No More Learning

Praxinoe" — Lady Athene, what spinning women wrought them, what painters designed these drawings, so true they are ? How naturally they stand and move, like living creatures, not patterns woven. What a clever thing is man ! Ah, and him self — Adonis —how beautiful to behold he lies on his silver couch, with the first down on his cheeks, the thrice-beloved Adonis, —Adonis beloved even among the dead.
A Stranger — You weariful women, do cease your endless cooing talk ! They bore one to death with their eternal broad vowels !
Gorgo — Indeed ! And where may this person come from ? What is it to you if we are chatterboxes ? Give orders to your own servants, sir. Do you pretend to command ladies of Syra
If you must know, we are Corinthians by descent, like Bellerophon himself, and we speak Peloponnesian. Dorian women may lawfully speak Doric, I presume ?
Gorgo — Hush, hush, Praxinoe — the" Argive" woman's daughter, the great singer, is beginning the Adonis ; she that won the prize last year for dirge singing. I am sure she will give us something lovely ; see, she is preluding with her airs and graces.
cuse ?
Praxinoe" — Lady Persephone, never may we have more than one master. I am not afraid of your putting me on short commons.
362 IDYLS OF THEOCRITUS.
The Psalm of Adonis.
0 Queen that lovest Golgi, and Idalium, and the steep of Eryx, 0 Aphrodite, that playest with gold, lo, from the stream eternal of Acheron they have brought back to thee Adonis — even in the twelfth month they have brought him, the dainty-footed Hours. Tardiest of the Immortals are the beloved Hours, but dear and de sired they come, for always, to all mortals, they bring some gift with them. O Cypris, daughter of DionS, from mortal to immortal, so men tell, thou hast changed Berenice, dropping softly in the woman's breast the stuff of immortality.
Therefore, for thy delight, 0 thou of many names and many temples, doth the daughter of Berenice, even Arsinofi, lovely as Helen, cherish Adonis with all things beautiful.
Before him lie all ripe fruits that the tall trees' branches bear, and the delicate gardens, arrayed in baskets of silver, and the golden vessels are full of incense of Syria. And all the dainty cakes that women fashion in the kneading tray, mingling blossoms manifold with the white wheaten flour, all that is wrought of honey sweet, and in soft olive oil, all cakes fashioned in the semblance of things that fly, and of things that creep, lo, here they are set before him.
Here are built for him shadowy bowers of green, all laden with tender anise, and children flit overhead — the little Loves — as the young nightingales perched upon the trees fly forth and try their wings from bough to bough.
O the ebony, O the gold, O the twin eagles of white ivory that carry to Zeus, the son of Cronos, his darling, his cup-bearer ! O the purple coverlet strewn above, more soft than sleep ! So Miletus will say, and whoso feeds sheep in Samos.
Another bed is strewn for beautiful Adonis, one bed Cypris keeps and one the rosy-armed Adonis. A bridegroom of eighteen or nine teen years is he, his kisses are not rough, the golden down being yet upon his lips ! And now, good-night to Cypris, in the arms of her lover ! But lo, in the morning we will all of us gather with the dew, and carry him forth among the waves that break upon the beach ; and with locks unloosed, and ungirt raiment falling to the ankles, and bosoms bare, will we begin our shrill sweet song.
Thou only, dear Adonis, so men tell, thou only of the demigods dost visit both this world and the stream of Acheron. For Aga memnon had no such lot, nor Aias, that mighty lord of the terrible anger, nor Hector, the eldest born of the twenty sons of Hecabe, nor Patroclus, nor Pyrrhus that returned out of Troyland, nor the heroes of yet more ancient days, the Lapithae and Deucalion's sons, nor the sons of Pelops, and the chiefs of Pelasgian Argos. Be gracious now, dear Adonis, and propitious even in the coming year. Dear to
A LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 363
us has thine advent been, Adonis, and dear shall it be when thou comest again.
Gorgo — Praxinoe, the woman is cleverer than we fancied ! Happy woman to know so much, thrice happy to have so sweet a voice. Well, all the same, it is time to be making for home. Diocleides has not had his dinner, and the man is all vinegar, — don't venture near him when he is kept waiting for dinner. Farewell, beloved Adonis, may you find us glad at your next coming !
A LAMENT FOR ADONIS. By BION.
(Translation of Mrs. Browning. )
[Bion was born at Smyrna ; flourished about 280 ; contemporary of Theocri tus, and wrote pastorals in the same manner. He was greatly beloved. See " Lament for Bion " under Moschus. ]
I.
I mourn for Adonis — Adonis is dead,
Fair Adonis is dead and the Loves are lamenting.
Sleep, Cypris, no more on thy purple-strewed bed :
Arise, wretch stoled in black ; beat thy breast unrelenting,
And shriek to the worlds, " Fair Adonis is dead ! "
ii.
I mourn for Adonis — the Loves are lamenting. He lies on the hills in his beauty and death ;
The white tusk of a boar has transpierced his white thigh. Cytherea grows mad at his thin gasping breath,
While the black blood drips down on the pale ivory,
And his eyeballs lie quenched with the weight of his brows,
The rose fades from his lips, and upon them just parted The kiss dies the goddess consents not to lose,
Though the kiss of the Dead cannot make her glad-hearted : He knows not who kisses him dead in the dews.
in.
I mourn for Adonis — the Loves are lamenting. Deep, deep in the thigh is Adonis's wound,
A LAMENT FOR ADONIS.
But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom presenting.
The youth lieth dead while his dogs howl around,
And the nymphs weep aloud from the mists of the hill, And the poor Aphrodite, with tresses unbound,
All disheveled, unsandaled, shrieks mournful and shrill
Through the dusk of the groves. The thorns, tearing her feet,
Gather up the red flower of her blood which is holy, Each footstep she takes : and the valleys repeat
The sharp cry she utters and draw it out slowly. She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian, on him
Her own youth, while the dark blood spreads over his body, The chest taking hue from the gash in the limb,
And the bosom, once ivory, turning to ruddy.
IV.
Ah, ah, Cytherea! the Loves are lamenting.
She lost her fair spouse and so lost her fair smile :
When he lived she was fair, by the whole world's consenting, Whose fairness is dead with him : woe worth the while !
All the mountains above and the oaklands below Murmur, ah, ah, Adonis ! the streams overflow
Aphrodite's deep wail ; river fountains in pity
Weep soft in the hills, and the flowers as they blow
Redden outward with sorrow, while all hear her go
With the song of her sadness through mountain and city.
v.
Ah, ah, Cytherea ! Adonis is dead,
Fair Adonis is dead — Echo answers, Adonis!
Who weeps not for Cypris, when bowing her head
She stares at the wound where it gapes and astonies?
— When, ah, ah! — she saw how the blood ran away
And empurpled the thigh, and, with wild hands flung out,
Said with sobs : " Stay, Adonis ! unhappy one, stay, Let me feel thee once more, let me ring thee about With the clasp of my arms, and press kiss into kiss !
Wait a little, Adonis, and kiss me again,
For the last time, beloved, — and but so much of this
—That the kiss may learn life from the warmth of the strain !
Till thy breath shall exude from thy soul to my mouth, To my heart, and, the love charm I once more receiving
May drink thy love in it and keep of a truth That one kiss in the place of Adonis the living.
A LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 365
Thou fliest me, mournful one, fliest me far, — My Adonis, and seekest the Acheron portal,
To Hell's cruel King goest down with a scar,
While I weep and live on like a wretched immortal,
And follow no step ! O Persephone-, take him,
My husband ! — thou'rt better and brighter than I,
Look up at my grief ; there's despair in my cry,
Since I wail for Adonis who died to me — died to me —
Then, I fear thee ! — Art thou dead, my Adored ?
Passion ends like a dream in the sleep that's denied to me,
Cypris is widowed, the Loves seek their lord
All the house through in vain. Charm of cestus has ceased With thy clasp ! O too bold in the hunt past preventing,
Ay, mad, thou so fair, to have strife with a beast ! "
Thus the goddess wailed on — and the Loves are lamenting.
VI.
Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead.
She wept tear after tear with the blood which was shed, And both turned into flowers for the earth's garden close, Her tears, to the windflower ; his blood, to the rose.
I mourn for Adonis — Adonis is dead.
Weep no more in the woods, Cytherea, thy lover !
So, well : make a place for his corse in thy bed,
With the purples thou sleepest in, under and over. He's fair though a corse — a fair corse, like a sleeper.
Lay him soft in the silks he had pleasure to fold When, beside thee at night, holy dreams deep and deeper
Enclosed his young life on the couch made of gold. Love him still, poor Adonis ; cast on him together
The crowns and the flowers : since he died from the place, Why, let all die with him ; let the blossoms go wither,
Rain myrtles and olive buds down on his face.
Rain the myrrh down, let all that is best fall a-pining,
Since the myrrh of his life from thy keeping is swept. Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples reclining ;
The Loves raised their voices around him and wept. They have shorn their bright curls off to cast on Adonis ; One treads on his bow, — on his arrows, another, —
One breaks up a well-feathered quiver, and one is
366
CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY
Bent low at a sandal, untying the strings,
And one carries the vases of gold from the springs, While one washes the wound, — and behind them a brother
Fans down on the body sweet air with his wings.
VIII.
Cytherea herself now the Loves are lamenting. Each torch at the door Hymenaeus blew out .
And, the marriage wreath dropping its leaves as repenting, No more " Hymen, Hymen," is chanted about,
Buttheaiaiinstead—"Aialas! " isbegun
For Adonis, and then follows " Ai Hymenaeus ! "
The Graces are weeping for Cinyris's son,
Sobbing low each to each, " His fair eyes cannot see us ! "
Their wail strikes more shrill than the sadder Dion<S's. The Fates mourn aloud for Adonis, Adonis,
Deep chanting ; he hears not a word that they say :
He would hear, but Persephone' has him in keeping. — Cease moan, Cytherea ! leave pomps for to-day,
And weep new when a new year refits thee for weeping.
CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY. By LYCOPHRON.
(Translated by Viscount Royston. )
[Ltcophkon, a Greek critic and tragic poet, born at Chalcis in Euboea, but an Alexandrian by residence and work, flourished in the reign of Ptolemy Phila- delphus, B. C. 286-247. Intrusted by him with the arrangement of the comedies in the Alexandrian library, he wrote a treatise on comedy, but his chief produc tion was a body of tragedies forty-six or sixty-four in number. His only extant work is "Cassandra," an imaginary prophecy by that daughter of Priam con cerning the fate of Troy and the Greek and Trojan heroes. ]
Hark, how Myrinna groans ! the shores resound With snorting steeds, and furious chivalry :
Down leaps the Wolf, to lap the blood of kings, Down on our strand ; within her wounded breast Earth feels the stroke, and pours the fateful stream On high, the fountains of the deep disclosed.
Now Mars showers down a fiery sleet, and winds His trumpet-shell, distilling blood, and now,
Knit with the Furies and the Fates in dance,
CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY.
Leads on the dreadful revelry ; the fields With iron harvests of embattled spears
Gleam ; from the towers I hear a voice of woe Rise to the steadfast Empyrean ; crowds
Of zoneless matrons rend their flowing robes, And sobs and shrieks cry loud unto the night One woe is past ! Another woe succeeds !
This, this shall gnaw my heart ! then shall I feel The venomed pang, the rankling of the soul,
Then when the Eagle, bony and gaunt and grim, Shall wave his shadowy wings, and plow the winds On clanging penns, and o'er the subject plain Wheel his wide-circling flight in many a gyre, Pounce on his prey, scream loud with savage joy, And plunge his talons in my Brother's breast,
(My best beloved, my Father's dear delight,
Our hope, our stay ! ) then, soaring to the clouds, Shower down his blood upon his native woods, And bathe the terrors of his beak in gore.
Oh God ! what column of our house, what stay, What massy bulwark fit to bear the weight
Of mightiest monarchies, hast thou o'erthrown ! But not without sharp pangs the Dorian host Shall scoff our tears, and mock our miseries,
And, as the corpse in sad procession rolls,
Shall laugh the loud and bitter laugh of scorn, When through the blazing helms and blazing prows Pale crowds shall rush, and with uplifted hands
And earnest prayer invoke protector Jove
Vainly ; for then nor foss, nor earthly mound,
Nor bars, nor bolts, nor massy walls, though flanked With beetling towers, and rough with palisades, Ought shall avail ; but (thick as clustering bees, When sulphurous streams ascend, and sudden flames Invade their populous cells) down from the barks, Heaps upon heaps, the dying swarms shall roll,
And temper foreign furrows with their gore !
Then, thrones and kingdoms, potentates whose veins Swell high with noble blood, whose falchions mow
" The ranks, and squadrons, and right forms of war," Down e'en to earth thy dreaded hands shall crush, Loaded with death, and maddening for the fray.
But I shall bear the weight of woe, but I
Shall shed the ceaseless tear ; for sad and dawn,
And sad the day shall rise when thou art slain !
368
CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY.
Of love ; but loathing shall possess thy soul, Thy blood shall flow upon thy father's hearth, And low the glories of thine head shall lie.
But I, who fled the bridal yoke, who count
The tedious moments, closed in dungeon walls
Dark and o'er-canopied with massy stone ;
E'en I, who drove the genial God of Day
Far from my couch, nor heeded that he rules
The Hours, Eternal beam ! essence divine !
Who vainly hoped to live pure as the maid,
The Laphrian virgin, till decrepit age
Should starve my cheeks, and wither all my prime ; Vainly shall call on the Bude'an queen,
Dragged like a dove unto the vulture's bed !
But she, who from the lofty throne of Jove
Shot like a star, and shed her looks benign
On Ilus, such as in his soul infused
Sovereign delight, upon the sculptured roof
Furious shall glance her ardent eyes ; the Greece For this one crime, aye for this one, shall weep Myriads of sons ; no funeral urn, but rocks
Shall hearse their bones ; no friends upon their dust Shall pour the dark libations of the dead ;
A name, a breath, an empty sound remains,
A fruitless marble warm with bitter tears
Of sires, and orphan babes, and widowed wives !
Ye cliffs of Zarax, and ye waves which wash Opheltes' crags, and melancholy shore,
Ye rocks of Trychas, Nedon's dangerous heights, Dirphossian ridges, and Diacrian caves,
Ye plains where Phorcys broods upon the deep, And founds his floating palaces, what sobs
Of dying men shall ye not hear ? what groans
Of masts and wrecks, all crashing in the wind ? What mighty waters, whose receding waves Bursting, shall rend the continents of earth ? What shoals shall writhe upon the sea-beat rocks ?
Saddest, while Time athwart the deep serene Rolls on the silver circle of the moon.
Thee too I weep, no more thy youthful form
Shall blossom with new beauties, now no more
Thy brother's arms shall twine about thy neck
In strict embrace, but to the Dragon's heart
Swift shalt thou send thy shafts entipped with flame, And round his bosom weave the limed nets
CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY.
While through the mantling majesty of clouds Descending thunderbolts shall blast their limbs, Who erst came heedless on, nor knew their course, Giddy with wine, and mad with jollity,
While on the cliffs the mighty felon sat
In baleful guidance, waving in his hand
The luring flame far streaming o'er the main.
One, like a sea bird floating on the foam,
The rush of waves shall dash between the rocks, On Gyrae's height spreading his dripping wings
To catch the drying gales, and sun his plumes ; But rising in his might, the King of Floods
Shall dash the boaster with his forky mace
Sheer from the marble battlements, to roam
With ores, and screaming gulls, and forms marine ; And on the shore his mangled corpse shall lie,
E'en as a dolphin, withering in the beams
Of Sol, 'mid weedy refuse of the surge
And bedded heaps of putrefying ooze ;
These sad remains the Nereid shall inurn,
The silver-footed dame beloved of Jove,
And by th' Ortygian Isle shall rise the tomb, O'er which the white foam of the billowy wave Shall dash, and shake the marble sepulchre Rocked by the broad iEgean ; to the shades
His sprite shall flit, and sternly chide the Queen Of soft desires, the Melinean dame,
Who round him shall entwine the subtile net, And breathe upon his soul the blast of love,
If love it may be called, — a sudden gust, A transient flame, a self-consuming fire, A meteor lighted by the Furies' torch.
Woe ! woe ! inextricable woe, and sounds
Of sullen sobs shall echo round the shore
From where Araethus rolls to where on high Libethrian Dotium rears his massy gates !
What groans shall peal on Acherusian banks
To hymn my spousals ! how upon the soul,
Voice, other than the voice of joy, shall swell,
When many a hero floating on the wave
Sea monsters shall devour with bloody jaws !
When many a warrior stretched upon the strand Shall feel the thoughts of home rush on his heart,
" By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned ! " vol. iv. — 24
370 EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS OF CALLIMACHDS.
EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS OF CALLIMACHUS. (Verse translations made for this work. )
[Callimachus, a celebrated Greek poet, was born at Cyrene in Africa, and became librarian of the Alexandrian library about b. c. 260, holding the position till his death about 240. He was regarded as the greatest of Greek elegiac poets; and was also a great critic and teacher, several famous men being his pupils. ]
Late hearing, Heraclitus, of thine end,
The tears welled in me as the memory rose How oft we twain had made the sunset close
Upon our converse ; yet I know, my friend, Singer of Halicarnassus, that thou must Long, long ago have moldered into dust.
But still thy strains survive, and Hades old, All-spoiler, shall not grasp them in his hold.
Here dwell I, Timon, the man-hater : but pass on : bid me woes as many as you will, only pass on.
A. Doth Charidas rest beneath thee ? B. If you mean the son of Arimnas the Cyrenaean, he rests beneath me. A. O Charidas, what are the things below? B. Vast darkness. A. And what the returns to earth? B. A lie. A. And Pluto? B. A fable, we have perished utterly. This is my true speech to you ; but if you want the pleasant style of speech, the Pel- laean's great ox is in the shades. (That is, I can lie to you as well about the immortality of cattle as of men. )
Oft mourn the Samian maids that passed away Is witty Crethis, graceful in her play,
A fellow-worker brightening all the day,
And free of speech ; but here she soundly sleeps The slumber fate for every mortal keeps.
Would there had never been swift ships : for then we would not lament for Sopolis, son of Dioclides. But now he drifts a corse somewhere in the sea, and in his stead we pass by a name and a cenotaph.
At dawn we were burying Menalippus, and at sunset the maiden Basilo died by her own hand. For she had not the heart to live, when she had placed her brother in the flame. So the house of their sire Aristippus saw a double woe ; and
EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS OF CALLIMACHUS. 371
all Cyrene was downcast, when it saw the house of persons happy in their children bereaved.
From small means I had a light subsistence, neither doing aught ill, nor wronging any one. O dear earth, if I, Micilus, have commended aught that is bad, neither do thou lie light on me, nor ye other gods, who hold me.
The three-years-old Astyanax, while sporting round about a well, a mute image of a form drew in to itself. And from the water the mother snatched her drenched boy, examining whether he had any portion of life. But the infant did not defile the Nymphs, for, hushed on the lap of his mother, he sleeps his deep sleep.
Worn out with age and poverty, and no man outstretching a contribution for misfortune, I have come into my tomb by degrees with my trembling limbs. With difficulty have I found the goal of a troublous life. And in my case the cus tom of the dead hath been changed. For I did not die first, and then was buried ; but was buried, and then died.
Bid me not hail, bad heart, but pass on. Thy not laughing is equal joy to me.
The hunter, O Epicydes, hunts on the mountain crag
For hare and trail of antelope — versed in the rime and the snow;
But if any one call to him, " Here is a stricken and dying stag," He scorns the helpless quarry and lets the vantage go.
Such is my love : it is apt at pursuing what flies it most fleet,
But hastens, unheeding its gain, past the captive that lies at its feet.
May you sleep, Conopium, Flinty-hearted maiden,
As at this cold vestibule
You leave me serenading !
May you sleep, you wicked girl, The sleep you give your lover :
Pity even in a dream You cannot discover !
Neighbors pity, but not you, Even in your slumber :
Soon, though, you'll remember this When gray hairs you number !
372 THE VOYAGE OF THE AKGO.
THE VOYAGE OF THE ARGO. By APOLLONIUS BHODIUS.
[Apollohius was born about b. c. 236, at Alexandria or its neighbor Nau- cratis. He studied under Callimachus ; they quarreled and lampooned each other bitterly, and the superior prestige of the master prevented the pupil's work from"gaining recognition ; the latter then removed to Rhodes (whence his nickname The Rhodian "), was at once acknowledged the best poet of his day, and later returned famous to Alexandria, becoming librarian of"the great royal museum there. He died in 181. His chief surviving work is the Argonautica," an epic on the search for the Golden Fleece, imitating Homer with much grace
and force. ]
The Harpies.
Here Phineus, son of Agenor, had his home beside the sea ; he who, by reason of the divination that the son of Leto granted him aforetime, suffered most awful woes, far beyond all men ; for not one jot did he regard even Zeus himself, in foretelling the sacred purpose to men unerringly. Wherefore Zeus granted him a weary length of days, but reft his eyes of the sweet light, nor suffered him to have any joy of all the countless gifts, which those, who dwelt around and sought to him for oracles, were ever bringing to his house. But suddenly through the clouds the Harpies darted nigh, and kept snatching them from his mouth or hands in their talons. Sometimes never a morsel of food was left him, sometimes a scrap, that he might live and suffer. And upon his food they spread a fetid stench ; and none could endure to bring food to his mouth, but stood afar
off ; so foul a reek breathed from the remnants of his meal. At once, when he heard the sound and noise of a company, he per ceived that they were the very men now passing by, at whose coming an oracle from Zeus had said that he should enjoy his food. Up from his couch he rose, as it were, a lifeless phan tom, and, leaning on his staff, came to the door on his wrinkled feet, feeling his way along the walls ; and, as he went, his limbs trembled from weakness and age, and his skin was dry and caked with filth, and naught but the skin held his bones together. So he came forth from his hall, and sat down with heavy knees on the threshold of the court, and a dark mantle wrapped him, and seemed to sweep the ground below all round ; and there he sank with never a word, in strengthless lethargy.
But they, when they saw him, gathered round, and were astonied. And he, drawing a labored breath from the bottom
THE VOYAGE OF THE ARGO. 373
of his chest, took up his parable for them and said : " Hearken, choice sons of all the Hellenes, if 'tis you in very truth, whom now Jason, at the king's chill bidding, is leading on the ship Argo to fetch the fleece. 'Tis surely you. Still doth my mind know each thing by its divining. Wherefore to thee, my prince, thou son of Leto, do I give thanks even in my cruel sufferings. By Zeus, the god of suppliants, most awful god to sinful men, for Phoebus' sake and for the sake of Hera herself, who before all other gods hath had you in her keeping as ye came, help me, I implore ; rescue a hapless wretch from misery, and do not heedlessly go hence and leave me thus. For not only hath the avenging fiend set his heel upon my eyes, not only do I drag out to the end a tedious old age, but yet another most bitter pain is added to the tale. Harpies, swooping from some unseen den of destruction, that I see not, do snatch the food from my mouth. And I have no plan to help me. But lightly would my mind forget her longing for a meal, or the thought of them, so quickly fly they through the air. But as happens at times, they leave me some scrap of food, noisome stench hath, and smell too strong to bear, nor could any mortal man draw nigh and bear even for little while, no, not though his heart were forged of adamant. But me, God wot, doth ne cessity, cruel and insatiate, constrain to abide, and abiding to put such food in my miserable belly. Them 'tis heaven's decree that the sons of Boreas shall check and they shall ward them off, for they are my kinsmen, indeed am that Phineus, who in days gone by had name amongst men for my wealth and divination, whom Agenor, my sire, begat their sister Cleo patra did bring to my house as wife with gifts of wooing,
what time ruled among the Thracians. "
So spake the son of Agenor and deep sorrow took hold on
each of the heroes, but specially on the two sons of Boreas. But they wiped away tear and drew nigh, and thus spake Zetes, taking in his the hand of the suffering old man " Ah poor sufferer, methinks there no other man more wretched than thee. Why that such woes have fastened on thee Is that thou hast sinned against the gods in deadly folly through thy skill in divination Wherefore are they so greatly wroth against thee Lo our heart within us sorely bewildered, though we yearn to help thee, in very truth the god hath re served for us twain this honor. For plain to see are the rebukes that the immortals send on us men of earth. Nor will we check
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374 THE VOYAGE OF THE ARGO.
the coming of the Harpies, for all our eagerness, till that thou swear that we shall not fall from heaven's favor in return for this. " So spake he, and straight that aged man opened his sightless eyes and lifted them up, and thus made answer : " Hush ! remind me not of those things, my son. The son of Leto be my witness, who of his kindness taught me divination; be witness that ill-omened fate, that is my lot, and this dark cloud upon my eyes, and the gods below, whose favor may I never find if I die perjured thus, that there shall come no wrath from heaven on you by reason of your aid. "
Then were those twain eager to help him by reason of the oath, and quickly did the young men make ready a feast for the old man, a last booty for the Harpies ; and the two stood near to strike them with their swords as they swooped down. Soon as ever that aged man did touch the food, down rushed those Harpies with whir of wings at once, eager for the food, like grievous blasts, or like lightning darting suddenly from the clouds ; but those heroes, when they saw them in mid air, shouted ; and they at the noise sped off afar across the sea af ter they had devoured everything, but behind them was left an intolerable stench. And the two sons of Boreas started in pur suit of them with their swords drawn ; for Zeus inspired them with tireless courage, and 'twas not without the will of Zeus that they followed them, for they would dart past the breath of the west wind, what time they went to and from Phineus. As when upon the hilltops dogs skilled in the chase run on the track of horned goats or deer, and, straining at full speed just behind, in vain do gnash their teeth upon their lips ; even so Zetes and Calais, darting very nigh to them, in vain grazed them with their finger tips. And now, I trow, they would have torn them in pieces against the will of the gods on the floating islands, after they had come afar, had not swift Iris seen them, and darting down from the clear heaven above stayed them with this word of rebuke, " Ye sons of Boreas, 'tis not ordained that ye should slay the Harpies, the hounds of mighty Zeus, with your swords ; but I, even I, will give you an oath that they will come no more nigh him. "
Therewith she sware by the stream of Styx, most dire and awful oath for all the gods, that these should never again draw near unto the house of Phineus, son of Agenor, for even so was it fated. So they yielded to her oath and turned to hasten back to the ship.
THE VOYAGE OF THE ARGO. 375
The Symplegades.
After this, when they had built an altar to the twelve blessed gods on the edge of the sea opposite, and had offered sacrifice upon it, they went aboard their swift ship to row away ; nor did they forget to take with them a timorous dove, but Euphemus clutched her in his hand, cowering with terror, and carried her along, and they loosed their double cables from the shore.
Nor, I ween, had they started, ere Athene was ware of them, and forthwith and hastily she stepped upon a light cloud, which should bear her at once for all her weight; and she hasted on her way seaward, with kindly intent to the rowers. As when a man goes wandering from his country, as oft we men do wander in our hardihood, and there is no land too far away, for every path lies open before his eyes, when lo ! he seeth in his mind his own home, and withal there appeareth a way to it over land or over sea, and keenly he pondereth this way and that, and searcheth it out with his eyes ; even so the daughter of Zeus, swiftly darting on, set foot upon the cheer less strand of Thynia.
Now they, when they came to the strait of the winding pas sage, walled in with beetling crags on either side, while an eddying current from below washed up against the ship as it went on its way ; and on they went in grievous fear, and already on their ears the thud of clashing rocks smote unceas ingly, and the dripping cliffs roared; in that very hour the hero Euphemus clutched the dove in his hand, and went to take his stand upon the prow; while they, at the bidding of Tiphys, son of Hagnias, rowed with a will, that they might drive right through the rocks, trusting in their might. And as they rounded a bend, they saw those rocks opening for the last time of all. And their spirit melted at the sight ; but the hero Euphemus sent forth the dove to dart through on her wings, and they, one and all, lifted up their heads to see, and she sped through them, but at once the two rocks met again with a clash ; and the foam leaped up in a seething mass like a cloud, and grimly roared the sea, and all around the great firmament bellowed. And the hollow caves echoed beneath the rugged rocks as the sea went surging in, and high on the cliffs was the white spray vomited as the billow dashed upon them. Then did the current spin the ship round. And the
376 THE VOYAGE OF THE ARGO.
rocks cut off just the tail feathers of the dove, but she darted away unhurt. And loudly the rowers cheered, but Tiphys himself shouted to them to row lustily, for once more the rocks were opening. Then came trembling on them as they rowed, until the wave with its returning wash came and bore the ship within the rocks. Thereon most awful fear seized on all, for above their head was death with no escape ; and now on this side and on that lay broad Pontus to their view, when sud denly in front rose up a mighty arching wave, like to a steep hill, and they bowed down their heads at the sight. For it seemed as if it must indeed leap down and whelm the ship entirely. But Tiphys was quick to ease her as she labored to the rowing, and the wave rolled with all his force beneath the keel, and lifted up the ship herself from underneath, far from the rocks, and high on the crest of the billow she was borne. Then did Euphemus go amongst all the crew, and call to them to lay on to their oars with all their might, and they smote the water at his cry. So she sprang forward twice as far as any other ship would have yielded to rowers, and the oars bent like curved bows as the heroes strained. In that instant the vaulted wave was past them, and she at once was riding over the furious billow like a roller, plunging headlong forward o'er the trough of the sea. But the eddying current stayed the ship in the midst of " the Clashers," and they quaked on either side, and thundered, and the ship timbers throbbed. Then did Athene with her left hand hold the stubborn rock apart, while with her right she thrust them through upon their course ; and the ship shot through the air like a winged arrow. Yet the rocks, ceaselessly dashing together, crushed off, in passing, the tip of the carved stern. And Athene sped back to Olympus, when they were escaped unhurt. But the rocks closed up together, rooted firm forever ; even so was it decreed by the blessed gods, whenso a man should have passed through alive in his ship.
The Flight of Medea.
iEetes amongst the chosen captains of his people was devising sheer treachery against the heroes all night in his halls, in wild fury at the sorry ending of the contest; and he was very sure, that angry sire, that these things were not being accomplished without the aid of his own daughters.
THE VOYAGE OF THE ARGO.
377
But upon Medea's heart Hera cast most grievous fear, and she trembled, like some nimble fawn, which the barking of hounds hath frighted in the thickets of a deep woodland. For anon she thought that of a surety her help would never escape her father's eye, and right soon would she fill up her cup of bitterness. And she terrified her handmaids, who were privy thereto; and her eyes were full of fire, and in her ears there rang a fearful sound; and oft would she clutch at her throat, and oft tear the hair upon her head and groan in sore anguish. Yea, and in that hour would the maid have overleaped her doom and died of a poisoned cup, bringing to naught the plans of Hera; but the goddess drove her in panic to fly with the sons of Phrixus. And her fluttering heart was comforted within her. So she in eager haste poured from the casket all her drugs at once into the folds of her bosom. And she kissed her bed and the posts of the doors on either side, and stroked the walls fondly, and with her hand cut off one long tress and left it in her chamber, a memorial of her girlish days for her mother; then with a voice all choked with sobs she wept aloud:
So spake she, and from her eyes poured forth a flood of tears. Even as a captive maid stealeth forth from a wealthy house, one whom fate hath lately reft from her country, and as yet knoweth she naught of grievous toil, but a stranger to misery and slavish tasks, she cometh in terror 'neath the cruel hands of a mistress ; like her the lovely maiden stole forth swiftly from her home. And the bolts of the doors yielded of their own accord to her touch, springing back at her hurried spells. With bare feet she sped along the narrow paths, drawing her robe with her left hand over her brows to veil her face and fair cheeks, while with her right hand she lifted up the hem of her garment. Swiftly along the unseen track she came in her terror outside the towers of the spacious town, and none of the guard marked her, for she sped on and they knew it not. Then marked she well her way unto the temple, for she was not ignorant of the paths, having wandered thither oft aforetime in quest of corpses and the noxious roots of the earth, as a sorceress must ; yet did her heart quake with fear
I leave thee here this one long tress
" Ah, mother mine !
instead of me, and go; so take this last farewell as I go far from hence ; farewell, Chalciope, farewell to all my home ! Would that the sea had dashed thee, stranger, in pieces, or ever thou didst reach the Colchian land ! "
378
THE VOYAGE OF THE ARGO.
and trembling. Now Titania, goddess of the moon, as she sailed up the distant sky, caught sight of that maid distraught, and savagely she exulted o'er her in words like these ; " So I am not the only one to wander to the cave on Latmos ; not I alone burn with love for fair Endymion ! How oft have I gone hence before thy cunning spells, with thoughts of love, that thou mightest work in peace, in the pitchy night, the sorceries so dear to thee. And now, I trow, hast thou too found a like sad fate, and some god or sorrow hath given thee thy Jason for a very troublous grief. Well, go thy way ; yet steel thy heart"to take up her load of bitter woe, for all thy understanding.
So spake she ; but her feet bare that other hasting on her way. Right glad was she to climb the river's high banks, and see before her the blazing fire, which all night long the heroes kept up in joy for the issue of the enterprise. Then through the gloom, with piercing voice, she called aloud to Phrontis, youngest of the sons of Phrixus, from the further bank ; and he, with his brethren and the son of jEson too, deemed it was his sister's voice, and the crew marveled silently, when they knew what it really was. Thrice she lifted up her voice, and thrice at the bidding of his company cried Phrontis in answer to her ; and those heroes the while rowed swiftly over to fetch her. Not yet would they cast the ship's hawsers on the mainland, but the hero Jason leaped quickly ashore from the deck above, and with him Phrontis and Argus, two sons of Phrixus, also sprang to land; then did she " clasp them by the knees with both her hands, and spake : Save me, friends, me most miserable, ay, and your selves as well from JEetes. For ere now all is discovered, and no remedy cometh. Nay, let us fly abroad the ship, before he mount his swift horses. And I will give you the golden fleece, when I have lulled the guardian snake to rest ; but thou, stranger, now amongst thy comrades take heaven to witness to the promises thou didst make me, and make me not to go away from hence in scorn and shame, for want of friends. "
So spake she in her sore distress, and the heart of the son of jEson was very glad ; at once he gently raised her up, where she was fallen at his knees, and took her in his arms and comforted her: "God help thee, lady ! Be Zeus of Olympus himself witness of mine oath, and Hera, queen of marriage,
LAMENT FOR BION. 379
bride of Zeus, that I will of a truth establish thee as my wedded wife in my house, when we are come on our return to the land of Hellas. "
So spake he, and therewith clasped her right hand in his own. Then bade she them row the swift ship with all speed unto the sacred grove, that they might take the fleece and bear it away against the will of JEetes, while yet it was night. Without delay deeds followed words ; for they made her embark, and at once thrust out the ship from the shore ; and loud was the din, as the heroes strained at their oars. But she, starting back, stretched her hands wildly to the shore; but Jason cheered her with words, and stayed her in her sore grief.
LAMENT FOR BION. By MOSCHUS. (Translated by Andrew Lang).
[Moschus was a poet of the school of Theocritus, born at Syracuse, and probably a pupil of Bion, and flourished about b. c. 200 ; only four of his idyls are extant. ]
Wail, let me hear you wail, ye woodland glades, and thou Dorian water; and weep ye rivers, for Bion, the well beloved! Now all ye green things mourn, and now ye groves lament him, ye flowers now in sad clusters breathe yourselves away. Now redden ye roses in your sorrow, and now wax red ye wind- flowers, now thou hyacinth, whisper the letters on the graven, and add a deeper ai ai to thy petals; he is dead, the beautiful singer.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Ye nightingales that lament among the thick leaves of the trees, tell ye to the Sicilian waters of Arethusa the tidings that Bion the herdsman is dead, and that with Bion song too has died, and perished hath the Dorian minstrelsy.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Ye Strymonian swans, sadly wail ye by the waters, and chant with melancholy notes the dolorous song, even such a song as in his time with voice like yours he was wont to sing. And
380 LAMENT FOR BION.
tell again to the CEagrian maidens, tell to all the Nymphs Bis- tonian, how that he hath perished, the Dorian Orpheus.
Begin, ye Sicilian Mases, begin the dirge.
No more to his herds he sings, that beloved herdsman, no more 'neath the lonely oaks he sits and sings, nay, but by Plu- teus's side he chants a refrain of oblivion. The mountains too are voiceless and the heifers that wander by the bulls lament and refuse their pasture.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Thy sudden doom, O Bion, Apollo himself lamented, and the Satyrs mourned thee, and the Priapi in sable raiment, and the Panes sorrow for thy song, and the fountain fairies in the wood made moan, and their tears turned to rivers of waters. And Echo in the rocks laments that thou art silent, and no more she mimics thy voice. And in sorrow for thy fall the trees cast down their fruit, and all the flowers have faded. From the ewes hath flowed no fair milk, nor honey from the hives, nay, it hath perished for mere sorrow in the wax, for now hath thy honey perished, and no more it behooves men to gather the honey of the bees.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Not so much did the dolphin mourn beside the sea-banks, nor ever sang so sweet the nightingale on the cliffs, nor so much lamented the swallow on the long ranges of the hills, nor shrilled so loud the halcyon o'er his sorrows.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Nor so much, by the gray sea waves, did ever the sea bird sing, nor so much in the dells of dawn did the bird of Memnon bewail the son of the Morning, fluttering around his tomb, as
they lamented for Bion dead.
Nightingales, and all the swallows that once he was wont to
delight, that he would teach to speak, they sat over against each other on the boughs and kept moaning, and the birds sang in answer, " Wail, ye wretched ones, even ye ! "
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Who, ah, who will ever make music on thy pipe, O thrice desired Bion, and who will put his mouth to the reeds of thine
instrument? who is so bold?
For still thy lips and still thy breath survive, and Echo,
among the reeds, doth still feed upon thy songs. To Pan shall I bear the pipe? Nay, perchance even he would fear to set
LAMENT FOR BION. 381 his mouth to it, lest, after thee, he should win but the second
prize.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Yea, and Galatea laments thy song, she whom once thou wouldst delight, as with thee she sat by the sea-banks. For not like the Cyclops didst thou sing, — him fair Galatea ever fled, but on thee she still looked more kindly than on the salt water. And now hath she forgotten the wave, and sits on the lonely sands, but still she keeps thy kine.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
All the gifts of the Muses, herdsman, have died with thee, the delightful kisses of maidens, the lips of boys ; and woful round thy tomb the loves are weeping. But Cypris loves thee far more than the kiss wherewith she kissed the dying Adonis.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
This, O most musical of rivers, is thy second sorrow, this, Meles, thy new woe. Of old didst thou lose Homer, that sweet mouth of Calliope, and men say thou didst bewail thy goodly son with streams of many tears, and didst fill all the salt sea with the voice of thy lamentation — now again another son thou weepest, and in a new sorrow art thou wasting away.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Both were beloved of the fountains, and one ever drank of the Pegasean fount, but the other would drain a draught of Arethusa. And the one sang the fair daughter of Tyndarus, and the mighty son of Thetis, and Menelaus, Atreus's son, but that other, —not of wars, not of tears, but of Pan, would he sing, and of herdsmen would he chant, and so singing, he tended the herds. And pipes he would fashion, and would milk the sweet heifer, and taught lads how to kiss, and Love he cherished in his bosom and woke the passion of Aphrodite.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Every famous city laments thee, Bion, and all the towns. Ascra laments thee far more than her Hesiod, and Pindar is less regretted by the forests of Boeotia. Nor so much did pleasant Lesbos mourn for Alcaeus, nor did the Teian town so greatly bewail her poet, while for thee more than for Archilochus doth Paros yearn, and not for Sappho, but still for thee doth Myti- lene wail her musical lament ;
[Here seven verses are lost. ]
382 LAMENT FOR BION.
And in Syracuse Theocritus; but I sing thee the dirge of an Ausonian sorrow, I that am no stranger to the pastoral song, but heir of the Doric Muse which thou didst teach thy pupils. This was thy gift to me; to others didst thou leave thy wealth, to me thy minstrelsy.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Ah me, when the mallows wither in the garden, and the green parsley, and the curled tendrils of the anise, on a later day they live again, and spring in another year; but we men, we the great and mighty or wise, when once we have died, in hollow earth we sleep, gone down into silence; a right long, and endless, and unawakening sleep. And thou, too, in the earth will be lapped in silence, but the nymphs have thought good that the frog should eternally sing. Nay, him I would not envy, for 'tis no sweet song he singeth.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
Poison came, Bion, to thy mouth, thou didst know poison. To such lips as thine did it come, and was not sweetened? What mortal was so cruel that could mix poison for thee, or who could give thee the venom that heard thy voice ? surely he had no music in his soul.
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge.
But justice hath overtaken them all. Still for this sorrow I weep, and bewail thy ruin. But ah, if I might have gone down like Orpheus to Tartarus, or as once Odysseus, or Alcides of yore, I, too, would speedily have come to the house of Plu- teus, that thee perchance I might behold, and if thou singest to Pluteus, that I might hear what is thy song. Nay, sing to the Maiden some strain of Sicily, sing some sweet pastoral lay.
And she too is Sicilian, and on the shores by Mtn& she was wont to play, and she knew the Dorian strain. Not unre warded will the singing be; and as once to Orpheus's sweet minstrelsy she gave Eurydice to return with him, even so will she send thee too, Bion, to the hills. But if I, even I, and my piping had aught availed, before Pluteus I too would have sung.
LEADERS AND FORTUNES OF THE ACILEAN LEAGUE. 383
LEADERS AND FORTUNES OF THE ACH^AN LEAGUE.
By POLYBIUS. (Translated by E. S. Shuckburgh.