came with my mother to the mountain side
To gather hyacinths. I show'd the way;
And then, and afterwards, and to this hour,
I could not cease to love you; you, who care
Nothing about my love-Great Jove! no, nothing.
Fair one, I know why you avoid me thus:
It is because one rugged eyebrow spreads
Across my forehead, solitary and huge,
Shading this eye forlorn. My nose, too, presses
Flat tow'rds my lip. And yet, such as I am,
I feed a thousand sheep; and from them drink
Excellent milk; and never want for cheese
In summer, nor in autumn, nor dead winter,
Dairies I have, so full. I can play, too,
Upon the pipe, so as no Cyclops can,
Singing, sweet apple mine, of you and me,
Often till midnight. And I keep for you
Four bear's whelps, and eleven fawns with collars.
Come to me then, for you shall have them all.
Let the sea rake on the dull shore. Your nights
Would be far sweeter here, well hous'd with me.
The place is beautiful with laurel trees,
With cypresses, with ivy, and the vine,
The dulcet vine and here, too, is a stream,
Heavenly to drink, the water is so cold.
The woody Etna sends it down to me
Out of her pure white snows. Who could have this,
And choose to live in the wild salt-sea waves?
Perhaps, when I am talking of my trees,
You think me ruder than the trunks? more rough ;
More rugged-bodied? Ah, they keep me warm ;
They blaze upon my hearth; yet, I could lose
Warmth, life, and all, and burn in the same fire,
Rather than dwell beside it without you.
Nay, I could burn the eye from out my head,
Though nothing else be dearer.
Alas! that I was born a finless body,
And cannot dive to you, and kiss your hand;
Or, if you grudg'd me that, bring you white lilies,
And the fresh poppy with its thin red leaves.
And yet not so; for poppies grow
in summer,
Lilies in spring; and so I could not, both.
But should some coaster, sweetest, in his ship
Come here to see me, I would learn to swim;
And then I might find out what joy there is
In living, as you do, in the dark deeps.
O Galatea, that you would but come;
And having come, forget, as I do now,
Here where I sat me, to go home again!
You should keep sheep with me, and milk the dams,
And press the cheese from the sharp-tasted curd.
It is my mother that's to blame. She never
Told you one kind, endearing thing of me,
Though she has seen me wasting day by day.
My very head and feet, for wretchedness,
Throb-and so let 'em; for I too am wretched.
O Cyclops, Cyclops, where are thy poor senses?
Go to thy basket-making; get their supper
For the young lambs. "Twere wiser in thee, far.
Prize what thou hast, and let the lost sheep go.
Perhaps thou'lt find another Galatea,
Another, and a lovelier; for at night
Many girls call to me to come and play,
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