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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528340" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Harvest-Home</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once on a time did Eucritus and I<br>(With us Amyntas) to the riverside<br>Steal from the city. For Lycopeus' sons<br>Were that day busy with the harvest-home,<br>Antigenes and Phrasidemus, sprung<br>(If aught thou holdest by the good old names)<br>By Clytia from great Chalcon-him who erst<br>Planted one stalwart knee against the rock,<br>And lo, beneath his foot Burine's rill<br>Brake forth, and at its side poplar and elm<br>Shewed aisles of pleasant shadow, greenly roofed<br>By tufted leaves. Scarce midway were we now,<br>Nor yet descried the tomb of Brasilas:<br>When, thanks be to the Muses, there drew near<br>A wayfarer from Crete, young Lycidas.<br>The horned herd was his care: a glance might tell<br>So much: for every inch a herdsman he.<br>Slung o'er his shoulder was a ruddy hide<br>Torn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,<br>That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt clasped<br>A patched cloak round his breast, and for a staff<br>A gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.<br>Soon with a quiet smile he spoke-his eye<br>Twinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:<br>'And whither ploddest thou thy weary way<br>Beneath the noontide sun, Simichidas?<br>For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,<br>The crested lark folds now his wandering wing.<br>Dost speed, a bidden guest, to some reveller's board?<br>Or townward to the treading of the grape?<br>For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feet<br>The pavement-stones ring out right merrily.'<br>Then I: 'Friend Lycid, all men say that none<br>Of haymakers or herdsmen is thy match<br>At piping: and my soul is glad thereat.<br>Yet, to speak sooth, I think to rival thee.<br>Now look, this road holds holiday to-day:<br>For banded brethren solemnise a feast<br>To richly-dight Demeter, thanking her<br>For her good gifts: since with no grudging hand<br>Hath the boon goddess filled the wheaten floors.<br>So come: the way, the day, is thine as mine:<br>Try we our woodcraft-each may learn from each.<br>I am, as thou, a clarion-voice of song;<br>All hail me chief of minstrels. But I am not,<br>Heaven knows, o'ercredulous: no, I scarce can yet<br>(I think) outvie Philetas, nor the bard<br>Of Samos, champion of Sicilian song.<br>They are as cicadas challenged by a frog.'<br> <br>I spake to gain mine ends; and laughing light<br>He said: 'Accept this club, as thou'rt indeed<br>A born truth-teller, shaped by heaven's own hand!<br>I hate your builders who would rear a house<br>High as Oromedon's mountain-pinnacle:<br>I hate your song-birds too, whose cuckoo-cry<br>Struggles (in vain) to match the Chian bard.<br>But come, we'll sing forthwith, Simichidas,<br>Our woodland music: and for my part I<br>List, comrade, if you like the simple air<br>I forged among the uplands yesterday.<br> <br>[Sings] Safe be my true-love convoyed o'er the main<br>To Mitylene-though the southern blast<br>Chase the lithe waves, while westward slant the Kids,<br>Or low above the verge Orion stand-<br>If from Love's furnace she will rescue me,<br>For Lycidas is parched with hot desire.<br>Let halcyons lay the sea-waves and the winds,<br>Northwind and Westwind, that in shores far-off<br>Flutters the seaweed-halcyons, of all birds<br>Whose prey is on the waters, held most dear<br>By the green Nereids: yea let all things smile<br>On her to Mitylene voyaging,<br>And in fair harbour may she ride at last.<br>I on that day, a chaplet woven of dill<br>Or rose or simple violet on my brow,<br>Will draw the wine of Pteleas from the cask<br>Stretched by the ingle. They shall roast me beans,<br>And elbow-deep in thyme and asphodel<br>And quaintly-curling parsley shall be piled<br>My bed of rushes, where in royal ease<br>I sit and, thinking of my darling, drain<br>With stedfast lip the liquor to the dregs.<br>I'll have a pair of pipers, shepherds both,<br>This from Acharnae, from Lycope that;<br>And Tityrus shall be near me and shall sing<br>How the swain Daphnis loved the stranger-maid;<br>And how he ranged the fells, and how the oaks<br>(Such oaks as Himera's banks are green withal)<br>Sang dirges o'er him waning fast away<br>Like snow on Athos, or on Haemus high,<br>Or Rhodope, or utmost Caucasus.<br>And he shall sing me how the big chest held<br>(All through the maniac malice of his lord)<br>A living goatherd: how the round-faced bees,<br>Lured from their meadow by the cedar-smell,<br>Fed him with daintiest flowers, because the Muse<br>Had made his throat a well-spring of sweet song.<br>Happy Cometas, this sweet lot was thine!<br>Thee the chest prisoned, for thee the honey-bees<br>Toiled, as thou slavedst out the mellowing year:<br>And oh hadst thou been numbered with the quick<br>In my day! I had led thy pretty goats<br>About the hill-side, listening to thy voice:<br>While thou hadst lain thee down 'neath oak or pine,<br>Divine Cometas, warbling pleasantly.'<br> <br>He spake and paused; and thereupon spake I.<br>'I too, friend Lycid, as I ranged the fells,<br>Have learned much lore and pleasant from the Nymphs,<br>Whose fame mayhap hath reached the throne of Zeus.<br>But this wherewith I'll grace thee ranks the first:<br>Thou listen, since the Muses like thee well.<br> <br>[Sings] On me the young Loves sneezed: for hapless I<br>Am fain of Myrto as the goats of Spring.<br>But my best friend Aratus inly pines<br>For one who loves him not. Aristis saw-<br>(A wondrous seer is he, whose lute and lay<br>Shrined Apollo's self would scarce disdain)<br>How love had scorched Aratus to the bone.<br>O Pan, who hauntest Homole's fair champaign,<br>Bring the soft charmer, whosoe'er it be,<br>Unbid to his sweet arms-so, gracious Pan,<br>May ne'er thy ribs and shoulderblades be lashed<br>With squills by young Arcadians, whensoe'er<br>They are scant of supper! But should this my prayer<br>Mislike thee, then on nettles mayest thou sleep,<br>Dinted and sore all over from their claws!<br>Then mayest thou lodge amid Edonian hills<br>By Hebrus, in midwinter; there subsist,<br>The Bear thy neighbour: and, in summer, range<br>With the far AEthiops 'neath the Blemmyan rocks<br>Where Nile is no more seen! But O ye Loves,<br>Whose cheeks are like pink apples, quit your homes<br>By Hyetis, or Byblis' pleasant rill,<br>Or fair Dione's rocky pedestal,<br>And strike that fair one with your arrows, strike<br>The ill-starred damsel who disdains my friend.<br>And lo, what is she but an o'er-ripe pear?<br>The girls all cry 'Her bloom is on the wane.'<br>We'll watch, Aratus, at that porch no more,<br>Nor waste shoe-leather: let the morning cock<br>Crow to wake others up to numb despair!<br>Let Molon, and none else, that ordeal brave:<br>While we make ease our study, and secure<br>Some witch, to charm all evil from our door.'<br> <br>I ceased. He smiling sweetly as before,<br>Gave me the staff, 'the Muses' parting gift,'<br>And leftward sloped toward Pyxa. We the while,<br>Bent us to Phrasydeme's, Eucritus and I,<br>And baby-faced Amyntas: there we lay<br>Half-buried in a couch of fragrant reed<br>And fresh-cut vineleaves, who so glad as we?<br>A wealth of elm and poplar shook o'erhead;<br>Hard by, a sacred spring flowed gurgling on<br>From the Nymphs' grot, and in the sombre boughs<br>The sweet cicada chirped laboriously.<br>Hid in the thick thorn-bushes far away<br>The treefrog's note was heard; the crested lark<br>Sang with the goldfinch; turtles made their moan,<br>And o'er the fountain hung the gilded bee.<br>All of rich summer smacked, of autumn all:<br>Pears at our feet, and apples at our side<br>Rolled in luxuriance; branches on the ground<br>Sprawled, overweighed with damsons; while we brushed<br>From the cask's head the crust of four long years.<br>Say, ye who dwell upon Parnassian peaks,<br>Nymphs of Castalia, did old Chiron e'er<br>Set before Heracles a cup so brave<br>In Pholus' cavern-did as nectarous draughts<br>Cause that Anapian shepherd, in whose hand<br>Rocks were as pebbles, Polypheme the strong,<br>Featly to foot it o'er the cottage lawns:<br>As, ladies, ye bid flow that day for us<br>All by Demeter's shrine at harvest-home?<br>Beside whose cornstacks may I oft again<br>Plant my broad fan: while she stands by and smiles,<br>Poppies and cornsheaves on each laden arm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Theocritus">Theocritus</a><div class=q>
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(With us Amyntas) to the riverside
Steal from the city. For Lycopeus' sons
Were that day busy with the harvest-home,
Antigenes and Phrasidemus, sprung
(If aught thou holdest by the good old names)
By Clytia from g..."></div>
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