HKB
XXIII On his own Poems. {167}
THE Chian is another man, but I, Theocritus, who wrote these songs, am a Syracusan, a man of the people, being the son of Praxagoras and renowned Philinna. Never laid I claim to any Muse but mine own.
BION
Πίδακος έξ ίερης ολίγη λιβας ακρον αωτον.—Callimachus.
BION was born at Smyrna, one of the towns which claimed the honour of being Homer’s birthplace. On the evidence of a detached verse (94) of the dirge by Moschus, some have thought that Theocritus survived Bion. In that case Theocritus must have been a preternaturally aged man. The same dirge tells us that Bion was poisoned by certain enemies, and that while he left to others his wealth, to Moschus he left his minstrelsy.
I THE LAMENT FOR ADONIS
This poem was probably intended to be sung at one of the spring celebrations of the festival of Adonis*, *like that described by Theocritus in his fifteenth idyl.
WOE, woe for Adonis, he hath perished, the beauteous Adonis, dead is the beauteous Adonis, the Loves join in the lament. No more in thy purple raiment, Cypris, do thou sleep; arise, thou wretched one, sable-stoled, and beat thy breasts, and say to all, ‘He hath perished, the lovely Adonis!’
Woe, woe for Adonis, the Loves join in the lament!
Low on the hills is lying the lovely Adonis, and his thigh with the boar’s tusk, his white thigh with the boar’s tusk is wounded, and sorrow on Cypris he brings, as softly he breathes his life away.
His dark blood drips down his skin of snow, beneath his brows his eyes wax heavy and dim, and the rose flees from his lip, and thereon the very kiss is dying, the kiss that Cypris will never forego.
To Cypris his kiss is dear, though he lives no longer, but Adonis knew not that she kissed him as he died.
Woe, woe for Adonis, the Loves join in the lament!
A cruel, cruel wound on his thigh hath Adonis, but a deeper wound in her heart doth Cytherea bear. About him his dear hounds are loudly baying, and the nymphs of the wild wood wail him; but Aphrodite with unbound locks through the glades goes wandering,—wretched, with hair unbraided, with feet unsandaled, and the thorns as she passes wound her and pluck the blossom of her sacred blood. Shrill she wails as down the long woodlands she is borne, lamenting her Assyrian lord, and again calling him, and again. But round his navel the dark blood leapt forth, with blood from his thighs his chest was scarlet, and beneath Adonis’s breast, the spaces that afore were snow-white, were purple with blood.
Woe, woe for Cytherea, the Loves join in the lament!
She hath lost her lovely lord, with him she hath lost her sacred beauty. Fair was the form of Cypris, while Adonis was living, but her beauty has died with Adonis! Woe, woe for Cypris, the mountains all are saying, and the oak-trees answer, Woe for Adonis. And the rivers bewail the sorrows of Aphrodite, and the wells are weeping Adonis on the mountains. The flowers flush red for anguish, and Cytherea through all the mountain-knees, through every dell doth shrill the piteous dirge.
Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath perished, the lovely Adonis!