GORGO. Hush, hush, Praxinoe!—there's the Grecian girl,
A most amazing creature, going to sing
About Adonis; she that sings so well
The song of Sperchis: she 'll sing something fine,
O Lady, who dost take delight In Golgos and the Erycian height, And in the Idalian dell, Venus, ever amiable;
Lo, the long-expected Hours, Slowest of the blessed powers, Yet who bring us something ever, Ceasing their soft dancing never, Bring thee back thy beauteous one From perennial Acheron.
Thou, they say, from earth hast given
Berenice place in heaven,
Dropping to her woman's heart Ambrosia; and for this kind part, Berenice's daughter-she That's Helen-like-Arsinoe, O thou many-named and shrin'd, Is to thy Adonis kind.
He has all the fruits that now Hang upon the timely bough: He has green young garden-plots, Basketed in silver pots;
Syrian scents in alabaster, And whate'er a curious taster Could desire, that women make
With oil or honey, of meal cake; And all shapes of beast or bird, In the woods by huntsman stirr'd; And a bower to shade his state Heap'd with dill, an amber weight;
And about him Cupids flying,
Like young nightingales, that trying Their new wings-go half afraid,
Here and there, within the shade See the gold! The ebony see! And the eagles in ivory, Bearing the young Trojan up To be filler of Jove's cup; And the tapestry's purple heap, Softer than the feel of sleep; Artists, contradict who can, Samian or Milesian.
But another couch there is For Adonis, close to his; Venus has it, and with joy Clasps again her blooming boy With a kiss that feels no fret, For his lips are downy yet. Happy with her love be she; But to-morrow morn will we, With our locks and garments flowing, And our bosoms gently showing, Come and take him, in a throng, To the sea-shore, with this song: Go, belov'd Adonis, go Year by year thus to and fro; Only privileged demigod; There was no such open road For Atrides; nor the great Ajax, chief infuriate;
Nor for Hector, noblest once Of his mother's twenty sons; Nor Patroclus, nor the boy That returned from taken Troy; Nor those older buried bones,
Lapiths and Deucalions;
Nor Pelopians, and their boldest; Nor Pelasgians, Greece's oldest. Bless us then, Adonis dear,
And bring us joy another year; Dearly hast thou come again,
And dearly shalt be welcomed then.
GORGO. Well; if that's not a clever creature, trust me!
Lord! what a quantity of things she knows!
And what a charming voice!-T is time to go, though, For there's my husband has 'nt had his dinner,
And you'd best come across him when he wants it! Good bye, Adonis, darling. Come again.
SPECIMENS OF THE PATHOS AND PASTORAL OF THEOCRITUS. -THE CYCLOPS IN LOVE.-POETICAL FEELING AMONG UNEDUCATED CLASSES IN THE SOUTH.-PASSAGES FROM THEOCRITUS'S FIRST IDYLL. HIS VERSIFICATION AND MUSIC.-PASTORAL OF BION AND MOSCHUS.
comic humour of Theocritus,
let us now, if we can,
give some
thing of a
taste of his
pathos, and conclude with him as the Prince of Pastoral. We shall find the one leading to the other, or rather identified with it, for Polyphemus was himself a shepherd, and all his imagery and associations are drawn from pastoral life. Our English, it is to be borne in mind, is not the Greek. The poet must have all the
benefit of that admission. But at any rate we have done our best not to spoil the original with such artificial modes of speech as destroy all pathos; and feeling has a common language everywhere, which he who is thoroughly moved by it, can never wholly misrepresent.
The story is that of Polyphemus under the circumstances alluded to in our second chapter. It is addressed to the poet's friend Nicias, and is the earliest evidence of that particular personal regard for the medical profession, which is so observable in the history of men of letters; for Nicias was a physician.
There is no other medicine against love, My Nicias (so at least it seems to me), Either to cure it or to calm, but song. That, that indeed is balmy to men's minds, And sweet; but 't is a balm rare to be found; Though not by you, my friend, who are at once Physician, and belov'd by all the Nine.
It was by this the Cyclops liv'd among us, I mean that ancient shepherd, Polypheme, Who lov'd the sea-nymph, when he budded first About the lips and curling temples ;—lov'd, Not in the little present-making style, With baskets of new fruit and pots of roses, But with consuming passion. Many a time Would his flocks go home by themselves at eve, Leaving him wasting by the dark sea-shore; And sun-rise would behold him wasting still. Yet ev❜n a love like his found balm in verse, For he would sit, and look along the sea, And from his rock pipe to some strain like this:
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