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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528354" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Death of Daphnis</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THYRSIS.<br>Sweet are the whispers of yon pine that makes<br>Low music o'er the spring, and, Goatherd, sweet<br>Thy piping; second thou to Pan alone.<br>Is his the horned ram? then thine the goat.<br>Is his the goat? to thee shall fall the kid;<br>And toothsome is the flesh of unmilked kids.<br> <br>GOATHERD.<br>Shepherd, thy lay is as the noise of streams<br>Falling and falling aye from yon tall crag.<br>If for their meed the Muses claim the ewe,<br>Be thine the stall-fed lamb; or if they choose<br>The lamb, take thou the scarce less-valued ewe.<br> <br>THYRSIS.<br>Pray, by the Nymphs, pray, Goatherd, seat thee here<br>Against this hill-slope in the tamarisk shade,<br>And pipe me somewhat, while I guard thy goats.<br> <br>GOATHERD.<br>I durst not, Shepherd, O I durst not pipe<br>At noontide; fearing Pan, who at that hour<br>Rests from the toils of hunting. Harsh is he;<br>Wrath at his nostrils aye sits sentinel.<br>But, Thyrsis, thou canst sing of Daphnis' woes;<br>High is thy name for woodland minstrelsy:<br>Then rest we in the shadow of the elm<br>Fronting Priapus and the Fountain-nymphs.<br>There, where the oaks are and the Shepherd's seat,<br>Sing as thou sang'st erewhile, when matched with him<br>Of Libya, Chromis; and I'll give thee, first,<br>To milk, ay thrice, a goat-she suckles twins,<br>Yet ne'ertheless can fill two milkpails full;-<br>Next, a deep drinking-cup, with sweet wax scoured,<br>Two-handled, newly-carven, smacking yet<br>0' the chisel. Ivy reaches up and climbs<br>About its lip, gilt here and there with sprays<br>Of woodbine, that enwreathed about it flaunts<br>Her saffron fruitage. Framed therein appears<br>A damsel ('tis a miracle of art)<br>In robe and snood: and suitors at her side<br>With locks fair-flowing, on her right and left,<br>Battle with words, that fail to reach her heart.<br>She, laughing, glances now on this, flings now<br>Her chance regards on that: they, all for love<br>Wearied and eye-swoln, find their labour lost.<br>Carven elsewhere an ancient fisher stands<br>On the rough rocks: thereto the old man with pains<br>Drags his great casting-net, as one that toils<br>Full stoutly: every fibre of his frame<br>Seems fishing; so about the gray-beard's neck<br>(In might a youngster yet) the sinews swell.<br>Hard by that wave-beat sire a vineyard bends<br>Beneath its graceful load of burnished grapes;<br>A boy sits on the rude fence watching them.<br>Near him two foxes: down the rows of grapes<br>One ranging steals the ripest; one assails<br>With wiles the poor lad's scrip, to leave him soon<br>Stranded and supperless. He plaits meanwhile<br>With ears of corn a right fine cricket-trap,<br>And fits it on a rush: for vines, for scrip,<br>Little he cares, enamoured of his toy.<br>The cup is hung all round with lissom briar,<br>Triumph of Æolian art, a wondrous sight.<br>It was a ferryman's of Calydon:<br>A goat it cost me, and a great white cheese.<br>Ne'er yet my lips came near it, virgin still<br>It stands. And welcome to such boon art thou,<br>If for my sake thou'lt sing that lay of lays.<br>I jest not: up, lad, sing: no songs thou'lt own<br>In the dim land where all things are forgot.<br> <br>THYSIS [sings].<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>The voice of Thyrsis. Ætna's Thyrsis I.<br>Where were ye, Nymphs, oh where, while Daphnis pined?<br>In fair Peneus' or in Pindus' glens?<br>For great Anapus' stream was not your haunt,<br>Nor Ætna's cliff, nor Acis' sacred rill.<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>O'er him the wolves, the jackals howled o'er him;<br>The lion in the oak-copse mourned his death.<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>The kine and oxen stood around his feet,<br>The heifers and the calves wailed all for him.<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>First from the mountain Hermes came, and said,<br>'Daphnis, who frets thee? Lad, whom lov'st thou so?'<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>Came herdsmen, shepherds came, and goatherds came;<br>All asked what ailed the lad. Priapus came<br>And said, 'Why pine, poor Daphnis? while the maid<br>Foots it round every pool and every grove,<br>(Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song)<br>'O lack-love and perverse, in quest of thee;<br>Herdsman in name, but goatherd rightlier called.<br>With eyes that yearn the goatherd marks his kids<br>Run riot, for he fain would frisk as they:<br>(Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song):<br>'With eyes that yearn dost thou too mark the laugh<br>Of maidens, for thou may'st not share their glee.'<br>Still naught the herdsman said: he drained alone<br>His bitter portion, till the fatal end.<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>Came Aphrodite, smiles on her sweet face,<br>False smiles, for heavy was her heart, and spake:<br>'So, Daphnis, thou must try a fall with Love!<br>But stalwart Love hath won the fall of thee.'<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>Then 'Ruthless Aphrodite,' Daphnis said,<br>'Accursed Aphrodite, foe to man!<br>Say'st thou mine hour is come, my sun hath set?<br>Dead as alive, shall Daphnis work Love woe.'<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>'Fly to Mount Ida, where the swain (men say)<br>And Aphrodite-to Anchises fly:<br>There are oak-forests; here but galingale,<br>And bees that make a music round the hives.<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>'Adonis owed his bloom to tending flocks<br>And smiting hares, and bringing wild beasts down.<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>'Face once more Diomed: tell him 'I have slain<br>The herdsman Daphnis; now I challenge thee.'<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>'Farewell, wolf, jackal, mountain-prisoned bear!<br>Ye'll see no more by grove or glade or glen<br>Your herdsman Daphnis! Arethuse, farewell,<br>And the bright streams that pour down Thymbris' side.<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>'I am that Daphnis, who lead here my kine,<br>Bring here to drink my oxen and my calves.<br>Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.<br>'Pan, Pan, oh whether great Lyceum's crags<br>Thou haunt'st to-day, or mightier Maenalus,<br>Come to the Sicel isle! Abandon now<br>Rhium and Helice, and the mountain-cairn<br>(That e'en gods cherish) of Lycaon's son!<br>Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song.<br>'Come, king of song, o'er this my pipe, compact<br>With wax and honey-breathing, arch thy lip:<br>For surely I am torn from life by Love.<br>Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song.<br>'From thicket now and thorn let violets spring,<br>Now let white lilies drape the juniper,<br>And pines grow figs, and nature all go wrong:<br>For Daphnis dies. Let deer pursue the hounds,<br>And mountain-owls outsing the nightingale.<br>Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song.'<br> <br>So spake he, and he never spake again.<br>Fain Aphrodite would have raised his head;<br>But all his thread was spun. So down the stream<br>Went Daphnis: closed the waters o'er a head<br>Dear to the Nine, of nymphs not unbeloved.<br>Now give me goat and cup; that I may milk<br>The one, and pour the other to the Muse.<br>Fare ye well, Muses, o'er and o'er farewell!<br>I'll sing strains lovelier yet in days to be.<br> <br>GOATHERD.<br>Thyrsis, let honey and the honeycomb<br>Fill thy sweet mouth, and figs of Ægilus:<br>For ne'er cicala trilled so sweet a song.<br>Here is the cup: mark, friend, how sweet it smells:<br>The Hours, thou'lt say, have washed it in their well.<br>Hither, Cissaetha! Thou, go milk her! Kids,<br>Be steady, or your pranks will rouse the ram.</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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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528354" data-title="The Death of Daphnis de Theocritus" data-description="THYRSIS.
Sweet are the whispers of yon pine that makes
Low music o'er the spring, and, Goatherd, sweet
Thy piping; second thou to Pan alone.
Is his the horned ram? then thine the goat.
Is his the goat? to thee shall fall the kid;
And toothsome is ..."></div>
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