TITYRUS: Sweet is the whispering of that pine tree, goatherd,
making music beside the spring, and sweet too
is the sound of your piping. After Pan you will take
the second prize. If he takes the horned goat,
you will get the she-goat. If he takes
the she-goat for his prize, the kid will fall to you.
The flesh of a kid is very nice before she's milked.
GOATHERD: More sweet, O shepherd, is your song than the water that
tumbles
and splashes there from the rock above. If the Muses take
the ewe, you shall have the stall-fed lamb for your prize.
If they choose the lamb, you'll later get the ewe.
TITYRUS: Please, in the name of the nymphs, O goatherd, please, sit
here
beside this sloping knoll and shrubs of tamarisk
and pipe, and I shall meanwhile pasture your goats.
GOATHERD: O shepherd, we may not at noon, we may not pipe for
fear
of Pan, for he is resting then and weary from
the hunt. His temper is bitter, and acrid wrath sits ever
at his nostril. But you, Thyrsis, often sing
the sorrows of Daphnis, and you have mastered the pastoral song.
Come let us sit beneath this elm, facing Priapus
and the springs, the shepherds' seat, and the oaks, and if you
sing
as once you sang, contesting with Chromis of Libya,
I'll give you to milk three times a goat that has just borne
twins,
who though she has two kids, gives two pails besides,
and a deep cup washed over to coat with sweet wax,
two-handled, freshly carved, and fragrant yet from the knife.
Ivy winds around above its lip, ivy
dusted with clusters of gold. Along it trails the tendril,
all aglow with its yellow fruit. Inside a woman
like a wondrous creation of gods is carved. She wears a headband
and cloak. Beside her two men with fair long hair
contend with one another from either side with words,
but this doesn't touch her heart, for now she looks at one
and smiles, and now she casts her thought to the other, while
they,
long hollow-eyed from love, struggle to no avail.
Next to them is carved an old fisherman
and a rugged rock upon which the ancient man
struggles to draw up a great net to make
a cast. He is like a man who labors mightily.
You would say that he was fishing with all the force
of his limbs. So do the sinews swell all about
his neck, though his hair is white; he has the strength of youth.
Not far from the ancient sea-worn man there is a vineyard,
beautifully weighted with darkening clusters. A little boy
sits on a dry-stone wall and guards it. Two foxes
skulk about. One roams up and down the rows
and plunders the vines of the ripe grapes. The other plots
against his purse and says she'll never let him go
until she's got his breakfast bread. But the boy plaits
a pretty cricket cage with rush and asphodel
and cares less for his pouch or for the vine rows
than he takes joy in his plaiting. Everywhere
about the cup the pliant acanthus spreads, a marvel
to goatherds and a wonder to strike your heart too.
I paid the ferryman of Calydna a goat for it
and a big cheese of white milk, but never yet
has it touched my lips. It lies immaculate still. I'll give
you gladly the pleasure of it, my friend, if you will sing
that lovely song, nor do I mock you at all. Come,
my good man, for surely you never can keep your song
down there in Hades that brings oblivion of all.
THYRSIS: Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
Thyrsis of Aetna am I, and the voice of Thyrsis is sweet.
Where were you when Daphnis was wasting, where were Nymphs?
In the lovely valleys of Pindus or of Peneius? For surely
you did not keep the mighty stream of the river Anapus
nor the rocky peak of Aetna nor Acis' sacred water.
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
For him the jackals howled, for him the wolves, for him
when he died even the lion came out of the forest and wept.
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
Many cows about his feet and many bulls,
many heifers and many calves lamented him.
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
Hermes, first, came from the mountain and said, "Daphnis,
who tortures you? With whom, my friend, are you so in love?"
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
The cowherds came, the shepherds came, and the goatherds.
All asked what his sorrow was. Priapus came and said,
"Pitiable Daphnis, why do you pine? For you the girl
roams past all the fountains, wanders through every grove --
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
"searching. Unlucky in love and truly distraught are you.
You were called a cowherd, but now you resemble the goatherd,
for the goatherd, when he sees how the nannies are mounted,
cries his eyes out that he was not born a billy goat.
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
"And you, when you see the girls and how they laugh, then you
cry your eyes out that you're not dancing with them."
To these the cowherd made no reply but bore
his bitter love, bore it until his fated end.
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
Even Cypris came with a sweet smile, a secret smile,
and holding back her heavy wrath, she spoke and said,
"Surely, Daphnis, you vowed that you'd give Love a fall,
but now haven't you yourself been thrown by heartless Love?"
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
Daphnis at last made answer to her. "Angry Cypris,
vindictive Cypris, Cypris hateful to mortal men,
do you think, then, that my every sun is already set?
Even in Hades Daphnis will be a grief to Love.
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
"Do they not say of Cypris the 'cowherd . . .'? Go
to Anchises, to Ida. There are oaks there and galingale
and there the bees are humming sweetly about the hives.
Begin, dear Muses, now begin the pastoral song.
"Even Adonis is in his bloom. He pastures sheep,
he shoots hares, and chases beasts of every kind.
Begin, O Muses, begin again the pastoral song.
"Go take your stand again before Diomedes and say,
'I vanquish Daphnis the cowherd: now fight with me.'
Begin, O Muses, begin again the pastoral song.
"O wolves, O jackals, O bears that dwell in your mountain caves,
good-bye. Daphnis the cowherd will no longer come
to your woods, your oak thickets, your groves. Good-bye,
Arethusa,
and all you rivers that pour down Thybris your lovely waters.
Begin, O Muses, begin again the pastoral song.
"I am that Daphnis who pastured here his herds of cows.
Daphnis am I who watered here his bulls and his calves.
Begin, O Muses, begin again the pastoral song.
"O Pan, Pan, whether you roam the Lycaean range
or walk on mighty Maenalus, come to Sicily's isle,
leaving Helice's peak and the steep tomb of the son
of Lycaon that brings delight to even the Blessed Ones.
O Muses, cease, come cease from the pastoral song.
"Come, O lord, and take this pipe, fragrant from honey's
compacted wax and bound about its lovely lip,
for I am drawn down to Hades now by Love.
"Bear violets now, O brambles, bear violets, thorns, and let
the lovely narcissus bloom on juniper trees. Let all
be opposite of all, and let the pine bear pears
since Daphnis is dying. Let the stag drag the hounds.
From mountain tops let owls sing to nightingales."
O Muses, cease, come cease from the pastoral song.
So much he said and stopped, and Aphrodite wanted
to raise him up again, but all the thread from the Fates
was run, and Daphnis went to the stream. The eddies washed over
him whom the Muses loved and the Nymphs did not dislike.
O Muses, cease, come cease from the pastoral song.
Now you must give me the goat and the bowl that I may milk her
and make libation to the Muses. Good-bye, Muses,
Good-bye. Another time I'll sing you a sweeter song.
GOATHERD: May your lovely mouth be filled with honey, Thyrsis,
filIed
with the honeycomb. May you eat the sweet figs of Aegilus,
for you surpass the cicada in song. Here is the cup.
See how sweetly it smells. You'll think that it's been washed
at the Springs of the Hours. Come here, Cissaetha. Now milk her.
Nannies,
don't be so skittish -- the billy goat will be aroused.