Once on a time myself and Eucritus
Went out of town, taking Amyntas with us,
To join a sacrifice to Ceres, made
By Phrasidamus and Antigenes,
Sons of Lycopeus, and descended too
(If that is any thing) from Clitias,
Ay, and from Chalcon, who with his stout knee
Against the rock dug up the Burian fountain,
Where elms and poplars make a shadowy grove
Full-haired, and keep a covert of green leaves
We had not got half way, nor yet discerned
The tomb of Brasilas, when we overtook
Travelling along, a favourite of the Muses, —
A goatherd, of the name of Lycidas;
And goatherd well he seemed; for on his shoulders
There hung a whitish goatskin, hairy and thick,
Smelling of the fresh curd; about his body
Was an old vest, tied with a woven girdle;
And in his hand he bore a crooked stick
Made of wild olive. Placidly he turned,
A little smile parting his kindly mouth,
And with a genial eye accosting me,
Said, " Ah, Theocritus! and where go you
This burning noon, when lizards are asleep
Within the hedges, and the crested lark
Represses his fine madness? Is it a feast
You're making haste to, or a vintaging,
That thus you dash the pebbles with your sandals?"
" Dear Lycidas," cried I, " you talk indeed
Like one whom all agree, shepherd and reaper,
To pipe among them nobly, — which delights me;
And yet I trust I am your equal too.
It is a feast we're going to. Some friends
Keep one to-day to the well-draperied Ceres,
Mother of Earth, and offer their first fruits
For gratitude, their garners are so full.
But come; — as we have lighted on each other.
Let us take mutual help, and by the way
Pastoralize a little: for my mouth
Breathes 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 surpassed,
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
The pretty birds that with ridiculous toil
Chatter and chuff against the Chian warbler
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 when I was on the mountain

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, 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 fire-side 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 Haemus, 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 these 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:

— '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 on his own golden tripod —
O Pan, who gained by lot the lovely soil
Of Homole, — O send her to his arms,
Her, or another girl as beautiful!
O do but so, and the Arcadian youth
Shall scourge thee not with squills, when they have missed
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. — 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 desired 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 journies;
But let another, if he chuses, start
With sleepless eyes to hear the crowing cock;
And leave such labours to the wrestler Molon.
Our comfort be our care; and 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 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.
The hiding grasshoppers, in spite of heat,
Kept up their chattering coil; the nightingale
Plained at a distance in the thorny bush;
The larks and linnets sung; the stock-dove mourned;
And round the fountains 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 rolled; 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