Sylvæ, or, The second part of Poetical miscellanies

THE First IDYLLIVM OF THEOCRITUS, Translated into English.

THYRSIS.

GOat-Herd, the Musick of you whistling Pine, Tho' sweet, yet is not half so sweet as thine, Thou, when the sound of thy shrill Pipe is heard Art next to our great Master Pan prefer'd: Next him in Skill, and next him in Reward. If Pan receive a Goat of horned Brow, A younger Goat is thy unquestion'd Due: If He a younger Goat, a Kid belongs to You. And Kids you know, until the swelling Teat Yeilds Milk, are no unpalatable Meat.

Goat-Herd.

Sweeter thy Numbers, Shepherd, and thy Song, Than that fair lovely Stream which down along From yonder Hillock's gently rising Side Pours the smooth Current of its easie Tide. If a white Ew the Muses Off'ring be, A Spotless Lamb shall be thy second Fee: If there's a Lamb; the Ew's reserv'd for thee.

Thyrsis.

And wilt thou, Goat-herd, on yon rising ground, With Streams refresh'd, & spreading Myrtles crown'd, Say, wilt thou one sweet charming Song rehearse? I'll feed thy Flock, and listen to thy Verse.

Goat-Herd.

Shepherd, I dare not tread that hallow'd Ground: 'Tis now high Noon, and Pan will hear the sound. Weary'd with Sport, he there lyes down to rest: And 'tis an angry God when at the best.

But, Thyrsis, you can Daphnis Story tell, And understand the Rural Numbers well. Let us retire then to the Sylvan Shade, By reverend Oaks extended Branches made, Where an old Seat stands rear'd upon the Green: Hard by Priapus, and the Nymphs are seen. There if thou sing one of thy Noblest Lays, And thy loud voice in such sweet Accents raise, As when you baffled Chrome, and won the Bays; Thrice shalt thou milk my Goat; come, prythee do: Two Pails she fills, although she suckles Two: Besides a brave large Goblet shall be thine; New made, new turn'd, and smelling wond'rous fine. Sweet wholsom Wax the inner Hollow hides, And two neat handles grace the well wrought sides. About the brim a creeping Ivy twines, Thro' whose brown leaves the brighter Crocus shines.

Within, a Woman's lovely Image stands: (A noble Piece! not wrought by Mortal Hands!) Around her Head a braided Fillet goes: A decent Veil adown her Shoulders flows. By Her two blooming Youths by Turns complain, Each striving who shall the blest Conquest gain: Both eagerly contend, but both in vain. She now on This her wanton Glances throws, And now on That a careless Smile bestows: Whilst they their big swol'n Eye-lids hardly rear, And silently accuse the Cruel Fair. Next on a Cliff a Fisher-man you'll view, Who eagerly does his Lov'd Sport pursue. His gather'd Net just hov'ring o'er the Sea, He labours at the Cast on his half bended Knee. You'd swear his active Limbs work'd to and fro, So tight he is, so fitted for the Throw.

His Neck enlarg'd with swelling Veins appears: Much is his Strength, tho' many are his Years. Not far from hence a seeming Vineyard grows, The Vines all neatly set in graceful Rows, Whose weighty Clusters bend the yielding Boughs. And a Young Lad on a Tree's neighbo'ring Root Sits idlely by, to watch the ripening Fruit. By him, two Foxes unregarded Steal: Each craftily designs a diff'rent Meal. One tow'rds the Vineyard casts a longing Eye; Looks to, and fro; and then creeps softly by: Whil'st t'other couch'd in a close Ambuscade To intercept the Scrip and Vict'als laid, Resolv's not first to quit the destin'd Prey, Till he has sent the Younker Supperless away. Mean while with both his Hands, and both his Eyes, He's plaiting Straws, and making Traps for Flyes.

With Art and Care he the fine Play-thing twines, Survey's it, and applaud's his own Designs: Unmindful of his Bag, or of his Vines. The Cup besides a Wood-bine does contain, Which round the Bottom wreath's it's leafy Train, Admir'd and Envy'd by each gazing Swain! I know, you'l say your self, 'tis strangely fine! The Workman, and the Workmanship Divine! I bought it, when I crost th' Aetolian Seas, The price a dainty Kid, and a large New-milk Cheese; Unus'd it lyes, unsully'd, neat and trim: Nor have my Lips once touch'd the shining Brim. With This I'd willingly reward thy Pains, Would'st thou but sing those my beloved Strains. Nor envy I thy Skill: No—envious Death Too soon (alas!) will stop that charming Breath: Come on then, Sing, Dear Shepherd, while you may.

Thyrsis.

Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. 'Tis Thyrsis sings, Thyrsis on Aetna born: The grateful Hills do his lov'd Notes return. Where were the Nymphs? Where in that fatal day, When Daphnis, lovely Daphnis, pin'd away? Did ye by Peneus, or on Pindus stray? (For sure ye were not by Anapus side, Nor Aetna's Top, nor Acis Silver Tide.) Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. For him the Panthers and the Tygers mourn'd: They came, they saw; and with swoln Eyes return'd. Lyons themselves, did uncouth Sorrows bear, Their Savage Fierceness softning to a Tear. Close by his Feet the Bulls, and Heifers lay; The Calves forgot their Feeding and their Play: Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.

Swift Hermes first came down to his Relief: Daphnis, he cry'd, from whence this foolish Grief? What Nymph, what Goddess steals thy heart away? Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. Next him the Shepherds, and the Goat-herds came: All ask'd the Reason of so strange a Flame. Priapus came too— He came, and ask'd him with a pitying Eye, Why all this Grief? ah! wretched Daphnis, why? While the false Nymph, unmindful of thy Pains, Now climbs the Hills, now skims it o'er the Plains, Where e'er blind Chance or Fancy leads the way: Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. Ah! foolish and impatient of the Smart, With which the wanton Boy hath pierc'd thy Heart! An * 1.1 Herdsman thou wert thought; a Goat-herd sure thou art.

The Goat-herd when from some old craggy Rock He views the sportful Pastimes of His Flock, And sees 'em how they frisk, and how they play, Grieves that he's not a Goat, as well as they: Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. And you too, when you see the Nymphs advance Their nimble Feet in a well order'd Dance, And hear 'em how they talk; and see 'em how they smile; Are griev'd that you must stand neglected all the while. All this, without an Answer, heard the Swain; Still he went on, and nourish'd still the Pain. He found his Love increase, and Life decay: Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. Then Venus came, and rais'd his drooping Head: Forc'd an insulting Smile, and thus she said.

You thought, fond Swain, that you could love subdue: But Love, it seems, at last has conquer'd you. Strong are his Charms, and mighty is his sway: Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. She spake—And thus the mournful Swain reply'd. Ah! Foe to me, and all Mankind beside! Ah! cruel Goddess! spare thy Taunts at last; Nor urge a Death, that's drawing on so fast. Too well I know, my fatal hour is come, My * 1.2 Sun declining to its Western Home. Yet ev'n in Death thy Scorns I will repay: Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. Hence Cyprian Queen, to Ida's Tops repair. Anchises, lov'd Anchises waits you there. There spreading Oaks will cover you around: Here humble Shrubs scarce peep above the Ground;

And busy Bees are humming all the Day. The noise is great, 'twill spoil your am'rous Play: Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. Adonis too! —The Boy is lovely fair! He feeds his Flocks, he hunts the nimble Hare; And boldly chases ev'ry Beast of Prey: Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay. The Panthers, Lyons, and the Wolves adieu! Who now shall travers the thick Woods with you? No more shall you be chas'd, no more shall I pursue! Hail Arethusa, lovely Fountain hail! Farewel ye Streams that flow thro' Tyber's flowry Vale! Farewel! —The Gods forbid my longer Stay: Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay. Pan, Pan, where'er your wandring Footsteps move; Whether on Lyce's airy Tops you rove, Or sporting in the vast Maenalian Grove:

Haste, quickly haste; leave the high Tomb, that nods O'er Helick's Cliff, the wonder of the Gods! And to fair Sicily thy Steps convey: Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay. Here take my waxen Pipe, well joyn'd, and fit; An useless Pipe to me! and I to it! For Love and Fate have summon'd me away: Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay. On Brambles now let Violets be born, And op'ning Roses blush on ev'ry Thorn: Let all things Nature's Contradiction wear, And barren Pine-trees yield the mellow Pear. Since Daphnis dyes, what can be strange, or new? Hounds now shall fly, and trembling Fawns pursue; Schriech-Owls shall sing, and Thrushes yield the day: Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay. Thus Daphnis spake, and more he would have sung: But Death prevail'd upon his trembling Tongue.

Fair Venus strove to raise her drooping Son; In vain she strove: for his last Thread was spun. Black Stygian Waves surround the darling Boy Of every Nymph, and every Muse's Joy. Lifeless he lyes, and still as harden'd Clay, Who was so Young, so Lovely, and so gay: Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay. The Cup and Goat you cannot now refuse: I'll milk her, and I'll offer to my Muse. All hail, ye Muses, that inspire my Tongue! A better day shall have a better Song.

Goat-herd.

May dropping Combs on those sweet Lips distill, And thy lov'd Mouth with Attick Honey fill. For much, much sweeter is thy Tuneful Voice, Than, when on Sunny days with chearful noise, The Vocal Insects of the Spring rejoice.

Here, take the promis'd Cup-How bright the look! How fine the Smell! sure from some fragrant Brook, The bath of smiling Hours, it the gay tincture took▪ Here * 1.3 Cissy, hitherward, —Come, milk her now: My Kids, forbear to leap: for if you do, The Goat may chance to leap as we••l as you.

Notes

• * 1.1

  〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.
• * 1.2

  〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.
• * 1.3

  〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, the Name of the Goat.