called. The name Idyll (êidullion, which is the diminutive of êîdos, a kind) does not mean a picture in little so much as a short kind of poem. It is bestowed by the grammarians of Alexandria upon any poem longer than an Epigram, which is complete in itself and not written in elegiac verse. Comparative brevity is the salient characteristic of every Idyll, and upon this condensed form of poetry Theocritus seized with the discernment of true genius, as best suited to his own gifts. He was not made of the stuff of which epic poets are compounded ; his Muse did not soar eagle-wise on long-continued flights, but, linnet-like, flitted from spray to spray, greeting every flower with a song in passing. His Idylls thrill with the singing of birds, the piping of shepherds amid their picturesque surroundings, and a half-sensuous, all-indolent appreciation of the dreamy delights of country life. Sorrow seldom mars his melodious verse, save indeed in the wailings of love-lorn swains, which have ever a humorous side to such as are not in a like case. He has never attempted themes too lofty for his powers, and as a natural consequence he has left poems almost perfect in their kind. The magical sweetness of the rhythm and the beauty of descriptive talent can be reproduced in no rendering free or exact, and the following translations must be estimated as a faint attempt to present the subtle charm of the original.1 Perhaps the brightest picture of Sicilian life at its happiest is to be found in the description of the surroundings of the house of Phrasidemus, whither the poet went to celebrate "Harvest Home." Harvest Home." It runs thus : 1 No use has been made of Calverley's exquisite translation in this study, from the sole reason that the text of Theocritus has undergone a complete and satisfactory revision since his day; hence the renderings given have been made from the revised text of Ludovic Ahrens. I said my say, and with a pleasant smile, "The Muses' parting gift.' Then straight he turn'd But to the house of Phrasidemus I, And Eucritus, and fair Amyntichus Our journey took, where down we flung ourselves So sweet a cup to Heracles set forth By Chiron old in Pholos' rocky cave? Did e'er such juice tempt trip through his dim halls Holding her sheaves and poppies in her hands.1 Surely the very breath of the late Sicilian summer pervades the foregoing lines, which have a drowsy rhythmical sympathy with their theme. There is a kind of lazy rapture filling the poet's soul as he lies at ease by the murmuring stream and hears the myriad swell of the 1 Idyll vii., 128-157. voices of the woodland, while he has only to stretch out his hand to pick up the falling fruit. To add to his blessedness, fair maidens coyly crown the cup with mellow wine. The philosophy of life expressed is not high, but it is very charming for all that, and it insensibly recalls Tennyson's dreamy Lotos-Eaters. There is no description in Wordsworth which in the least resembles this beautiful passage; and if the Rydal bard was undoubtedly superior in philosophic insight, the Syracusan poet could at least describe with no inferior art a scene which filled him with unfeigned, if somewhat sensuous pleasure. It was amongst surroundings such as these that Theocritus lived and sang, and no poet before him or since has surpassed him in his own kind. As has been already said, the Sicilian peasants were wont to amuse themselves, when their flocks were resting during the heat of the day, by capping verses. A judge was selected, and each of the competitors staked some valuable of his own, which he was to forfeit to his rival if he were adjudged inferior. Theocritus seized upon this popular practice and turned the rude material at his disposal into what the Greeks called bucolic, and the later critics pastoral, poetry. Of this he was the creator, and it is profoundly to be wished that all his successors had copied his simple naturalness. Sheep, goats, flowers, the loves of neatherds, and the rest, form the theme of many of his poems, and he deemed nothing to be too lowly to celebrate in his verse. Four lines will suffice "to give a taste of his quality" in capping verses :— Comatas: My goats crop clover, and goats' dear delight, Lacon: They trample squills, and rest 'neath arbute bright. 1 Idyll, v. 128-131. The remainder of the lines abounds in similar descriptive touches, and it may be noted in passing, that no less than seven different plants are mentioned in four lines. The same penetrative observation is shown in all of the Idylls, and in the present poem the reader who peruses the whole seems to hear the two herdsmen singing against one another in a beautiful Sicilian dell, while their respective charges are resting or wandering at their own sweet will and Morson, the judge, sits nodding his head and beating time to the music like a professional critic at the Opera. Portions of another Idyll will serve to sufficiently illustrate the bucolic poetry of Theocritus. It is entitled The Harvesters, and it shows plainly how delicately he could express the coarse rustic humour of the singers. Battus, once a good harvester, is scorned by his mistress, and he neglects his work. His heart-whole friend Milo begins to flout him thus : Milo : Battus : Milo : Poor lab'ring clodpate, what can ail thy mind? Thou can'st not cut thy swathe straight, as of old ; Did love ne'er banish slumber from thine eyes? The wretched dog is sure to pine for more. Battus then confesses that he has been in love with the swarthy, lean Bombyca for eleven days, whereupon Milo exclaims, in pitying scorn: Thy sin hath caught thee fast; thou'st pined to wed, And now would'st take a ericket to thy bed. But, compassionating Battus' evil plight, he induces him to sing the praises of his sweetheart, and the lover, nothing loth, dilts up: Pierian Muses, praise my slender girl; Fair Bombyca, men call thee lean, sun-flayed, Dark are the vi’lets, pencill'd blue-bells dark, If ever Crœsus' fabled wealth were mine, I cannot praise thy voice, 'tis all too sweet. Milo is not a little struck by the unwonted exaltation of his friend's music; but his answer is a characteristic parody of the song, and his own rapid and designedly prosaic lines recall the similar effort of Touchstone:Demeter, Queen of stalk and ear, bestow Rich tilth and fruitage on the field below. Bind, reapers, bind your sheaves, lest stroller say Ye threshers all, no noontide slumber try; Ye reapers, with the waking lark arise; Stop, when he sleeps, at noontide close your eyes. Frogs' lives are glorious, none they want to give, Drink from a jar, because in drink they five. Better brew herbs, thou parsimonious screw, Than splitting cumin saw thy hand in two. The parody is fresh and bright, and gives an interesting |