Roman culture [ca
750 BCE-ca 500 CE]
Virgil (70-19 BCE) reinventing
Theocritean bucolic epic as Roman pastoral,
imagines a herdsman, Corydon, in love with a boy, Alexis, who does not respond.
Similarities with the Cyclops of Theocritus allow us to reflect on interesting
differences.
Eclogue II: Corydon’s
Love for Alexis
Corydon
the shepherd burned for lovely Alexis,
his
master’s delight: and knew not whether to hope.
So
he went continually among the dense beech-trees,
canopied
with shadows. Alone, with vain passion, there,
he flung these artless words to the woods and hills.
“Oh, cruel Alexis, do you care nothing for my songs?
Have
you no pity on me? You’ll force me to die at last.
Now
even the cattle seek the coolness and the shade,
now
even the green lizards hide themselves in the hedge,
and
Thestylis pounds her perfumed herbs, garlic
and
wild thyme, for the reapers weary with the fierce heat.
And
while I track your footprints, the trees echo
with
shrill cicadas, under the burning sun.
Wasn’t it better to endure Amaryllis’s sullen anger,
and
scornful pride? Or Menalcas,
though
he was dark and you are blond?
Oh
lovely boy, don’t trust too much to your bloom:
the
white privet falls, the dark hyacinths are taken.
I’m scorned by you, Alexis: you don’t ask who I am,
how
rich in cattle, how overflowing with snowy milk:
a
thousand of my lambs wander Sicilian hills:
fresh
milk does not fail me, in summer or in winter.
I sing,
as Amphion used to sing of Dirce,
calling
the herds home, on Attic Aracynthus.
I’m
not so hideous: I saw myself the other day on the shore
when
the sea was calm without breeze: if the mirror never lies.
I have
no fear of Daphnis, with you as judge.
O if you’d only live with me in the lowly countryside
and
a humble cottage, shooting at the deer,
and
driving the flock of kids with a green mallow!
Together
with me in the woods you’ll rival Pan in song.
Pan
first taught the joining of many reeds with wax,
Pan
cares for the sheep, and the sheep’s master,
and
you’d not regret chafing your lips with the reed,
what
did Amyntas not do to learn this art?
I have
a pipe made of seven graded hemlock stems,
that
Damoetas once gave me as a gift,
and
dying said: ‘It has you now as second owner.’
So
Damoetas said: Amyntas, the fool, was envious
.
Two
roe deer beside, their hides still sprinkled
with
white, found in a dangerous valley,
drain
a ewe’s udders twice a day: I keep them for you.
Thestylis
has long been begging to take them from me:
and
she shall, since my gifts seem worthless to you.
O lovely boy, come here: see the Nymphs bring for you,
lilies
in heaped baskets: the bright Naiad picks, for you,
pale
violets and the heads of poppy flowers,
blends
narcissi with fragrant fennel flowers:
then,
mixing them with spurge laurel and more sweet herbs,
embroiders
hyacinths with yellow marigolds.
I’ll
gather quinces, pale with soft down
and
chestnuts, that my Amaryllis loved:
I’ll
add waxy plums: they too shall be honoured:
and
I’ll pluck you, O laurels, and you, neighbouring myrtle,
since,
so placed, you mingle your sweet perfumes.
Corydon, you’re foolish: Alexis cares nothing for gifts,
nor
if you fought with gifts would Iollas yield.
Ah,
alas, what wish, wretch, has been mine? I’ve allowed
the
south winds near my flowers, the wild boar at my clear springs.
Madman!
Whom do you flee? The gods too have dwelt
in
the woods, and Dardanian Paris. Let Pallas live herself
in
the cities she’s founded: let me delight in woods above all.
The fierce lioness hunts the wolf, the wolf hunts the goat,
the
wanton goat hunts for flowering clover,
O Alexis,
Corydin hunts you: each is led by his passion.
Look,
the bullocks under the yoke pull home the hanging plough,
and
the setting sun doubles the lengthening shadows:
Yet
love burns me: for what limits has love?
Ah, Corydon, Corydon, what madness has snared you?
Your
vine on the leafy elm is half-pruned.
Why
not at least choose to start weaving what you need,
something
out of twigs and pliant rushes?
You’ll
find another Alexis, if this girl scorns you.’
A.S.Kline ã 2001 All Rights Reserved