Last Flowers: A Translation of Moschus and Bion [Reprint 2013 ed.] 9780674732308, 9780674731172

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LAST FLOWERS

LONDON : HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

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LAST FLOWERS A TRANSLATION OF MOSCHUS AND BION

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By

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HENRY HARMON

CHAMBERLIN

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M s Cambridge, (^Massachusetts

HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS 1

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937

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COPYRIGHT,

1937

B Y T H E P R E S I D E N T AND F E L L O W S OF H A R V A R D C O L L E G E

P R I N T E D A T T H E H A R V A R D U N I V E R S I T Y PRESS C A M B R I D G E , MASS., U . S. A .

To

SETH PADELFORD REMINGTON

aiaî rai μαλάχαί

μέν, έπαν κατά καπον

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ήδί τα χλωρά σίΚινα τό τ' eWakès ουλον ανηθον, νστΐρον αδ 'ζώοντι κ ai eis (TOS άλλο

φύοντι

PREFACE O n e summer an enormous poppy bloomed for me, dwarfing the plant that produced it; a gorgeous blossom of fiery crimson, shading to a somber purple at the base. Butterflies fluttered about it, and bees flew to it for pollen. While it lasted, it was the pride of the garden. W h e n the petals withered and the heart went to seed, I hardly thought the little plant would bloom again. But in a few days another flower appeared, much smaller, much more fragile, with grayish white petals edged with a pale crimson. And when this went by, there came a third blossom, a snow-white miniature, n o larger than an English daisy. T h i s too went by in turn, and the plant itself withered long before a u t u m n . T h e flowers of that plant have always reminded me of Theocritus, Moschus, and Bion — the first so gracious and so generous in his many-sided appeal; the second lighter and slighter, b u t still replete with charm; the third, a lyric cry on the brink of dissolution, the poignant music inherent in Greek poetry, even when diminished, and about to be extinguished and consigned to the limbo of dreams that were. If we know little about Theocritus, we know less about Moschus and Bion. Antiquity has classified all three of them as bucolic poets; but there is little of a pastoral nature in the surviving verses of the last two. According to Suidas, Moschus was born in Syracuse, and Bion was born at the village of Phlossa in the neighborhood of Smyrna. According to a scholiast of the Palatine Anthology, Moschus antedated Bion. We are vii

further informed by Suidas that Moschus was a grammarian and a pupil of Aristarchus, the famous Alexandrian critic of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Athenaeus may have referred to Moschus once, and Diogenes Laertius mentions Bion as a lyric poet. What the Επιτάφιος Βιώνις tells about his taking poison may or may not be true. Such is the sum and substance of external evidence for the lives of both. If Moschus was a younger contemporary of Aristarchus, he may have witnessed the impending ruin of Alexandria as a literary and intellectual center. If Bion came afterwards, he must have written when Rome dominated the Hellenistic world, when Sicily, Greece, and Macedonia had become Roman provinces, when the shepherds of Sicily and Arcadia were being herded into Roman slave pens, and when the mercantile classes, east and west, were being mulcted of their profits to swell the revenues of Roman senators and generals. The poetry of Hellas still lingered among the ruins of Hellenistic hopes, but the music had a dying fall. There is much lightheartedness about Moschus, and a dainty and delicate appreciation of nature. He cannot be called "simple, sensuous, and passionate," because his sensuousness is always sophisticated. T h e chief characteristic of Bion is a passionate melancholy, which at times seems Oriental rather than Greek. The verses of both are exquisitely wrought, but there is none of that subtle and profound delineation of character which distinguishes the work of their great predecessor. You can never make friends with either of them as you can make friends with Theocritus. You can sometimes smile at their cleverness, but you never can laugh at their humor, because it is not there. viii

Bion is best known for his Dirge of Adonis; and Moschus, curiously enough, for a poem he never wrote, the Elegy on the Death of Bion. If Moschus preceded Bion by a number of years, it is not very probable that he wrote a poem on Bion's death. The Elegy was apparently composed by a native of Magna Graecia, an Ausonian, as he calls himself. The plaintive and tremulous beauty of his lines has a very different sound from anything else that has come to us as the work of Moschus. But both the Elegy and the Dirge have reverberated through the corridors of the Renaissance down to our own day and generation. Whatever we may think of them, they form for English-speaking people an important literary background. It may be amusing, however, to listen to the opinions of two eminent connoisseurs. The first is J . W. Mackail, M.A., LL.D., "sometime fellow of Balliol College and Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford." Here is what he says of the two poems (incidentally, he takes the untenable position that Moschus wrote the Elegy) : "Bion of Smyrna is imitative and Asiatic: as workmanship, adroit; as poetry, valueless. . . . The Adonisdirge is so uninspired that it suggests something produced by machinery. . . . Moschus is immortal as the author of one poem, the elegy on Bion. That lovely wail by the Sicilian waters, so unapproachable in its languorous but piercing beauty, . . . is not only a lament for Bion; it is a lament for Greek poetry." Now turn to M. Ph. E. Legrand, Professeur à la Faculté des Lettres de l'Université de Lyon and Correspondent de l'Institut, who has given us one of the best editions of the Greek Bucolic Poets, and composed an exhaustive and authoritative treatise on Theocritus. Here is what he says of the Dirge of Adonis: ix

" W h e n all due reservations are made, it would be wrong to mistake the merits of this poem and to resist its charm. . . . T h e picture of the dying Adonis and, further on, that of Adonis lifeless on the couch where he has been so many times a lover, moves us by its contrast between youth and beauty and pitiless destruction, between present agony and the brutal annihilation of former joys. T h e passionate cries . . . of poor Aphrodite, who, being a goddess, only finds her anguish the harder to bear, have an incontestable accent of truth." And here is what M. Legrand says of the Elegy: " T h e author was doubtless a cultivated man, well versed in literary history and the poetry of his time, and knowing what it was fashionable to know. . . . He was a good versifier, trained in the school of Bion. As a poet, he does not amount to much. . . . He is sometimes graceful and always clever. Otherwise one finds an excessive verbosity and a tiresome abuse of iteration." W h o shall decide when doctors disagree? You pays your money and you takes your choice. It may be just as well to let the translations speak for themselves. My method of translation is the same as I have adopted in the case of Theocritus. Many scholars believe that prose is the best medium for translating Greek poetry. I will not say what I think of such a notion, except to record my unqualified dissent. Poetry can never be adequately put into prose, whether Greek poetry or any other. When you try to put poetry into prose, you break the mold and dispel the illusion. " W h e n the lamp is shattered, the light in the dust lies dead." In the present translation, I have shunned the dead dust of prose. In so far as my talents allow, I have tried to put myself in the place of the poets and their χ

audience, and to reproduce the effect they made upon their readers. Inasmuch as my own audience will be one to which the English tongue is native, I have tried to gain my effect by the medium of English verse. In translating Bion and Moschus, I have not the excuse of an appeal to modern taste that I had in the case of Theocritus. There is much in Theocritus to interest people who know less of poetry than of the actual life about them. He has the same tone of perpetual modernity that you find in Chaucer or in Robert Burns. But Moschus and Bion follow the poetic tradition; they are no more modern than Milton or Matthew Arnold. Moreover, in translating Theocritus my path was relatively clear. For Moschus and Bion, I have some formidable competitors. Spenser and Shelley have rendered several of these poems into English. Before their genius anybody would quail. But they give one ray of comfort to the translator. Neither Spenser nor Shelley ever undertook to reproduce the original in prose. For them Greek poetry required translation in the language of poetry, and of poetry alone. They knew their Greek; it it not outside the bounds of possibility that they might have known something about poetry.

XI

ACKNOWLEDGMENT If it were humanly possible, I should like to make a fitting acknowledgment to Professor Charles Burton Gulick for his kindly encouragement and incisive criticism. His distinguished scholarship, which is equaled only by his exceptional modesty, has been of more help than I can say, especially in the case of my attempt at translating Hermesianax.

CONTENTS MOSCHUS PAGES

FUGITIVE

LOVE

3

EUROPA

7

SEA A N D W O O D L A N D

ig

PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR

21

ARETHUSA AND ALPHEUS

23

LOVE AT THE PLOW

25

BION DIRGE F O R ADONIS

29

T H E COUCH OF DEIDAMEIA

37

FOUR FRAGMENTS

44

CUI

BONO

45

L O V E AND T H E MUSES

47

EROS A T

49

SCHOOL

T O T H E E V E N I N G STAR

51

HAPPY

54

LOVE

LOVERS AND THE

FOWLER

55

TO APHRODITE

57

THREE

58

FRAGMENTS

T H E SPRING O F T H E Y E A R

59

TWO

6l

FRAGMENTS

T H E AUSONIAN E L E G Y ON T H E D E A T H O F BION

65

HERMESIANAX PART OF THE PROLOGUE OF THE LEONTIUM

.

. XV

75

MOSCHUS

I

FUGITIVE LOVE T H I S S P O R T I V E little piece was a favorite with the Renaissance. In 1470, Poliziano, the friend and tutor of Lorenzo de' Medici, put it into Latin hexameters. His translation was retranslated in Italian terzine by Messer Girolamo Benivieni, whose works were published in Venice in 1524. According to E. K., commentator on Spenser, it was "verie well translated in English rimes"; and it was Frenchified by Clement Marot, the protégé of la Reine Margot, under the title of L'Amour Fugitif. Whether Marot had his eye on the Greek text, we do not know; but we can be more certain in the case of Tasso, who nearly half a century later expanded the original into his Amore Fugitivo, for the A b b a t e Serassi, a noted critic in his day, has told us in 1796 that he then owned a copy of Theocritus signed and annotated by Tasso himself. Such an edition must have contained the other Bucolica. Tasso was evidently pleased with Moschus' fancy, for he also worked it into the prologue of the Aminta. His adaptation was taken over by Spenser for the Faerie Queene (III, 6), and finally Ben Jonson used the original in his Hue and Cry after Cupid. A l l this literary baggage seems rather a heavy load for one little poem to carry. T h e escapades of the little Eros were very popular in late Alexandrian verse. Many were the verses, and many were the escapades.

ALOUD for her son Eros, Cypris cries: "Whoever meets with Eros on the way, My fugitive reporting, wins a prize, Even a kiss from Cypris for your pay. But stranger, if you lead him to my door, No naked kiss you'll get, but something more. " T h e child is one any could recognize Out of a crowd of twenty; nothing fair His skin, but like the fire; his shining eyes Are keen with crafty gleam beyond compare. His mind is wicked, but he prattles sweet. Unlike his thoughts the words he will repeat. "A voice of honey, but a mind of gall; Untamed that stripling, but with manners smooth; Deceptive in his nature all in all, He never yet was known to speak the truth; A sportive little playmate, bright and gay; But ever ruthless in his sport and play. "His locks are lustrous and his forehead bold; His hands and arms are small, but he can throw As far as Acheron; his missiles hold Forward and down to Hades' king they go. His body is all naked, but his mind Covers ideas that you can never find. 4

"Winged like a bird, he'll make a sudden dart, One to another, man or maid alike; And settle down and perch upon the heart. His bow is small; his arrow sharp to strike. His midget arrow up to Heaven will bear His message through the region of the air. "Upon his back a quiver gilded o'er Holds bitter shafts that often wounded me. All this is cruel indeed, but even more Cruel his torch; though tiny it may be, That lamp can start a conflagration dire T h a t Helios himself will set afire. "If you should catch him, hold him fast and bind; Nor pity him at all, though weeping sore; Beware the subtle schemes he has in mind. And if he laughs, drag him along once more; But if he tries to kiss you as a friend, Flee him as you would flee pain without end. "His kiss is evil; for a venomous charm Is on his lips; and if he chance to say, 'Take you these weapons that Mankind alarm; Freely to you I give them all away!' Touch not those gifts even with your fingertips, For one and all alike in flame he dips."

II

EUROPA T H I S IS the most elaborate of all the poems which, with any degree of probability, can be ascribed to Moschus. M. Legrand has happily styled it un joli conte bleu, a pretty fairy story. It has the same sort of appeal as its modern counterpart in the Tanglewood Tales. But the fascination of its lines reminds one at times of a more sophisticated Keats. Europa's flower bowl may have been modeled on the shields of Homer and Hesiod, or on the drinking cup of Thyrsis. Objection has been made that a large object of metal and enamel would be much too heavy for a girl to carry into a pasture. But we must not forget that we are in fairyland, where anything can happen. As Europa herself remarks, bulls do not usually walk on water, any more than dolphins go on dry land. Europa is mentioned in Homer (II, xiv, 321), in Hesiod (Theog. 357), and in the Battle of Frogs and Mice (73-74)· Reference is made to her by Lycophron and by a lady of the name of Praxilla who was noted for convivial ditties. Her story is briefly told by Herodotus (I, 2) and by a scholiast on the T e n t h Book of the Iliad. Aeschylus used her name for the title of a play which survives only in a small and broken fragment. A n d she was the heroine of poems by Stesichorus, Simonides, and Bacchylides of which not a vestige remains. So we cannot tell how closely Moschus followed in the footsteps of his predecessors when he too made her a heroine. Horace painted her fears and forebodings in darker and deeper colors (Carm. I l l , 27); Ovid refers to her twice in the Metamorphoses (II, 832 ff.; VI, 104 ft.)

and once in the Fasti (V, 608 ff.), where his description is closely akin to that of Moschus. T h r o u g h Hellenistic a n d R o m a n times, E u r o p a and the B u l l inspired a great m a n y works of art, such as medals, gems, vases, a n d frescoes. T h e voyage from Sidon to Crete, w i t h the girl on the back of the bull and Poseidon w i t h his sea nymphs and monsters in attendance, probably adorned the walls of many a sumptuous Mediterranean home. Relatively m o d e m poets have made their bow to E u r o p a — a m o n g them Dante, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Spenser, A n d r é Chenier, and W a l t e r Savage L a n d o r . Perhaps the daintiest miniature was painted by T e n n y s o n in his Palace of Art: Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped, From off her shoulder backward borne; From one hand drooped a crocus: one hand grasped The mild bull's golden horn.

8

O N C E T O E U R O P A sweetly came a dream By Cypris sent, when the last third of Night Its course commences near the Dawn's first gleam; And more than honey-sweet is Sleep's delight T o sit upon men's eyelids, and their sight As with a soft and soothing chain is bound, And dreams that all come true swarm all around. Fast in an upper room slept Phoenix' daughter, Europa, still a maid, who thought to see T w o continents, the land across the water And Asia, striving for her custody; And either like a woman seemed to be; One was a stranger from an alien strand And one was like a native to the land, Who claimed the girl her very own by right, As born from her and nurtured day by day; T h e other came with heavy-handed might And seized the maid and carried her away, Though not against her will, as who would say It was Europa's fate to be the prize Of Aegis-bearing Zeus, Lord of the Skies. Out of her bed she leapt in sudden fright, And wildly throbbed her heart; what seemed to be A figment of a vision of the night Was still before her like reality. Long in dread darkness sitting silently 9

Both women she beholds with open eyes, Till, lifting u p her voice, the maiden cries: "Who of the heavenly born sent down this doom On me? What dreams have roused me from my bed, While sweetly I was sleeping in my room? What stranger did I see ere Sleep had fled? Oh! how my heart by her was ravishèd, And oh! how tenderly she looked and smiled, Lifting me u p as if I were her child! "But O ye blest! fulfill my dreams for me Unto my good!" So saying the girl uprose And went to seek a maiden company Of her own age. Well born were all of those; With her they sported when the dance she chose, Or when from mountain rills her skin would glow, Or far afield for lilies she would go. Quickly they all came forth, each in her hand A flower basket; to the flowery mead That nearest stretched beside the salt sea strand They went, as they had always gone indeed, A careless throng, following Europa's lead So that they all together might rejoice In bloom of roses, and the waves' deep voice. Europa bore a basket woven of gold, Craftily wrought and wonderful to see, Hephaestus' masterpiece which he of old Gave unto Lybia at the hour when she Must in Poseidon's bed his leman be; 10

Which she to Telephassa, her own blood, Had given as fairest of all womanhood. She on Europa, not as then a bride, Her mother would a famous gift bestow. Full many a form upon the front and side Was traced with inlay of a wondrous glow; Here Io born of Inachus, her woe Was wrought in gold; a heifer she must be Nor yet again a woman fair to see. With frantic feet beyond the salt sea strand She seemed to swim; deep azure was that sea Of metal; divers men on either hand From two tall headlands watched her constantly; And here the son of Cronos tenderly Strokes her where sevenfold Nile flows down the plain And she becomes a woman once again. T h e river Nile was silver; and the cow Was bronze; and Zeus himself was burnished gold. Upon the rounded edge was Hermes now Imaged, and wounded Argus you behold Stretched out with sleepless eyes and manifold; Out of his purple blood a bird upsprings With flower-like hues upon his gorgeous wings. And over all that work he spreads his tail Proudly unfurled like some swift ship at sea T h a t rides the swelling waves under full sail; And all the basket's rim would covered be With glistering gold, fine wrought and craftily; 11

Such was the basket for Europa there, Europa still a virgin, wondrous fair. When all the maids are come to flowery meads, Each from another flower will pleasure get; With one the odor of narcissus pleads; T h e hyacinth one, and one the violet; One the wild thyme, with savor well beset; For many are the blossoms that abound By Springtide nourished in the fertile ground. And some the flowers of meadow saffron cull Which for that contest plentifully grows; And still among them all most beautiful A little way apart their leader goes T o pluck the splendor of the flaming rose; As 'mid the Graces will superbly roam, Preeminent, the Daughter of the Foam. Not long it was her fate among the flowers, Delighting of her soul, to be beguiled; Not long amid the pleasant passing hours T o guard her maiden girdle undefiled; For now as at a signal Cronos' child Spied her and was by Cypris' dart laid low, For she alone can even Zeus o'erthrow. He, to escape mad Hera's jealousy, And to beguile a maiden's guileless mind, Concealed the form of his divinity And changed him to a bull; but not the kind T h a t men would munching in a stable find, Nor one who cuts the furrows with curved plows, Nor one who goes to pasture with the cows, 12

Nor harness-broken draws a laboring wain; All otherwise was he, with saffron hide; Upon his brow a circle shone again Like silver; with desire his eyes were wide; Equally curved his horns at either side Over his head, under the light of morn Like semicircle of Selene's horn. He to the meadow came, nor struck with fright T h e girls when he before them would appear; But every maiden longed with all her might, With her own hand to touch the lovely steer; T o that delighted throng still drawing near, Ambrosial perfume all his body yields And overcomes the fragrance of the fields. He stayed his steps before Europa fair; He licked her neck to charm an innocent Maiden; she fondled him with tender care And wiped the foam from off his lips; and bent Forward and kissed the bull; in blandishment He softly bellows; surely you will say Mygdonian music on the flute he'll play. Kneeling before her feet he turned his head And gazed upon Europa, showing there His ample back; she glanced about and said Unto her maidens long and thick of hair: "Hither, dear comrades of my age! Come share My joy. We all will ride upon the bull And so we'll take our pleasure at the full. " W e all will make our bed upon his back; And certainly to him we'll welcome be; 13

Of grace and gentleness he has no lack; Unlike all other bulls he seems to me. His mind is like a man's as all may see. His wits he has about him of wide reach, He needs alone the power of human speech." She sat her down upon his back and smiled; T h e rest got ready; but right speedily T h e bull uprose; the girl he had beguiled He bore away and went down to the sea; She called her dear companions plaintively, Turning about and raising either hand; But none could ever come to her on land. Down to the beach he ran and on and on; Like any dolphin o'er the waves went he; No drop of the salt water touched upon His hoofs; there came great calm upon the sea; Before the feet of Zeus most joyfully All round about him gamboled many a whale; And dolphins from the depths, head over tail. And many a Nereid rising from the brine On whale-back ranged about him in parade; Even the loud Earth-Shaker traced his line Across the billows as a path he made For his own brother, while about him played Tritons who blew their conches loud and long; Over the deep they played a wedding song. She, sitting on the back of Zeus the Bull, Grasped one great horn; over her belt would she With the other hand her purple vestment pull Above the drenching waters of the sea. 14

T h e mantle of Europa suddenly Billowed about her shoulders like a sail. Lightly she rode before the favoring gale. Now she had gone so far, she could not view A single trace of her dear fatherland; No headland looming o'er the waters blue, No breakers raging on a distant strand; Above her was the air; on every hand Below her stretched the vastness of the sea. So spake she, glancing round her fearfully: "Where do you carry me, O Bull divine? What are you? How above these waves, a dread For cattle, can you go, nor fear the brine? The sea has roads for ships; but bulls instead Tremble before the waves where ships are sped. What drink is sweet, what food tastes good to you? Ah! you must be a god, such deeds to do. "No dolphins of the sea will walk on ground; No bullocks ever trod the sea before; But you by land and sea with leap and bound Are unafraid; and every hoof an oar; Soon in the misty air you'll dart and soar; And like the rapid birds you'll beat your wing; Ah me! I have no luck in anything. "Far, far behind I left my father's home; Following a bull, I strangely go to sea; Lonely I wander o'er the salt sea foam; Earth-Shaker, pray you now propitious be! Lord of the white-capped waves, I think to see 15

You now before me. Do not let me stray. Not without gods I go my watery way." Then spoke the bullock with the splendid horn: "Have courage, maiden. Never fear the main. For I am Zeus, and I a god was born, Though here a bull I tread the watery plain; And I become whatever I am fain T o be. Desire for you, O beautiful, Has made me walk the billows like a bull. "And Crete will soon be shown to you full fair; Where I was nurtured, you shall be a bride; And you for me most goodly sons will bear, The rumor of whose fame goes far and wide. Unto them all shall royalty betide; And all bear scepters o'er the men of earth; Glory to all to whom you shall give birth." He spoke, and what he spoke was all fulfilled. Crete came in sight; and Zeus his form again Put on; and loosed her girdle as he willed; The Hours prepared their couch upon the plain; Nor were their nuptial vows performed in vain. She was a bride who was a maid before And to the son of Cronos children bore.

16

SHORT POEMS O F T H E S H O R T E R P O E M S of Moschus, the first and the last are to be f o u n d respectively in the Palatine Anthology and the Planudean Appendix. T h e others are quoted by Stobaeus.

IV

SEA AND WOODLAND W O R D S W O R T H might have written this lyric. Shelley made it over into a sonnet whose cadences, tinged with a romantic melancholy, suggest Shelley rather than Moschus.

W H E N tremulous breezes, breathing o'er the deep, Scarcely a ripple raise on the blue sea, My timid spirits joyfully upleap, And all the land unfriendly seems to me. T h e great sea woos me with a wild desire, And the salt brine has set my soul afire. But when the gray deep rises and resounds, And the long, curving billows foam and roar, I flee the brine and seek earth's kindly bounds, And eagerly I gaze upon the shore. Ah, then, most welcome is the land for me, And the green woods and every shady tree. Even if much wind blows, the pine tree sings; Hard is the fisher's life, for he must dwell In a frail skiff. Fishes are slippery things; And heavy are the waves that rise and swell, But I will sleep under a leafy plane Far from the tempest and the boundless main. T h e sweet soft music of a bubbling spring In sheltered forest glade, I love to hear; Forever drowsy with that murmuring I hearken to a tune that still comes near: And pleasant to the rustic is a voice T h a t never will harass him with wild noise. 20

ν PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR T H I S I N C I S I V E little poem is the first link of the love chain which later wound its way through pastoral drama, Italian and English, to find its crowning glory in the Midsummer Night's Dream. Horace forged a conspicuous link (Carm. I, 31). Shelley translated it into three quatrains, but as usual has tinged with his own mournful and impetuous spirit the equable cheerfulness of the original.

PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR P A N yearned for Echo in a neighboring cave; But Echo for a leaping Satyr yearned; For Lydè fair, the Satyr's love must rave; T h u s Echo, Pan; the Satyr, Echo burned; Lydè, the Satyr; smouldering fire unsated Of Love reciprocal for each would burn; For each and all, when loved, the lover hated, A n d all who loved were hated in their turn. So all must suffer, even as they wrought; I therefore now would say unto you all T h a t very plain a lesson here is taught, For any that Love never held in thrall. If, when you love, you fain would get Love's due, Love kindly whomsoever may love you.

22

VI

ARETHUSA AND ALPHEUS S H E L L E Y may have found in this lyric a hint for the dazzling splendors of his Arethusa, and Virgil evidently had it in mind when he began his Tenth Eclogue (1-5).

ALPHEÜS on his way down to the sea From Pisa right to Arethusa goes; Water he brings for the wild olive tree And bridal gifts, while still he onward flows, Fair leaves and flowers and dust, whose sacred source Is in Olympia; deep below the brine Under the waves, he runs upon his course; Water with water never will combine; Nor knows the Sea the journey of the River. O Eros! knavish boy, whose projects thrive With magic potions, working mischief ever, You even have taught a River how to dive.

24

VII

LOVE AT THE PLOW T H I S E P I G R A M has been ascribed to Moschus in the Planudean Appendix (A. P. xvi 200). Many scholars aver that the compiler attributed it to Moschus because of its mention of Europa and the Bull. T h e r e have been many translations, from the dawn of the Renaissance to the outbreak of the French Revolution. Extremes have met in excellence, the limpid Latin elegiacs of Poliziano, and the dainty French Alexandrines of André Chenier.

LOVE AT THE PLOW HIS T O R C H and bows alike are put away; A cattle goad he grasps with might and main; Eros, who strikes mankind with dread dismay, A wallet on his shoulders now is fain T o strap; the sturdy necks of bullocks twain He yokes; for Deo's furrow he would sow; And glancing up to Zeus he says: "With grain Make these plowed fields at harvest overflow, Or I Europa's steer under my plow will throw."

26

BION

I

THE DIRGE FOR ADONIS L I K E I T S F O R E R U N N E R in the Fifteenth Idyll of Theocritus, the Dirge for Adonis is of interest to antiquarians, as well as to lovers of poetry. T h e surge of its wild Oriental music can only be very imperfectly rendered in the accents of an alien tongue. αίάζω TOP "Αδωνιν" ' air ώ\ erο καλοί "Atte JUS' ' 'ώλίτο Ka\òs "Αδωm ' ίπαιάξova lv "Epcores· So run the opening lines of the Greek. You can hear the frenzied outcries of the women who crowded the courtyard of the vast temple of Astarte at Byblus, their lamentations accompanied by the wail of the Syrian flutes; or such outcries might have shrilled through the mountain fastness of the sanctuary of Aphrodite at Paphos, founded, so the legend goes, by Cinyras, the Syrian king. Such cries as these grow faint and indistinct in translation, either by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, whose anapaests at times approximate the lively lilt of the Bab Ballads, or by John Addington Symonds in his Evangelinistic hexameters. Even the genius of Shelley failed to reproduce that volume of sound in the Adonais, where he performed anew an ancient ritual to commemorate another immortal. T h e first twenty-eight stanzas of the Adonais consist, for the most part, of passages taken from the Dirge for Adonis and the Elegy on the Death of Bion. Those from the Dirge outnumber those from the Elegy by more than two to one, though Shelley has made honors even by heading his preface with four lines from the Elegy which state that Bion died of

poison —lines which further on he puts into English and ascribes metaphorically to Keats. In the Adonais, Aphrodite becomes Urania and the little loves are transformed into swift winged spirits that had their being in Keats's imagination. Such were the two Hellenistic sources from which the Adonais takes it flight, to soar at last into an impassioned contemplation of the Universe that was inspired by Plato. T h e locale of Bion's Dirge is indeterminate. T h e word κνθήρα (35) may indicate the island of Cythera, a few miles off Cape Malea, the southern promontory of Greece. But the text is debatable and the reference vague. Elsewhere in the poem, Adonis is called an Assyrian (24). T h e scenery appears rather grandiose for the little island of Cythera. It seems more appropriate for the ruggedness of Cyprus; and perhaps even more so for Mount Lebanon, in the neighborhood of Aphaca, whose woodland groves are a day's journey inland from Byblus. Here in a mountain glen, Adonis was said to be slain in the springtide of every year. And here, at the foot of a tremendous precipice, is the source of the River Adonis, which, reddened by the earth from spring freshets, cascades down rocky steeps and rushes through the luxuriant vegetation of a fertile valley to the distant sea. T h e waters of the river, so the people used to believe, were tinged by the blood of the god. And every year, through gorge and ravine, resounded the lamentations of his festival, as the sacred rites of his passion, his death, and his resurrection were practiced by his votaries.

30

I MOURN Adonis, lovely Adonis slain; Lovely Adonis slain, the Loves bewail. Slumber no more 'neath purple counterpane! Wake, Cypris, to your woe, and the black veil Put on; and beat your breast with might and main; And cry to all men: "Lovely Adonis slain!" "Wail for Adonis," all the Loves bewail. Low in the hills, lovely Adonis lies, T h e fair white side gored with the tusk of white; Gently he breathes his last, to agonize Cypris; thick drops of blood as black as night Stain his fair flesh, whiter than Under his brow the light fades And from his lips, the tincture And there between them both,

wintry snows; from his eyes; of the rose; the last kiss dies;

No more may Cypris bear his kiss away; Yet would she kiss him lifeless, though he fail T o know her kiss, as dying there he lay. "Wail for Adonis," all the Loves bewail. Deep, deep the wound gaped in Adonis' thigh; But deeper in her heart was Cypris' wound; About the boy resounded in full cry T h e moaning bay of many a well-loved hound. 31

Loud wail the mountain nymphs; with loosened hair Would Aphrodite all the woodland rove, With garments torn and with her feet all bare, Onward and onward, frantic for her love. So as she sprang, her feet sharp brambles tore And drew the sacred blood; sharp was her cry While still the pathless forest onward bore Her down a long ravine, still hastening nigh, Still calling for her lord Assyrian, Her own dear boy, beloved beyond the rest; Rent was the sable garment she had on, Stripped to the middle, baring of her breast, By her torn hands, crossed with a bloody line, Her breast, once white as snow and proud and pale, Now for Adonis' sake incarnadine. "Woe! woe for Cytherea!" the Loves bewail. Slain was her man, and all her beauty slain; Lovely of form would Cypris always be While lived Adonis; when he died in pain No more was Cypris lovely fair to see. "Woe! woe for Cypris!" moans the mountain steep; Oaks in the forest moan Adonis' ills; For Aphrodite all the rivers weep; And all the little springs in all the hills Weep for Adonis; and the flowers grow red For grief; Cythera's isle from mountain side T o hidden glen bewails Adonis dead, And Aphrodite, when Adonis died. 32

"Woe! woe for Cytherea! Adonis slain!" "Adonis slain!" shrieks Fxho from a grove Out of a cavern far above the plain. Who would not weep for Cypris' tale of love? She saw Adonis prostrate on the ground; She saw the blood spurt from the listless thigh; And all too well she knew the staunchless wound; And loud she wailed, raising her palms on high: "Oh, stay with me, Adonis! Cruel fate Is yours, Adonis! Kiss me at the last! Let me embrace you ere it is too late! Mingle our lips, ere yet the moment's past. "Kiss me once more, Adonis. Give, ah, give Your love once more! Oh, give me one last kiss, One little kiss, Adonis, while you live! So your last breath shall win our final bliss! "Breathe once between my lips, so to my heart Once more your inmost soul may penetrate, Draining love's potion ere you will depart; Once more I'll drink your love, ere 'tis too late. "And I will guard your kiss, as if it were Yourself, Adonis! Lover, are you fled? Fled far, Adonis, from the upper air Down to dark Acheron among the dead, "Unto a cruel king, his hateful house; And I must live, a goddess I must be; I cannot follow you; alas, my spouse Persephone has reft away from me! 33

"For she is mightier than I by far; And all that's lovely, down to her must go; Cursed be my cruel fate and luckless star; Forever I must bear insatiate woe; "Forever mourn Adonis that he died, Fearing her power more than anything; Oh! thrice desired, now you have turned aside, And Passion, like a dream, has taken wing. "Forlorn is Cytherea; her dwelling place, Abandoned by the Loves, empty resounds! No more Love's girdle may her form embrace; Reckless, why went you hunting with the hounds? "So beautiful, how could your strife avail 'Gainst a wild beast?" So Cypris weeps in vain; And all around her, all the Loves bewail! "Weep, Cytherea! Lovely Adonis slain!" T h e Paphian tears fell fast; and down did rain Adonis' blood, each falling equally; Yet all from earth upstarted once again Each drop a flower, engendered on the lea; For blood, the rose; for tears, anemone. Wail for Adonis, lovely Adonis slain. No longer in the woods your man bemoan, Cypris! It is not well that he should lie Lone in the wilderness where leaves are strown Or trodden down by any passerby. Yours, Cytherea, the bridal bed, and yours Adonis' corse, by you and yours bewept; 34

Lovely his corse for whom your grief outpours, T h e corse most lovely, even as though he slept. When you and he were wearied in the night You slept together on a couch of gold, And hallowed were your slumbers with delight; Now even your couch is yearning to behold Adonis. Strew the blossoms garlanded; Adonis dying, all the blooms have died; Sprinkle the Syrian perfumes on the bed; He was the very perfume of your pride. Low lies Adonis in his youthful bloom, Decked with the purple raiment that he wore, When you would be his bride and he your groom. Loud wail the Loves about him evermore. Shorn locks they cast upon Adonis' bier; One casts the arrow down, the plume, the bow; And one the quiver; one would draw anear, For loosening of his sandal there below. Others pour water from a bowl of gold, T o wash his thigh; their pinions swift and frail Fan him; while yet again their tale is told. "Alas for Cytherea!" the Loves bewail. Now Hymen all the torches round the door Quenches; on earth he scatters all the flowers T h e bride and groom for bridal garlands wore; No longer he sings "Hymen" to the hours. 35

No longer Hymen sings his wonted song; But "Out! alas, Adonis!" now he cries; His lamentation rises loud and long; No bridal, but a dirge for one who dies. T h e Graces mourn the Son of Cinyras; "Lovely Adonis slain" their roundelay; And all their burden is "alas! alas!" No Paean of Praise upon the bridal day. Even the Fates now for Adonis wail, T o sing him back to life; but all in vain. He will not hear; his wish cannot prevail; For Korè will not bring him back again. Cease, Cytherea, today from grief and pain, Nor beat the breast for him you hold most dear. Nay, you shall mourn your lover once again When comes the Springtide of another year.

36

II

THE COUCH OF DEIDAMEIA T H E COUCH OF DEIDAMEIA, for all its conventional title of Epithalamium and its pastoral setting, is obviously a fragment of what M. Legrand calls un conte égrillard. Some critics doubt if Bion wrote it. At the request of a friend, who wanted to see how the story might have turned out, I have subjoined a sequel. For this attempt, Bion cannot be held accountable. But the curious may find some parallel passages in the Achilleid of Statius.

MYRSON

N O W PRAY YOU, Lycidas, a melody Sing sweetly, a Sicilian song for me, An amorous ditty charming every heart, As Cyclops Polyphemus would impart A song to Galatea on the strand. LYCIDAS

Full fain am I to take the pipes in hand; But, Myrson, say what would you have me sing? MYRSON

A song of Scyros more than anything I fain would hear from you, my Lycidas; Sweet, envied love and how it came to pass, T h e secret kisses of old Peleus' son, T h e secret couch, and how he once put on A woman's dress, how in that form beguiled Were Lycomedes' daughters by the child; How thoughtless Deidameia a woman-gowned Achilles in my lady's chamber found. LYCIDAS

Upon a day, alas, alack the day, A herdsman lovely Helen led astray, Oenone's woe, to Ida's mountain path; And all of Lacedaemon rose in wrath, 38

And not one single Greek, Laconian, Or Mycenean, or an Elian man, Would stay at home to shun the bane of war. Only Achilles hid himself afar W i t h Lycomedes' daughters beautiful. Instead of arms, he learned about the wool, T o do a maiden's work; his hands appeared As white as any maiden's born and reared. Upon his cheeks, the bloom of white and red; W i t h mincing gait, he like a maiden sped, W i t h maiden tresses filleted above; His heart a man's and like a man's his love. From dawn to dark, he'd ever sit or stand By Deidameia; and often kissed her hand; And lifting u p her web, her skill admired; And ate with her alone; and still desired W i t h her to sleep. So quickly he bestirred Himself and spoke to her with chosen word: "All other sisters slumber each with each; Alone am I; and you beyond my reach Slumber alone, dear nymph; and we are two Maidens of equal age; and fair are you And I am fair; and yet we sleep alone In separate beds. How worthless that old crone, Nysaea! with the ambush of her hate Both you and me to seek to separate, For I from you depart not in the day; Why in the night must we asunder stay?' SEOUEL -s.

T H E ROSE empurpled Deidameia's cheek As when the Dawn gray glimmering skies would seek; And soft and low she answered to his word: "But half a truth about Nysaea you heard, 39

Dear friend. She hates you not. 'Tis loving fear For me, though foolishness it may appear; But if you were Achilles' self instead Of his sweet sister, then a common bed Were reason she and I should be afraid. When you to Lycomedes came, fair maid, T h e lady Thetis vowed he was your brother. Tell me if you resemble one another As far as maiden can a youth resemble. Tell me the truth. With nameless dread I tremble. Are you the elder, or the elder he, And like to you as lovely fair to see?" Then spake Achilles to that maiden fair: "We are alike in shape and eyes and hair; And both were born upon the selfsame day, A double blossom on a single spray, I as a tender maiden fair to see, And he, the manly counterpart of me; But if he only glimpsed your gleaming hair More fain than I were he your couch to share." Then answered Deidameia: "And that were shame, And I, poor heedless girl, must bear the blame. But you, a blameless maid, may share my bed. When once Nysaea has all the couches spread And strown them all with covers, Tyrian dyed, You in your bed a little while abide, Till all is dark. Then to my chamber creep, And in my bed, together we will sleep." He answered only with a fleeting kiss Close pressed on her soft cheek in silent bliss. Then either from the other sprang away, T o join the dancing maidens at their play. 40

Now when Selene's steeds her golden car Bore halfway on her course, and every star Slow moving 'neath the dome of heaven's dark blue Gathered about her in her retinue; And old Nysaea at length had gone away T o rest her from the labors of the day; Soft stole Achilles to the inner room Where Deidameia slept like rose in bloom. Swiftly he slipped into the maiden's bed And clasped her close; and never a word he said, When first the nymph out of her slumber woke, Trembling like any aspen at a stroke Of lightning; as she oped her lips to scream, He stopped them with a kiss no maiden dream Had ever visioned. She was all afire With fear, astonishment, and wild desire. Sharp as an arrow smote a sudden pain; She tried to wrench away, but all in vain. And all too soon she knew 'twas all too late For her to bend the iron will of Fate; And she lay helpless, weeping in his arms, Subdued by fear and Eros' ruthless charms. "What are you," then she whispered, "frightful maid? Of these embraces I am sore afraid: Oh! pray not harm me more; for I am bound T o you! Can that sharp pain be Eros' wound?" For answer came the kiss of his desire, And all his words Avere winged with Eros' fire: "A man am I. A sister I have not. Achilles, I, an only child begot By Thetis unto Peleus; as a boy T o chase the mountain bear was still my joy. Now I can tell the truth, O trebly dear! 41

When first my Nereid mother haled me here, I came against my will. T h e clash of arms What man would shun? But when I saw your charms, Only desire for you my mind could move; And war was vanquished by the God of Love. For you alone a womanish disguise Have I put on, that none might recognize; With you alone forever I would live. My mother told me how the Fates would give In war or peace a double choice for me; Either to live long and ingloriously Or a short life with fame that cannot die. Of all sad mortals, doubly sad am I. Fate's gifts are curses! Who would not be loath T o choose Death's glory or ignoble sloth? Yet would I live with you and love at ease; T o sport with lusty children at our knees; From youth to age, each moment to enjoy. But Manhood tells me I shall go to Troy." MYRSON

Lycidas, all your melody for me Comes sweet as honey from the laden bee. Well worth our while to brave the siege of Troy If such a maiden either could enjoy. But Twilight draws apace; and Helios shines More gently o'er the hilltops, crowned with pines. T h e shadows lengthen slowly from the rocks. 'Tis time we wended homeward with our flocks.

42

SHORT POEMS AND FRAGMENTS THESE are quoted by Stobaeus in his Eclogues and Florelegiurn, with the exception of the last fragment, which is found among the maxims of the grammarian Orion.

FOUR FRAGMENTS III A WELL-WORN PROVERB C O N T I N U O U S drops are by experience shown T o hollow out a gutter in a stone. IV DEAR CHILD, it is not right that you should bring Orders to specialists for everything; Nor give away what work you have to do. Make your own pipes — an easy task for you. V LEAVE me not bare; for hire will Phoebus sing. Goods are worth more if they a premium bring. VI I KNOW N O T if it's right that we must yearn T o struggle after what we cannot learn.

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VII

CUI BONO EDWARD FITZGERALD was proficient in Greek; and I have often fancied that a Greek influence might be traced in his Persian original. At any rate, these verses are very Omarian.

IF IN MY D I T T I E S any beauty be, Those only I have fashioned heretofore W i l l bring me fame which Fate allotted me. If ill received, why trouble any more? If Zeus or fickle Fate a twofold life Had given, one for joy and one for pain, How quickly we would struggle through the strife If afterward we turned to mirth again. If the gods grant us to be once alive And that too briefly ere we must depart, W h y then in hapless labor should we strive, A n d toss away the soul for wealth and art? Why evermore for wealth should be our care? Are we forgetful of mortality? How short the time Fate gave us for our share, How soon our little lives must all pass by?

46

Vili

LOVE AND THE MUSES I T is remarkable how many of the shorter poems lend themselves to translation in sonnet form.

IûiHigi[g)i5iia)i5]ial5iËll|EjPIEina|lgp]|E¡ ιπΙΙΕτρίΕΐΡ] LOVE AND THE MUSES O F SAVAGE L O V E , the Muses have no fear; T h e i r hearts are his; they follow him at heel; A loveless soul they never will draw near, Nor teach a man whose heart can never feel. But if by Love's desire a mind is stirred, His ode will be the loveliest and the best. All spur him on to speed his every word; T h a t mine is wholly true, I can attest. For if another mortal I would sing, Or one of the immortals, then my tongue Will only babble aimless stammering And never as before I sing my song. But if I tell of Love and Lycidas, Spontaneous from my lips, sweet tunes will pass.

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IX

EROS AT SCHOOL ANDRÉ CHENIER has amplified and embellished this poem in his L'Amour et le Berger.

IS][g]|SlElÎSlΧll51|g|l51 Elisi [gl I5)[all51fgil5î

EROS AT SCHOOL BEFORE ME mighty Cypris took her stand; And silly Eros hanging of his head She guided onward with a shapely hand, And in my dream these words the goddess said: "Master of rustic song, take Love to school; Teach him the pastoral music." So she spake, And so departed. I, like any fool, Taught him as though he cared these songs to make; How How How How

Pan the pipes invented, fair and well; by Athena first the flute was made; Hermes wrought the lyre from tortoise shell; sweetly Apollo on the zither played.

T o all my words he gave but little heed; Instead the amorous ditties of light love He taught to me, his mother's every deed, And passion shared by men and gods above. All I have taught to Eros slipped my mind; But everything that Eros taught to me, Of lyric love I evermore shall find Reverberating in my memory.

δ»

χ TO THE EVENING STAR T H I S love lyric (or, as Bion would have called it, ίρωτυλον) has been paraphrased by André Chenier. T h e paraphrase is almost as exquisite as the original. There are two words in this poem which have no definite and precise meaning but may connote a number of things. They are used as Herrick used a word in his celebrated lines: Bid me to live and I will live, T h y protestant to be.

Exactly what is meant by protestant, we cannot determine. T h e epithet is surrounded by a varied aura of meanings which give a sort of glamour that has its own poetic value. T h e words thus employed by Bion are αγαλμα and κωμον. I have translated them respectively as emblem and joyance. "Αγαλμα means glory, delight, ornament, a gem, a statue of a god, any statue, or an image either in art or literature. It is here used much as Humptv Dumpty translated it when he talked to Alice in Looking-Glass Land. "There's glory for you." "I don't know what you mean by 'glory,' " Alice said. . . . "Of course you don't — till I tell you. I meant 'there's a nice knockdown argument for you!' " "But 'glory' doesn't mean a 'nice knockdown argument,' " Alice objected. "When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean. . . ." Similarly Bion has chosen a meaning for κωμον, but unlike Humpty Dumpty he has left the reader guessing. Κώμο* signifies a revel, carousal, merrymaking, a festal procession, a band of revelers, or an ode sung in the parade. Here it

seems to indicate a jolly entertainment, but the other meanings would flit through the reader's head and give him an impression of vague glamour. I am not aware of another instance where a Greek poet uses his words like Herrick or Humpty Dumpty, or indulges in a practice that was carried to extravagant lengths by Poe and the Symbolists, and to absurd and even crazy extremes by more modern socalled schools. But there may have been other such, especially when the Greek language had been spoken and written for centuries and the dialects had become mixed in the melting pot of the Alexandrian Museum.

52

TO THE EVENING STAR H E S P E R U S , gleaming with a golden light, Dear to the lovely Daughter of the Foam; Hesperus, sacred emblem of the night, Adorning the dark azure of her dome; Though paler than the moon, preëminent Over the stars, all hail to you, dear friend; T o me on joyance with my shepherd bent, Instead of moonbeams, pray your lantern lend. Selene, rising earlier in the day, Set all too soon. Not like a thief am I Come hither, nightly wanderers to waylay; For love's desire I seek love's company; And fair and well I pray you that you prove T o share the wished fulfillment of my love.

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XI

HAPPY the lovers equally beloved; Happy was Theseus when Peirithoiis Was by his side, or from his side removed He too went down to cruel Tartarus; Happy Orestes by the hostile sea For Pylades who chose forever thus On any road to bear him company; Achilles, scion of Aeacus, was blest When lived his friend, and happy in death was he, T h e doom avenged of one that he loved best.

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XII

LOVE AND THE FOWLER L O V E A N D T H E F O W L E R has been imitated by Spenser in the March Aeglogne of his Shepheard's Calender. The scene and spirit have been thoroughly Englished, even to the Lancashire dialect. Sir Philip Sidney, to whom the work was dedicated, did not "dare" to "allow the framing of the style to an old rusticke language." But even the disapproval of that "noble and virtuous gentleman" fails to detract from the perennial beauty of the poem.

LOVE AND THE FOWLER A F O W L E R , still a boy, in woodland grove Chasing the birds, espied upon a spray Of box, as on a perch, the God of Love; But Eros' face was turned the other way. At sight of him, the boy made blithe assay T o cast a snare about a bird so big, Which, still elusive, hopped from twig to twig. T h e child was vexed never to gain his end; His closely-plaited reeds away he threw; So to a plowman old his footsteps wend, W h o taught him all the handicraft he knew. Him the boy told the story fair and true And showed him Eros perched. T h e old man smiled And shook his head, thus answering the child: "Beware the game! that bird come never near. R u n fast and far away. Bad is the game; And lucky will you be if you keep clear, And never shall you try to catch the same. For if to man's estate you ever came, T h e bird that now away from you is sped, Would come back quick, and settle on your head."

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XIII

O B O R N in Cyprus, kindly child of Zeus Or of the Sea, how could you ever so Unkindly mortals and immortals use? Little I've said. Against yourself will go Your hate, who Love begot for all our woe, Fierce and relentless, naught alike in mind And body. Why on him did you bestow Those wings and arrows, whence we cannot find Any escape from bitter bale for humankind?

57

imîlBnBÏËIlBn^lSIIBllSlEJlSlIBll^IBllBIfBllBlfBllBlIBÛlSlISl

THREE XIV F O R W O M E N , b e a u t y b o t h i n f o r m a n d face, A n d strength f o r m e n w i l l always b e a grace. XV P R O B A B L Y a fragment from an idyll on the Cyclops and Galatea, mentioned in the Elegy on the Death of Bion. B U T I w i l l w e n d m y w a y a d o w n the slopes, S o f t s i n g i n g to the sands u p o n the b e a c h ; A n d heartless G a l a t e a I'll beseech; A n d I w i l l n o t a b a n d o n m y sweet h o p e s T h a t s o m e t i m e she m y passion m a y assuage U n t i l t h e v e r y last of gray o l d age. XVI S T O B A E U S tells us that these lines are quoted from a poem on Hyacinthus. In the T e n t h Book of the Metamorphoses Ovid has echoed them almost word for word in his fluent hexameters. W e may infer that his whole episode is an adaptation of the lost idyll. S I L E N C E took h o l d of P h o e b u s ; w h e n y o u r p a i n H e saw, he d o u b t e d every r e m e d y . A g a i n s t his art a n d craft he raged i n v a i n . R u b b i n g w i t h nectar a n d ambrosia, he R u b b e d the w h o l e w o u n d , o n l y to find f o r sure, A g a i n s t the Fates, n o m e d i c i n e m a y cure. 58

XVII

THE SPRING OF THE YEAR A P P A R E N T L Y a fragment from a full-fledged pastoral. W e are sorry for what is gone and glad for w h a t remains, especially the character of a rustic w h o was even careful how he talked about the weather.

THE SPRING OF THE YEAR CLEODAMUS

IS S P R I N G , O Myrson, Winter, or the Fall, Or Summer sweet for you? Say, which of all Would you esteem the more? T h e Summer when All is fulfilled for us poor laboring men; Or is the Autumn sweeter, when we find Hunger will weigh more lightly on mankind; Or Winter, all too hard for us to work; So idly by the fire we crouch and shirk Our toil; or does fair Spring delight you more? Say which your heart prefers. Our present store Of leisure well to gossip may incline. MYRSON

It is not right upon these works divine T o sit in judgment for the like of us. Sacred and sweet are all, Cleodamus. And only for your sake will I repeat Which of them all may seem for me most sweet. I do not wish for Summer; it is then T h e sun will scorch you; Autumn yet again I do not wish; the time will sickness bring. And Winter is a very dreadful thing T o bear, with all the snow and all the frost, As I have learned to fear, to my great cost. In all the luminous cycle of the year Ever the Spring for me seems trebly dear; For neither sun nor frost can do me harm; Everything comes to life when Spring grows warm, And all the springtide buds are opening sweet; And Night and Day for men as equals meet. 60

T W O FRAGMENTS XVIII L E T L O V E the Muses call; ye Muses, bring Love; for my yearnings give me a roundelay, O Muses! for a tune is sweet to sing. A sweeter charm ne'er came upon my way. XIX GOD willing, everything shall be fulfilled Most easily for mortals when gods willed.

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THE AUSONIAN

III

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BION (MOSCHUS III)

T H I S ELEGY, it seems to me, comes appropriately at the end of the pastorals, for it is in the nature of a farewell not only to Bion but to Greek pastoral poetry. It has been ascribed, in the manuscripts, both to Moschus and to Theocritus, who were erroneously supposed, by a number of Renaissance scholars, to be one and the same. Evidence, both external and internal, goes a long way to disprove the authorship of either. T h e poet tells us that he was a native of Italy, and implies that he was a younger friend and disciple of Bion. He was well read in Greek literature; he was familiar with the Thyrsis of Theocritus and the Adonis of Bion; and he was probably aware of the Leontium of Hermesianax, for a fragment of that poem, preserved by Athenaeus, contains a list that is cognate to passages in the Elegy. Objection has been raised to the length of the lists in the Elegy, but we must remember that the author is following the example not only of Hermesianax but of Hesiod and Homer. And whatever we may think of his hyperboles, we must bear in mind that what Professor Mackail calls "the languorous but piercing beauty of his lines" has charmed generations of poets for two thousand years. T h e Elegy takes its place beside the Thyrsis and the Dirge for Adonis. T o trace the effect of those three great idylls on subsequent literature would require a long and laborious volume. Here I will merely mention that the Elegy on the Death of Bion is echoed not only by Shelley in the A donáis but by Sanna-

zaro in the Eleventh Eclogue of his Arcadia, and also in the Complaint on the Death of Madame Loyse de Savoye by Clement Marot, w h o furnished material for Spenser in the Shepheard's Calender. Y o u can also hear a great many echoes in the Thyrsis of Matthew Arnold. T h e r e is one very famous passage in the Elegy. Symonds remarks that every dabbler in Greek literature knows it by heart. It begins with aiaí ral μαλάχαι, " A h , me! the mallows in the garden die." Such a conception of the perennial revival of nature, as contrasted with the passage and departure of men is, I believe, original with the author of the Elegy. But how often it has been repeated ever since! Poets have played variations on this theme, from Horace in the Ode of Torquatus (Carm. IV, 7) to Carducci in his Pianto Antico, but the phrasing has been more closely followed by Sannazaro, by Marot, by Shelley, by Matthew Arnold, and preëminently by Wordsworth in his Valedictory Sonnet to the River Duddon: W h i l e we, the brave, the mighty and the wise, W e men, w h o in our morn of youth defied T h e elements, must vanish: — be it so!

A n d here is a direct translation from the Greek: But we the wise and great and valiant men, W h e n once we die, deaf in the hollow ground W e sleep full well, never to wake again; U n e n d i n g is our slumber, deep and sound.

T h e r e are many beautiful and memorable lines in the Elegy on the Death of Bion. But this passage perhaps more than all the rest has earned for its author anonymous immortality. As long as the English language lasts, those lines will be remembered.

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ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BION RAVINES and Dorian waters, sigh with me; And rivers, mourn for Bion, our desire; Weep, orchards, now, and every growing tree; Sad flowers, with faded clusters now expire. Rose and anemone, with grief grow red; Speak, hyacinth, the letters of the bloom You take upon your petals. He is dead; T h e lovely singer lies within the tomb. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. You nightingales where thick the leafage grows, Proclaim your grief to that Sicilian spring Of Arethusa where sweet water flows. No more the pastoral song may Bion sing; With him, alas, has died the lyric strain; And all the Dorian music has been slain. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. You swans of Strymon, by the waters raise T h e song of lamentation, as before You lifted u p your voice in other days, Now to Oeagrian maidens say once more And to Bistonian nymphs, both far and wide Say once again, a Dorian Orpheus died. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. 67

He who the herds once charmed will sing no more, Sitting in solitude the oaks among T o make his music. Now he sings before Pluto; forgetfulness is all his song. T h e hills are silent; following in the ways Of bulls, sad cattle have no will to graze.

Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. Bion, your fate Apollo's self bemoans; Full many a Satyr and Priapus weeps In sable raiment. Pans with sobs and groans Bewail your music. From the watery deeps Full many a nymph her tearful visage rears; T h e woodland springs are fountains of their tears. And Echo mid the rocks bewails that she Must silence keep. T h e music of your lips She cannot answer now. Along the lea Your doom the trees of all their fruitage strips; And all the little flowers are stark and dead; Sweet milk from sheep or goats no more will flow, Nor honey from the hives. T h e bees instead Die in the wax, remindful of your woe; They cannot gather honey for the hive When your sweet honey is no more alive.

Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. Not thus upon the headland, woebegone, T h e Siren weeps; nor thus on rocky steep Aëdon mourns; nor thus grieves Celydon On mountain range; nor thus o'er briny deep Will Ceyx loud and shrill for Halcyon wail; Nor on blue waves the kingfisher complain; Not thus the child of Dawn through Ilion's vale 68

Was mourned. Around his body on the plain Fluttered the bird who still for Memnon cried; Less loud her lamentations come and go, Bion, than our bewailing that you died. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. T h e swallows and the nightingales, whom he Once charmed, whom he once taught their pretty speech, Now nestling in the branches mournfully Over against each other, each to each Moan soft and softly answer: "Pay your due! Lament for him, you birds." "Mourn also you For Bion, his untimely overthrow." Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. Who now will play your pipes, O thrice bewailed? Who on the reedy vents his mouth would place? T h u s overbold, he little had availed, Where still your lips and breath have living grace, Where Echo on the reeds your song maintains. T o Pan I bring your pipes; with little zest For him, who fears to emulate your strains Lest he himself should come off second best, Lest far beyond him would your music go. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. And Galatea weeps for your sweet song; Full oft she sat beside you by the sea While you enchanted her the whole day long, Unlike the Cyclops' songs that she would flee. T h e lovely Galatea looked on you More sweetly than she looked upon the brine; Now all oblivious of the billows blue 69

She sits upon the sand alone to pine, W h i l e round her still the herded cattle low. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. Herdsman, the gifts of all the Muses died W i t h you, warm girlish kisses, and the brave Sweet lips of boys; around your body cried T h e loves in sorrow; Cypris now will crave Far more your kiss than when, a former bride, She fain would kiss Adonis while he died. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. Most musical of rivers, weep again; For you, O Meies, grief once more shall be; In other ages Homer met his bane, Whose lips were sweeter than Calliopè. T h e y say you mourned him with redundant stream; For your fair son, you filled the briny deep W i t h lamentation; now once more I deem Another son as tenderly you weep. Dear were they both to consecrated springs; One from the fount of Pegasus, and one From Arethusa drinks; the former sings Of Tyndarus' fair maid, of the great son Of Thetis, and of Menelaus born From Atreus; but the other, wars and tears Ne'er set to music; every night and morn He celebrated Pan through all his years. Of herdsmen he would sing, and singing watch T h e herd, make pastoral pipes, and milk the cows; Close to his bosom Eros he could snatch A n d Aphrodite's passion could arouse. So would his song to the immortals go. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. 70

Each famous city, every little town Bemoans you, Bion; Ascra grieves for you More than for Hesiod of old renown; Boeotian woods to Pindar are less true; Not thus Alcaeus, pleasant Lesbos wailed; Not thus the Town of Teos wept her bard; And more than for Archilochus, go veiled T h e Parians for you; and more reward Gave Mytilene, mourning for you thus, T h a n e'er she gave to Sappho year by year. For Syracuse, you are Theocritus; But with Ausonian woe, my song rings clear. No longer am I strange to pastoral song. Dear master, long before I learned from you T h e Dorian mode; to others may belong Your wealth; but your sweet music is my due; T o me the larger heritage will go. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. Ah me! when mallows in the garden die, Or dill or parsley, curling lush and green, Another year revives them presently And they once more will be what they had been. But we, the wise, the great, the valiant men, When once we die, deaf in the hollow ground We sleep full well, never to wake again; Unending is our slumber deep and sound. In silence in the earth you'll covered be; More pleasing for the nymphs, a frog will sing; I envy not at all; and as for me But little beauty will his chirping bring, Though on and on forever he may go. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe. 71

Unto your mouth, Bion, the poison came; And you have been as one who poison sips; How could it run to one of your fair name, And never turn to sweetness on your lips? What barbarous mortal mingled it and gave, Even if you asked? T h e song went to its grave. Lead, lead, Sicilian Muse, the Song of Woe.

But Justice comes to all, and as for me, Grief is my theme. I mourn your fate with tears. If only like to Orpheus I could be, Or like Alcides of the elder years, Or like Odysseus, down to Tartarus, Down to the house of Pluto, I were fain T o come, if you a song were singing thus For Pluto, so that I might hear your strain. Oh, come and sing for Korè, sing your sweet Sicilian music of a pastoral sound; She also was from Sicily; her feet Danced in her childhood on the Etnean ground; And well she knew the Dorian melody; Oh! not without reward your song would go. T o Orpheus, she gave back Eurydice, When sweetly with his harp he sang his woe. Back to the hills she'll send you, Bion; if I Such changes on a rural theme could ring, Upon my pipes, with Pluto I would try Myself for your return my song to sing.

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HERMESIANAX

PART OF THE PROLOGUE OF THE LEONTIUM HERMESIANAX OF C O L O P H O N may have been a contemporary of the immediate forerunners of Theocritus, some of whom are mentioned in the famous Seventh Idyll. His Leontium, composed in honor of his mistress of the same name, consisted of three books, which contained among other things the story of Polyphemus and Galatea and the tragic tale of Daphnis, whose counterparts are found among Theocritus' poems. Of this lachrymose magnum opus, doctum, Jupiter, et laboriosum, only a fragment remains, a portion of the prologue, as preserved in Athenaeus. It is extant in a single manuscript in the library of St. Mark's in Venice. T h e text is corrupt and at times untranslatable. T h e fragment in question gives a list of poets and philosophers, some of whom suffered more or less from "the pangs of despis'd love," while others bewailed the death of their ladies. Sophocles seems the most fortunate of all, if we can accept the conjectural translation that Zeus gave him the fair Erigonè to comfort his declining years. Euripides cuts rather a poor figure, when he is represented as spending his evenings in the byways of Macedonia to keep a rendezvous with a slave girl who belonged to one Archelaüs. Homer does not come off any too well in a reputed affair with the sage Penelope; and Hesiod is placed in a rather ridiculous light when we are informed that his Eoiae or Catalogue of Women was also the name of his Aserian girl friend. It may be that Hermesianax was not wholly serious in these literary and historical references, especially as he was addressing a lady who would be highly flattered to be told that the great and wise of the earth were in the same boat with her

and the learned Alexandrian poet. Some of his other references are somewhat less bizarre. Indeed, Antimachus and Philetus were fair game, for both had written elegies similar to the prologue. Many of Hermesianax's allusions require a deal of erudite explanation. I cannot attempt any such commentary; but I may point out that his involved and recondite style, in spite of the fluent Greek rhythm, resembles in some respects the poetry of Dr. John Donne, the beau ideal of so many ultramodern versifiers. Coleridge thought and wrote about him with less enthusiasm: W i t h Donne, whose Muse on dromedary trots. Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots,

which may be a trifle savage, but perhaps not wholly undeserved. Yet in spite of a quaint pedantry and a labyrinthine phraseology, the lines of Hermesianax have a silvery shimmer whose luster is even harder to reproduce than his d o u b t f u l passages. T h e glimpses of Orpheus in Hades and of Anacreon gazing at Mysian Lectum, far at sea, have the subdued effulgence of a Claude or a Salvator Rosa. A n d what he says of philosophers has the reality of personal experience: A n d they to whom the arid lives belong Of men who walk in Learning's devious ways, Whose very speech was throttled by their skill W h e n awful T r u t h their counsels held in sway.

These lines are as memorable as they are subtle. T h e harbinger of the Lament for Bion and of some of the T h e ocritean idylls is not wholly unworthy of his successors.

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PROLOGUE OF THE LEONTIUM S U C H whom Oeagrus' well-beloved son From Hell brought back, armed only with his lyre, Thracian Agriopè, when he sailed on T o reach that hateful realm of evil dire, Where Charon doth departed souls compel Aboard his barque, the common lot of all; Far shouting o'er the lake, whose currents swell T o burst the bounds of mighty rushes tall. But Orpheus, sole begirt, against the wave Dared play his lyre, all kinds of gods to appease. He saw Cocytus turbulently rave Under its banks; nor did his daring cease Nor blench before the glare of that fell hound Whose ireful howl belched fire in flaming roar, Whose eye, forever darting flames around On threefold head, a stubborn terror bore. But he, those mighty lords, all for the sake Of song, persuaded that Agriopè Once more the tender breath of life could take. Nor unrewarded went Antiopè By Menes' son, Musaeus, of the graces A master; she on Eleusinian strand Hailed the initiates of the secret places, When o'er the Rarian plain, unto that land

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She led Demeter's priest. Renowned was she Even in Hades. Also I would say How Hesiod, master of all history, From his ancestral hall went far away; How to the Heliconian town he came, Of Ascra; how for love he suffered sore, Wooing Eoea; how her Aserian name Headed the list of all his tuneful lore. And he, the bard, whom Zeus by his decree Guarded as god of all who served the Muse In sweetness, even the divinity Of Homer, once grew lean as lovers use; And set the isle of Ithaca to song, All for the sake of sage Penelope; For her, he suffered much and journeyed long T o that far island, small upon the sea. His ample fatherland he left behind; For the Icarian race, his heart was wrung; Sparta's Amyclan kin he called to mind; Ever to woe his grieving spirit clung. For Nanno burned Mimnermus; thus he found For the pentameter its tenderness, Painstakingly the spirit of sweet sound; Oft on gray lotus flute his lips he'd press For Hexamyës in tune of revelry; Roused by his loathing for Hermobius, And Pheracles, his cruel enmity; And hateful were the verses scurrilous 78

They heaped on him; so for the Lydian maid Lydè, Antimachus was smitten sore With love, as by Pactolus stream he strayed; And when she died, he, weeping evermore, Laid her beneath the barren earth; and still Mourning, he left her; for he fain would go T o lofty Colophon, his books to fill λνΰΐι grief till, old, he rested from all woe. And Lesbian Alcaeus, well you know For Sappho's sake would smite upon the lyre; T o many a revel, with a song he'd go, Yearning for her with passionate desire. T h e bard, the lover of that nightingale, A Teian grieved with eloquence of song, Honeyed Anacreon, who would fain prevail On her, supreme the Lesbian girls among. Hither and thither wandering, never still, He first left Samos, then his native land, Basking 'mid many vineyards on the hill; T h e n back in vine-clad Lesbos on the strand, Oft gazed at Mysian Lectum far at sea, Over against him on the Aeolian wave; So also that Athenian honeybee Colonus left, with all its hilltops brave. Bacchus he praised in choric tragedy; Theoris' love he honored on the stage; And afterwards, the fair Erigonè Zeus gave to Sophocles in good old age. 79

Now of a prudent man I'd have my say; Against all women would his raillery go; He won the hate of all upon his way, And yet was wounded by the crooked bow. By night he could not put aside his pain; But after Archelaüs' Aegean slave He thridded every Macedonian lane, Till Fate for you found ruin and a grave, Euripides, encountering the dread Hounds of Amphibius; and I know how A Cyprian by Bacchus nourishèd, And whom the Muses did with skill endow, A very faithful warden of the flute, Philoxenus, endured his baneful pain. Through all Ortygia he would plead his suit For Galatea, who loved him not again. Less than a firstling lamb for her was he; And one, the townsmen of Euryplus Set up in bronze under a platan tree, Philetus honored by the Coans thus, For lively Bittis chanted many a song, Perturbed in every word and every phrase. And they to whom the arid lives belong Of men who walk in Learning's devious ways, Whose every speech was throttled by their skill When awful T r u t h their counsels held in sway; From wine and lovers' turmoil could but ill Escape when these occurred upon the way. 80

Under that chariot driver all went down; And madness for Theano strongly bound Pythagoras of Samian renown, Who subtle spirals measured on the ground, Who sharply etched upon a little ball The current of the aether in the vast Of Heaven; and he whom Phoebus set o'er all Mankind that he in wisdom overpast, Him angry Cypris melting in her flame, From his deep soul a shallow grief perfected; And thus unto Aspasia's home he came, Though versed in Logic's pathways, intersected. And from Cyrene, Aristippus keen, Drawn to the Isthmus by his dread desire For Lai's, whose loveliness has never been Described; for in her praise all tongues would tire; T o her he fled; and so he left behind The lecture hall and audience as well; Unto his love he clung with heart and mind, And far from Corinth he would never dwell.

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