Classic Poem

Thyrsis

THYRSIS

Something sweet is the whisper of the pine that makes her music by yonder springs, and sweet no less, master Goatherd, the melody of your pipe. Pan only shall take place and prize afore you; and if they give him a horny he-goat, then a she shall be yours; and if a she be for him, why, you shall have her kid; and kid's meat's good eating till your kids be milch-goats.

GOATHERD

As sweetly, good Shepherd, falls your music as the resounding water that gushes down from the top o' yonder rock. If the Muses get the ewe-lamb to their meed, you shall carry off the cosset; and if so be they choose the cosset, the ewe-lamb shall come to you.

THYRSIS

'Fore the Nymphs I pray you, master Goatherd, come now and sit ye down here by this shelving bank and these brush tamarisks and play me a tune. I'll keep your goats the while.

GOATHERD

No, no, man; there's no piping for me at high noon. I go in too great dread of Pan for that. I wot high noon's his time for taking rest after the swink o' the chase; and he's one o' the tetchy sort; his nostril's ever sour wrath's abiding-place. But for singing, you, Thyrsis, used to sing The Affliction of Daphnis as well as any man; you are no 'prentice in the art of country-music. So let's come and sit yonder beneath the elm, this way, over against Priapus and the fountain-goddesses, where that shepherd's seat is and those oak-trees. And if you but sing as you sang that day in the match with Chromis of Libya, I'll not only grant you three milkings of a twinner goat that for all her two young yields two pailfuls, but I'll give you a fine great mazer to boot, well scoured with sweet beeswax, and of two lugs, bran-span-new and the smack of the graver upon it yet.
The lip of it is hanged about with curling ivy, ivy freaked with a cassidony which goes twisting and twining among the leaves in the pride of her saffron fruitage. And within this bordure there's a woman, fashioned as a God might fashion her, lapped in a robe and a snood about her head. And either side the woman a swam with fair and flowing locks, and they bandy words the one with the other. Yet her heart is not touched by aught they say; for now 'tis a laughing glance to this, and anon a handful of regard to that, and for all their eyes have been so long hollow for love of her, they spend their labour in vain. Besides these there's an old fisher wrought on't and a rugged rock, and there stands gaffer gathering up his great net for a cast with a right good will like one that toils might and main. You would say that man went about his fishing with all the strength o's limbs, so stands every sinew in his neck, for all his grey hairs, puffed and swollen; for his strength is the strength of youth.
And but a little removed from master Weather-beat there's a vineyard well laden with clusters red to the ripening, and a little lad seated watching upon the hedge. And on either side of him two foxes; this ranges to and fro along the rows and pilfers all such grapes as be ready for eating, while that setteth all his cunning at the lad's wallet, and vows he will not let him be till he have set him breaking his fast with but poor victuals to his drink. And all the time the urchin's got starflower-stalks a-platting to a reed for to make him a pretty gin for locusts, and cares never so much, not he, for his wallet or his vines as he takes pleasure in his platting. And for an end, mark you, spread all about the cup goes the lissom bear's-foot, a sight worth the seeing with its writhen leaves; 'tis a marvellous work, 'twill amaze your heart.
Now for that cup a ferryman of Calymnus had a goat and a gallant great cheese-loaf of me, and never yet hath it touched my lip; it still lies unhandselled by. Yet right welcome to it art thou, if like a good fellow thou'lt sing me that pleasing and delightful song. Nay, not so; I am in right earnest. To't, good friend; sure thou wilt not be hoarding that song against thou be'st come where all's forgot?

THYRSIS (sings)

Country-song, sing country-song, sweet Muses.
'Tis Thyrsis sings, of Etna, and a rare sweet voice hath he.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when Daphnis pined? ye Nymphs, O where were ye?
Was it Peneius' pretty vale, or Pindus' glens? 'twas never
Anapus' flood nor Etna's pike nor Acis' holy river.
Country-song, sing country-song, sweet Muses.
When Daphnis died the foxes wailed and the wolves they wailed full sore,
The lion from the greenwood wept when Daphnis was no more.
Country-song, sing country-song, sweet Muses.
O many the lusty steers at his feet, and many the heifers slim,
Many the calves and many the kine that made their moan for him.
Country-song, sing country-song, sweet Muses.
Came Hermes first, from the hills away, and said " O Daphnis, tell,
" Who is't that fretteth thee, my son? whom lovest thou so well? "
Country-song, sing country-song, sweet Muses.
The neatherds came, the shepherds came, and the goatherds him beside,
All fain to hear what ail'd him; Priapus came and cried
" Why peak and pine, unhappy wight, when thou mightest bed a bride?
" For there's nor wood nor water but hath seen her footsteps flee —
Country-song, sing country-song, sweet Muses —
" In search o' thee. O a fool-in-love and a feeble is here, perdye!
" Neatherd, forsooth? 'tis goatherd now, or 'faith, 'tis like to be;
" When goatherd in the rutting-time the skipping kids doth scan,
" His eye grows soft, his eye grows sad, because he's born a man; —
Country-song, sing country-song, sweet Muses —
" So you, when ye see the lasses laughing in gay riot,
" Your eye grows soft, your eye grows sad, because you share it not. "
But never a word said the poor neatherd, for a bitter love bare he;
And he bare it well, as I shall tell, to the end that was to be.

Country-song, more country-song, ye Muses.
But and the Cyprian came him to, and smiled on him full sweetly —
For though she fain would foster wrath, she could not choose but smile —
And cried " Ah, braggart Daphnis, that wouldst throw Love so featly!
Thou'rt thrown, methinks, thyself of Love's so grievous guile. "
Country-song, more country-song, ye Muses.
Then out he spake; " O Cypris cruel, Cypris vengeful yet,
" Cypris hated of all flesh! think'st all my sun be set?
" I tell thee even 'mong the dead Daphnis shall work thee ill: —
Country-song, more country-song, ye Muses —
" Men talk of Cypris and the hind; begone to Ida hill,
" Begone to hind Anchises; sure bedstraw there doth thrive
" And fine oak-trees and pretty bees all humming at the hive.
Country-song, more country-song, ye Muses.
" Adonis too is ripe to woo, for a' tends his sheep o' the lea
" And shoots the hare and a-hunting goes of all the beasts there be.
Country-song, more country-song, ye Muses.
" And then I'ld have thee take thy stand by Diomed, and say
" " I slew the neatherd Daphnis; fight me thou to-day.
Country-song, more country-song, ye Muses.
" But 'tis wolf farewell and fox farewell and bear o' the mountain den.
" Your neatherd fere, your Daphnis dear, ye'll never see agen,
" By glen no more, by glade no more. And 'tis O farewell to thee,
" Sweet Arethuse, and all pretty waters down Thymbris vale that flee;
Country-song, more country-song, ye Muses;
" For this, O this is that Daphnis, your kine to field did bring,
" This Daphnis he, led stirk and steer to you a-watering.
Country-song, more country-song, ye Muses.

" And Pan, O Pan, whether at this hour by Lycee's mountain-pile
" Or Maenal steep thy watch thou keep, come away to the Sicil isle,
" Come away from the knoll of Helice and the howe lift high i' the lea,
" The howe of Lycaon's child, the howe that Gods in heav'n envye;
Country-song, leave country-song, ye Muses;
" Come, Master, and take this pretty pipe, this pipe of honey breath,
" Of wax well knit round lips to fit; for Love hales me to my death.
Country-song, leave country-song, ye Muses.
" Bear violets now ye briers, ye thistles violets too;
" Daffodilly may hang o' the juniper, and all things go askew;
" Pines may grow figs now Daphnis dies, and hind tear hound if she will,
" And the sweet nightingale be outsung i' the dale by the scritch-owl from the hill. "
Country-song, leave country-song, ye Muses.
Such words spake he, and he stayed him still; and O, the Love-Ladye,
She would fain have raised him where he lay, but that could never be.
For the thread was spun and the days were done and Daphnis gone to the River,
And the Nymphs' good friend and the Muses' fere was whelmed i' the whirl for ever.
Country-song, leave country-song, ye Muses.
There; give me the goat and the tankard, man; and the Muses shall have a libation of her milk. Fare you well, ye Muses, and again fare you well, and I'll e'en sing you a sweeter song another day.

GOATHERD

Be your fair mouth filled with honey and the honeycomb, good Thyrsis; be your eating of the sweet figs of Aegilus; for sure your singing's as delightful as the cricket's chirping in spring. Here's the cup ( taking it from his wallet ). Pray mark how good it smells; you'll be thinking it hath been washed at the well o' the Seasons. Hither, Browning; and milk her, you. A truce to your skipping, ye kids yonder, or the buckgoat will be after you.EnglishTheocritus