The Project Gutenberg eBook of Theocritus, by C.S. Calverley.

The pair I sing, that Ægis-armèd Zeus

Gave unto Leda; Castor and the dread

Of bruisers Polydeuces, whensoe'er

His harnessed hands were lifted for the fray.

Twice and again I sing the manly sons

Of Leda, those Twin Brethren, Sparta's own:

Who shield the soldier on the deadly scarp,

The horse wild-plunging o'er the crimson field,

The ship that, disregarding in her pride

Star-set and star-rise, meets disastrous gales:—

Such gales as pile the billows mountain-high,

E'en at their own wild will, round stem or stern:

Dash o'er the hold, the timbers rive in twain,

Till mast and tackle dangle in mid-air

Shivered like toys, and, as the night wears on,

The rain of heaven falls fast, and, lashed by wind

And iron hail, broad ocean rings again.

Then can they draw from out the nether abyss

Both craft and crew, each deeming he must die:

Lo the winds cease, and o'er the burnished deep

Comes stillness; this way flee the clouds and that;

And shine out clear the Great Bear and the Less,

And, 'twixt the Asses dimly seen, the Crib

Foretells fair voyage to the mariner.

O saviours, O companions of mankind,

Matchless on horse or harp, in lists or lay;

Which of ye twain demands my earliest song?

Of both I sing; of Polydeuces first.

Argo, escaped the two inrushing rocks,

And snow-clad Pontus with his baleful jaws,

Came to Bebrycia with her heaven-sprung freight;

There by one ladder disembarked a host

Of Heroes from the decks of Jason's ship.

On the low beach, to leeward of the cliff,

They leapt, and piled their beds, and lit their fires:

Castor meanwhile, the bridler of the steed,

And Polydeuces of the nut-brown face,

Had wandered from their mates; and, wildered both,

Searched through the boskage of the hill, and found

Hard by a slab of rock a bubbling spring

Brimful of purest water. In the depths

Below, like crystal or like silver gleamed

The pebbles: high above it pine and plane

And poplar rose, and cypress tipt with green;

With all rich flowers that throng the mead, when wanes

The Spring, sweet workshops of the furry bee.

There sat and sunned him one of giant bulk

And grisly mien: hard knocks had stov'n his ears:

Broad were his shoulders, vast his orbèd chest;

Like a wrought statue rose his iron frame:

And nigh the shoulder on each brawny arm

Stood out the muscles, huge as rolling stones

Caught by some rain-swoln river and shapen smooth

By its wild eddyings: and o'er nape and spine

Hung, balanced by the claws, a lion's skin.

Him Leda's conquering son accosted first:—

POLYDEUCES.

Luck to thee, friend unknown! Who own this shore?

AMYCUS.

Luck, quotha, to see men ne'er seen before!

POLYDEUCES.

Fear not, no base or base-born herd are we.

AMYCUS.

Nothing I fear, nor need learn this from thee.

POLYDEUCES.

What art thou? brutish churl, or o'erproud king?

AMYCUS.

E'en what thou see'st: and I am not trespassing.

POLYDEUCES.

Visit our land, take gifts from us, and go.

AMYCUS.

I seek naught from thee and can naught bestow.

POLYDEUCES.

Not e'en such grace as from yon spring to sip?

AMYCUS.

Try, if parched thirst sits languid on thy lip.

POLYDEUCES.

Can silver move thee? or if not, what can?

AMYCUS.

Stand up and fight me singly, man with man.

POLYDEUCES.

With fists? or fist and foot, eye covering eye?

AMYCUS.

Fall to with fists; and all thy cunning try.

POLYDEUCES.

This arm, these gauntlets, who shall dare withstand?

AMYCUS.

I: and "the Bruiser" lifts no woman's-hand.

POLYDEUCES.

Wilt thou, to crown our strife, some meed assign?

AMYCUS.

Thou shalt be called my master, or I thine.

POLYDEUCES.

By crimson-crested cocks such games are won.

AMYCUS.

Lions or cocks, we'll play this game or none.

He spoke, and clutched a hollow shell, and blew

His clarion. Straightway to the shadowy pine

Clustering they came, as loud it pealed and long,

Bebrycia's bearded sons; and Castor too,

The peerless in the lists, went forth and called

From the Magnesian ship the Heroes all.

Then either warrior armed with coils of hide

His hands, and round his limbs bound ponderous bands,

And, breathing bloodshed, stept into the ring.

First there was much manoeuvring, who should catch

The sunlight on his rear: but thou didst foil,

O Polydeuces, valour by address;

And full on Amycus' face the hot noon smote.

He in hot wrath strode forward, threatening war;

Straightway the Tyndarid smote him, as he closed,

Full on the chin: more furious waxed he still,

And, earthward bent, dealt blindly random blows.

Bebrycia shouted loud, the Greeks too cheered

Their champion: fearing lest in that scant space

This Tityus by sheer weight should bear him down.

But, shifting yet still there, the son of Zeus

Scored him with swift exchange of left and right,

And checked the onrush of the sea-god's child

Parlous albeit: till, reeling with his wounds,

He stood, and from his lips spat crimson blood.

Cheered yet again the princes, when they saw

The lips and jowl all seamed with piteous scars,

And the swoln visage and the half-closed eyes.

Still the prince teased him, feinting here or there

A thrust; and when he saw him helpless all,

Let drive beneath his eyelids at his nose,

And laid it bare to the bone. The stricken man

Measured his length supine amid the fern.

Keen was the fighting when he rose again,

Deadly the blows their sturdy gauntlets dealt.

But while Bebrycia's chieftain sparred round chest

And utmost shoulder, the resistless foe

Made his whole face one mass of hideous wounds.

While the one sweated all his bulk away,

And, late a giant, seemed a pigmy now,

The other's limbs waxed ever as he fought

In semblance and in size. But in what wise

The child of Zeus brought low that man of greed,

Tell, Muse, for thine is knowledge: I unfold

A secret not mine own; at thy behest

Speak or am dumb, nor speak but as thou wilt.

Amycus, athirst to do some doughty deed,

Stooping aslant from Polydeuces' lunge

Locked their left hands; and, stepping out, upheaved

From his right hip his ponderous other-arm.

And hit and harmed had been Amyclæ's king;

But, ducking low, he smote with one stout fist

The foe's left temple—fast the life-blood streamed

From the grim rift—and on his shoulder fell.

While with his left he reached the mouth, and made

The set teeth tingle; and, redoubling aye

His plashing blows, made havoc of his face

And crashed into his cheeks, till all abroad

He lay, and throwing up his arms disclaimed

The strife, for he was even at death's door.

No wrong the vanquished suffered at thy hands,

O Polydeuces; but he sware an oath,

Calling his sire Poseidon from the depths,

Ne'er to do violence to a stranger more.

Thy tale, O prince, is told. Now sing I thee,

Castor the Tyndarid, lord of rushing horse

And shaking javelin, corsleted in brass.

PART II.

The sons of Zeus had borne two maids away,

Leucippus' daughters. Straight in hot pursuit

Went the two brethren, sons of Aphareus,

Lynceus and Idas bold, their plighted lords.

And when the tomb of Aphareus was gained,

All leapt from out their cars, and front to front

Stood, with their ponderous spears and orbed shields.

First Lynceus shouted loud from 'neath his helm:

"Whence, sirs, this lust for strife? Why, sword in hand,

Raise ye this coil about your neighbours' wives?

To us Leucippus these his daughters gave,

Long ere ye saw them: they are ours on oath.

Ye, coveting (to your shame) your neighbour's bed

And kine and asses and whatever is his,

Suborned the man and stole our wives by bribes.

How often spake I thus before your face,

Yea I myself, though scant I am of phrase:

'Not thus, fair sirs, do honourable men

Seek to woo wives whose troth is given elsewhere.

Lo, broad is Sparta, broad the hunting-grounds

Of Elis: fleecy Arcady is broad,

And Argos and Messene and the towns

To westward, and the long Sisyphian reach.

There 'neath her parents' roof dwells many a maid

Second to none in godliness or wit:

Wed of all these, and welcome, whom ye will,

For all men court the kinship of the brave;

And ye are as your sires, and they whose blood

Runs in your mother's veins, the flower of war.

Nay, sirs, but let us bring this thing to pass;

Then, taking counsel, choose meet brides for you.'

So I ran on; but o'er the shifting seas

The wind's breath blew my words, that found no grace

With you, for ye defied the charmer's voice.

Yet listen to me now if ne'er before:

Lo! we are kinsmen by the father's side.

But if ye lust for war, if strife must break

Forth among kin, and bloodshed quench our feud,

Bold Polydeuces then shall hold his hands

And his cousin Idas from the abhorrèd fray:

While I and Castor, the two younger-born,

Try war's arbitrament; so spare our sires

Sorrow exceeding. In one house one dead

Sufficeth: let the others glad their mates,

To the bride-chamber passing, not the grave,

And o'er yon maids sing jubilee. Well it were

At cost so small to lay so huge a strife."

He spoke—his words heaven gave not to the winds.

They, the two first-born, disarrayed and piled

Their arms, while Lynceus stept into the ring,

And at his shield's rim shook his stalwart spear.

And Castor likewise poised his quivering lance;

High waved the plume on either warrior's helm.

First each at other thrust with busy spear

Where'er he spied an inch of flesh exposed:

But lo! both spearpoints in their wicker shields

Lodged ere a blow was struck, and snapt in twain.

Then they unsheathed their swords, and framed new modes

Of slaughter: pause or respite there was none.

Oft Castor on broad shield and plumèd helm

Lit, and oft keen-eyed Lynceus pierced his shield,

Or grazed his crest of crimson. But anon,

As Lynceus aimed his blade at Castor's knee,

Back with the left sprang Castor and struck off

His fingers: from the maimed limb dropped the sword.

And, flying straightway, for his father's tomb

He made, where gallant Idas sat and saw

The battle of the brethren. But the child

Of Zeus rushed in, and with his broadsword drave

Through flank and navel, sundering with swift stroke

His vitals: Lynceus tottered and he fell,

And o'er his eyelids rushed the dreamless sleep.

Nor did their mother see her elder son

Come a fair bridegroom to his Cretan home.

For Idas wrenched from off the dead man's tomb

A jutting slab, to hurl it at the man

Who had slain his brother. Then did Zeus bring aid,

And struck the marble fabric from his grasp,

And with red lightning burned his frame to dust.

So doth he fight with odds who dares provoke

The Tyndarids, mighty sons of mighty sire.

Now farewell, Leda's children: prosper aye

The songs I sing. What minstrel loves not well

The Tyndarids, and Helen, and the chiefs

That trod Troy down for Meneläus' sake?

The bard of Chios wrought your royal deeds

Into his lays, who sang of Priam's state,

And fights 'neath Ilion's walls; of sailor Greeks,

And of Achilles towering in the strife.

Yet take from me whate'er of clear sweet song

The Muse accords me, even all my store!

The gods' most precious gift is minstrelsy.

To whom thus spake the herdsman of the herd,

Pausing a moment from his handiwork:

"Friend, I will solve thy questions, for I fear

The angry looks of Hermes of the roads.

No dweller in the skies is wroth as he,

With him who saith the asking traveller nay.

"The flocks Augéas owns, our gracious lord,

One pasture pastures not, nor one fence bounds.

They wander, look you, some by Elissus' banks

Or god-beloved Alphéus' sacred stream,

Some by Buprasion, where the grape abounds,

Some here: their folds stand separate. But before

His herds, though they be myriad, yonder glades

That belt the broad lake round lie fresh and fair

For ever: for the low-lying meadows take

The dew, and teem with herbage honeysweet,

To lend new vigour to the hornèd kine.

Here on thy right their stalls thou canst descry

By the flowing river, for all eyes to see:

Here, where the platans blossom all the year,

And glimmers green the olive that enshrines

Rural Apollo, most august of gods.

Hard by, fair mansions have been reared for us

His herdsmen; us who guard with might and main

His riches that are more than tongue may tell:

Casting our seed o'er fallows thrice upturn'd

Or four times by the share; the bounds whereof

Well do the delvers know, whose busy feet

Troop to his wine-vats in fair summer-time.

Yea, all these acres wise Augéas owns,

These corn-clad uplands and these orchards green,

Far as yon ledges whence the cataracts leap.

Here do we haunt, here toil, as is the wont

Of labourers in the fields, the livelong day.

But prythee tell me thou—so shalt thou best

Serve thine own interests—wherefore art thou here?

Seeking Augéas, or mayhap some slave

That serves him? I can tell thee and I will

All thou would'st know: for of no churlish blood

Thou earnest, nor wert nurtured as a churl:

That read I in thy stateliness of form;

The sons of heaven move thus among mankind."

Then answered him the warrior son of Zeus.

"Yea, veteran, I would see the Epéan King

Augéas; surely for this end I came.

If he bides there amongst his citizens,

Ruling the folk, determining the laws,

Look, father; bid some serf to be my guide,

Some honoured master-worker in the fields,

Who to shrewd questions shrewdly can reply.

Are not we made dependent each on each?"

To him the good old swain made answer thus:

"Stranger, some god hath timed thy visit here,

And given thee straightway all thy heart's desire.

Hither Augéas, offspring of the Sun,

Came, with young Phyleus splendid in his strength,

But yesterday from the city, to review

(Not in one day) his multitudinous wealth,

Methinks e'en princes say within themselves,

'The safeguard of the flock's the master's eye.'

But haste, we'll seek him: to my own fold I

Will pilot thee; there haply find the King."

He said and went in front: but pondered much

(As he surveyed the lion-skin and the club,

Itself an armful) whence this stranger came;

And fain had asked. But fear recalled the words

That trembled on his lip, the fear to say

Aught that his fiery friend might take amiss.

For who can fathom all his fellow's mind?

The dogs perceived their coming, yet far off:

They scented flesh, they heard the thud of feet:

And with wild gallop, baying furiously,

Ran at Amphitryon's son: but feebly whined

And fawned upon the old man at his side.

Then Heracles, just lifting from the ground

A pebble, scared them home, and with hard words

Cursed the whole pack; and having stopped their din

(Inly rejoiced, nathless, to see them guard

So well an absent master's house) he spake:

"Lo! what a friend the royal gods have given

Man in the dog! A trusty servant he!

Had he withal an understanding heart,

To teach him when to rage and when forbear,

What brute could claim like praise? But, lacking wit,

'Tis but a passionate random-raving thing."

He spake: the dogs ran scurrying to their lairs.

And now the sun wheeled round his westering car

And led still evening on: from every field

Came thronging the fat flocks to bield and byre.

Then in their thousands, drove on drove, the kine

Came into view; as rainclouds, onward driven

By stress of gales, the west or mighty north,

Come up o'er all the heaven; and none may count

And naught may stay them as they sweep through air;

Such multitudes the storm's strength drives ahead,

Such multitudes climb surging in the rear—

So in swift sequence drove succeeded drove,

And all the champaign, all the highways swarmed

With tramping oxen; all the sumptuous leas

Rang with their lowing. Soon enough the stalls

Were populous with the laggard-footed kine,

Soon did the sheep lie folded in their folds.

Then of that legion none stood idle, none

Gaped listless at the herd, with naught to do:

But one drew near and milked them, binding clogs

Of wood with leathern thongs around their feet:

One brought, all hungering for the milk they loved,

The longing young ones to the longing dams.

One held the pail, one pressed the dainty cheese,

Or drove the bulls home, sundered from the kine.

Pacing from stall to stall, Augéas saw

What revenue his herdsman brought him in.

With him his son surveyed the royal wealth,

And, strong of limb and purpose, Heracles.

Then, though the heart within him was as steel,

Framed to withstand all shocks, Amphitryon's son

Gazed in amazement on those thronging kine;

For none had deemed or dreamed that one, or ten,

Whose wealth was more than regal, owned those tribes:

Such huge largess the Sun had given his child,

First of mankind for multitude of flocks.

The Sun himself gave increase day by day

To his child's herds: whatever diseases spoil

The farmer, came not there; his kine increased

In multitude and value year by year:

None cast her young, or bare unfruitful males.

Three hundred bulls, white-pasterned, crumple-horned,

Ranged amid these, and eke two hundred roans,

Sires of a race to be: and twelve besides

Herded amongst them, sacred to the Sun.

Their skin was white as swansdown, and they moved

Like kings amid the beasts of laggard foot.

Scorning the herd in uttermost disdain

They cropped the green grass in untrodden fields:

And when from the dense jungle to the plain

Leapt a wild beast, in quest of vagrant cows;

Scenting him first, the twelve went forth to war.

Stern was their bellowing, in their eye sat death,

Foremost of all for mettle and for might

And pride of heart loomed Phaeton: him the swains

Regarded as a star; so bright he shone

Among the herd, the cynosure of eyes.

He, soon as he descried the sun-dried skin

Of the grim lion, made at Heracles

(Whose eye was on him)—fain to make his crest

And sturdy brow acquainted with his flanks.

Straight the prince grasped him with no tender grasp

By the left horn, and bowed that giant bulk

To earth, neck foremost: then, by pressure brought

To bear upon his shoulder, forced him back.

The web of muscles that enwraps the nerves

Stood out from the brute's fore-arm plain to see.

Marvelled the King, and Phyleus his brave son,

At the strange prowess of Amphitryon's child.

Then townwards, leaving straight that rich champaign,

Stout Heracles his comrade, Phyleus fared;

And soon as they had gained the paven road,

Making their way hotfooted o'er a path

(Not o'er-conspicuous in the dim green wood)

That left the farm and threaded through the vines,

Out-spake unto the child of Zeus most high,

Who followed in his steps, Augéas' son,

O'er his right shoulder glancing pleasantly.

"O stranger, as some old familiar tale

I seem to cast thy history in my mind.

For there came one to Argos, young and tall,

By birth a Greek from Helicè-on-seas,

Who told this tale before a multitude:

How that an Argive in his presence slew

A fearful lion-beast, the dread and death

Of herdsmen; which inhabited a den

Or cavern by the grove of Nemean Zeus.

He may have come from sacred Argos' self,

Or Tiryns, or Mycenæ: what know I?

But thus he told his tale, and said the slayer

Was (if my memory serves me) Perseus' son.

Methinks no islander had dared that deed

Save thee: the lion's skin that wraps thy ribs

Argues full well some gallant feat of arms.

But tell me, warrior, first—that I may know

If my prophetic soul speak truth or not—

Art thou the man of whom that stranger Greek

Spoke in my hearing? Have I guessed aright?

How slew you single-handed that fell beast?

How came it among rivered Nemea's glens?

For none such monster could the eagerest eye

Find in all Greece: Greece harbours bear and boar,

And deadly wolf: but not this larger game.

'Twas this that made his listeners marvel then:

They deemed he told them travellers' tales, to win

By random words applause from standers-by."

Then Phyleus from the mid-road edged away,

That both might walk abreast, and he might catch

More at his ease what fell from Heracles:

Who journeying now alongside thus began:—

"On the prior matter, O Augéas' child,

Thine own unaided wit hath ruled aright.

But all that monster's history, how it fell,

Fain would I tell thee who hast ears to hear,

Save only whence it came: for none of all

The Argive host could read that riddle right.

Some god, we dimly guessed, our niggard vows

Resenting, had upon Phoroneus' realm

Let loose this very scourge of humankind.

On peopled Pisa plunging like a flood

The brute ran riot: notably it cost

Its neighbours of Bembina woes untold.

And here Eurystheus bade me try my first

Passage of arms, and slay that fearsome thing.

So with my buxom bow and quiver lined

With arrows I set forth: my left hand held

My club, a beetling olive's stalwart trunk

And shapely, still environed in its bark:

This hand had torn from holiest Helicon

The tree entire, with all its fibrous roots.

And finding soon the lion's whereabouts,

I grasped my bow, and on the bent horn slipped

The string, and laid thereon the shaft of death.

And, now all eyes, I watched for that fell thing,

In hopes to view him ere he spied out me.

But midday came, and nowhere could I see

One footprint of the beast or hear his roar:

And, trust me, none appeared of whom to ask,

Herdsman or labourer, in the furrowed lea;

For wan dismay kept each man in his hut.

Still on I footed, searching through and through

The leafy mountain-passes, till I saw

The creature, and forthwith essayed my strength.

Gorged from some gory carcass, on he stalked

At eve towards his lair; his grizzled mane,

Shoulders, and grim glad visage, all adrip

With carnage; and he licked his bearded lips.

I, crouched among the shadows of the trees

On the green hill-top, waited his approach,

And as he came I aimed at his left flank.

The barbèd shaft sped idly, nor could pierce

The flesh, but glancing dropped on the green grass.

He, wondering, raised forthwith his tawny head,

And ran his eyes o'er all the vicinage,

And snarled and gave to view his cavernous throat.

Meanwhile I levelled yet another shaft,

Ill pleased to think my first had fled in vain.

In the mid-chest I smote him, where the lungs

Are seated: still the arrow sank not in,

But fell, its errand frustrate, at his feet.

Once more was I preparing, sore chagrined,

To draw the bowstring, when the ravenous beast

Glaring around espied me, lashed his sides

With his huge tail, and opened war at once.

Swelled his vast neck, his dun locks stood on end

With rage: his spine moved sinuous as a bow,

Till all his weight hung poised on flank and loin.

And e'en as, when a chariot-builder bends

With practised skill his shafts of splintered fig,

Hot from the fire, to be his axle-wheels;

Flies the tough-rinded sapling from the hands

That shape it, at a bound recoiling far:

So from far-off the dread beast, all of a heap,

Sprang on me, hungering for my life-blood. I

Thrust with one hand my arrows in his face

And my doffed doublet, while the other raised

My seasoned cudgel o'er his crest, and drave

Full at his temples, breaking clean in twain

On the fourfooted warrior's airy scalp

My club; and ere he reached me, down he fell.

Headlong he fell, and poised on tremulous feet

Stood, his head wagging, and his eyes grown dim;

For the shrewd stroke had shattered brain and bone.

I, marking him beside himself with pain.

Fell, ere recovering he should breathe again,

At vantage on his solid sinewy neck,

My bow and woven quiver thrown aside.

With iron clasp I gripped him from the rear

(His talons else had torn me) and, my foot

Set on him, forced to earth by dint of heel

His hinder parts, my flanks entrenched the while

Behind his fore-arm; till his thews were stretched

And strained, and on his haunches stark he stood

And lifeless; hell received his monstrous ghost.

Then with myself I counselled how to strip

From off the dead beast's limbs his shaggy hide,

A task full onerous, since I found it proof

Against all blows of steel or stone or wood.

Some god at last inspired me with the thought,

With his own claws to rend the lion's skin.

With these I flayed him soon, and sheathed and armed

My limbs against the shocks of murderous war.

Thus, sir, the Nemean lion met his end,

Erewhile the constant curse of beast and man."

IDYLL XVIII.

IDYLL XIX.

IDYLL XX.

IDYLL XXI.

IDYLL XXII.

IDYLL XXIII.

IDYLL XXIV.

IDYLL XXV.