IDYLL 1: THE SONG OF THYRSIS

Translation by Ben Jasnow

THYRSIS

Sweet song of whispers, goatherd, there, by the springs,

The pine tree sings, and you too sound sweet

On your pan-pipes. You’d be first after Pan, second place.

And if he’d get the he-goat with horns, you’d get the she.

And if he’d get the she-goat as his win, you’d

Get the kid. And the flesh of a kid is fine till you milk it.

GOATHERD

Sweeter still is your song, shepherd, than the splashing

Stream as it slips off the stones from high up.

If the Muses will lead off an ewe as their gift,

You’ll take a lamb from the pen for your glory. But if they

Are pleased to take the lamb, you’ll lead the ewe and go after.

THYRSIS

Would you please, in the name of the Nymphs, be pleased to sit

On the slope of the ridge, where the tamarisk is, goatherd,

And play us your pipe? In the meantime I’ll pasture your goats.

GOATHERD

It’s not right, shepherd, at noon we’ve no right

To play the pipe. Pan keeps us frightened. For it’s just then

He’s tired from the hunt and comes in to sleep, but

Sharp tempered. And an angry rheum hangs always at his nostril.

But since you, Thyrsis, always sing the Sorrows of Daphnis,

And the songs of the herders are your deep devotion,

Let’s sit beneath the elm and by Priapus,

Facing the Nymphs of the springs, just where the shepherd’s seat

Sits amongst the oaks. And if you should sing as once

You sang in your match against Libyan Chromis,

I’ll give you a goat with twins to milk three times,

(She may have two kids, but she’ll fill two pails besides),

And this deep wood cup, washed over with sweet wax,

Two-handled, new-cut, the scent of the blade still on it.

Up at the lip of the cup winds ivy,

Ivy twined with helichrysum, and all throughout

The tendril twists in the glory of its golden fruit.

And there a woman, like a wonder of the gods, is crafted,

Adorned with a robe and a fillet. Two men crowd round,

Lovely themselves with their long hair; each with the other,

Each with the other they quarrel with words. But she

Pays them no mind. Now laughing she glances at one of the men,

Now again her will flits in another direction. But they

Labor in vain, a long time, with swollen eyes, for love.

Alongside these a fisherman is crafted,

And a rough rock, where he’s standing, looking lively.

The old fisher’s hauling in his huge net for a cast;

He looks just like a man working hard.

You’ll say he’s fishing with all the strength of his limbs;

All the muscles of his neck are straining,

Even if his hair is grey. He’s got a young strength.

Just a bit further on from the old, sea-beaten man

Is a beautiful vineyard, weighed down with bunches of dark grapes,

And a small boy sits on the wall of dry rocks,

Keeping watch. But a couple of foxes get right past.

The one creeps through the rows, plotting mischief

For the fresh fruit; the other’s using all her craft

To get at the boy’s satchel and says she won’t let up

Until she gets to breakfast on his biscuits.

But the boy, meanwhile, plaits a lovely cricket cage,

Weaving asphodel with rushes. He has no care

For his satchel, nor do the vines concern him,

Not nearly so much as he rejoices in his weaving.

And curling acanthus spreads over the chalice in every direction,

A goatherd’s marvel, a wonder to bewilder your heart.

I gave a goat to a Calydnian ferryman for it,

And I paid him a big, white, milky cheese besides.

It hasn’t yet touched my lip, but still it remains

Unused. I would gladly offer you this pleasure,

If only you, my friend, would sing me that lovely hymn.

I won’t sneer. Come then, man, for you can’t

Keep a song down with Hades, who utterly forgets.

THE SONG OF THYRSIS

Begin, my Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

I am Thyrsis, my voice is fair,

Fair-voiced is Thyrsis of Aetna.

Where Nymphs were you then, when Daphnis longed,

Nymphs, when with love he was drowning?

Did you get by Peneius, its lovely glades,

Did you get by the glades of the Pindus?

For you did not stay by our mighty flood,

You abandoned the river Anapus;

You abandoned Aetna and its climbing crags,

And the hallowed streams of the Acis.

Begin, my Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

As he died they were howling, the jackals and the wolves,

The lion did lament him from the coppice.

Many cows round his feet, and many were the bulls,

Many calves and heifers who were crying.

Begin, my Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

First came Hermes down from the mountain,

And 'Daphnis,' did Hermes say,

'Who wears you down, O good my son,

For whom is your love so great?'

Begin, my Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

There came the neatherds, came shepherds and the goatherds,

All asked what the sorrow might be.

Priapus came, and said 'Daphnis, wretch,

Oh why do you melt away?

For there's a lass who waits at every fountain

She wanders through the glades for thee.'

Begin, my Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'You love like flint, you're set as stone,

No more do you a neatherd seem.

But like a goatherd watches how the she-goats bleat,

And watches as they're mounted by the hes,

And he melts with longing, and he drowns his eyes

That a billy he's not born to be,'

Begin, my Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'So you, when you see the maidens how they laugh

Your eyes melt just to dance with them.'

To these the neatherd made no response,

Naught but continued all the same,

And brought to an end his bitter love

And brought to an end his fate.

Begin again, Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

And sweet Cypris came, laughing all the time,

She was laughing in her secret heart,

But in anger she spoke, heaving with rage,

'You boasted you could wrangle Love.

But Daphnis, now, tell me who is tripped up,

And who bested by grievous Love?'

Begin again, Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'Cypris of grief' did Daphnis now answer,

'Cypris who nurses resentment,

Cypris detested by all mankind,

Do you dream that our sun has set?

To Love will Daphnis be a hateful spite,

Always, and even in Hades.'

Begin again, Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'And who hasn't heard of Cypris and the neatherd?

Get then to Ida and Anchises.

There the bees are humming, lovely by their hives,

There are the galingale and oaks.'

Begin again, Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'And Adonis is there, in his perfect hour,

And there puts his sheep out to pasture,

And there takes aim at every hare

And tracks every beast of the mountain.'

Begin again, Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'Or go face to face again with Diomedes,

Stand close to him and say,

"Now I have vanquished the neatherd Daphnis,

Come, then, and fight with me!"'

Begin again, Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'Farewell O wolves, O jackals, farewell,

O bears who are lurking in the mountains,

I Daphnis no longer am neatherd in your woods

No longer in your glades or in your coppice.

Arethusa farewell, and the beautiful waters

Of the rivers pouring from the Thybris.'

Begin again, Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'Daphnis am I, who in this place

Puts out his cows to pasture;

Daphnis am I, who in this place

Waters his bulls and his heifers.'

Begin again, Muses, my Muses bring,

Begin the song the herders sing.

'O Pan, Pan, if on lofty Lycaeus,

If you haunt enormous Maenalus,

Now come to the island of Sicily,

Leave the Helice highland,

And leave the steep barrow of Lycon's son,

Grave that's a wonder to the gods.'

Bring an end, Muses, my Muses bring,

Bring an end to the song the herders sing.

'Take my pipe, my Lord, well-bound about its lip,

That smells like honey from the wax,

For I am lost at the hands of Love,

Drawn already into Hades.'

Bring an end, Muses, my Muses bring,

Bring an end to the song the herders sing.

'Now the brambles, may you blossom with violets,

And blossom with violets the acanthus,

The juniper grow lovely with locks of narcissus,

Each thing become another.

Let the pine bear pears, since Daphnis dies,

Let the hart now rend the hound.

Let the wide-eyed owls sing down from the mountains

And drown out the nightingales.'

Bring an end, Muses, my Muses bring,

Bring an end to the song the herders sing.

He said so much and stopped. And Cypris

Wished to raise him back up,

But the flax of the Fates had spun too far

And Daphnis went into the flood.

The eddies washed over the friend of the Muses,

Whom the Nymphs had never detested.

Bring an end, Muses, my Muses bring,

Bring an end to the song the herders sing.

Now, give me the goat and the pail, so I

Can milk her and pour to the Muses. Farewell,

Ye Muses, a thousand times farewell. For you

I’ll ever sing another hour, a sweeter song.

GOATHERD

Full of honey be your lovely mouth, my Thyrsis,

And full of honey-comb too. May you eat

A sweet fig from Agilia, since you sing

Better than any cicada. Here’s your chalice. See

How beautifully it smells, my friend. You’d think

The Hours had filled it at their spring. Cissaetha,

Come ‘ere. Go on and milk her. But you, miss goat,

Had better not strut, or that billy’ll get right up.