Amaryllis: or the Third Idyllium of Theocritus

To Amaryllis, lovely nymph, I speed, Mean-while my goats along the mountain feed: O Tityrus, tend them with assiduous care, Lead them to crystal springs, and pastures fair, And of the ridgil's butting horns beware. Sweet Amaryllis, have you then forgot Our secret pleasures in the conscious grot? Where in my folding arms you lay reclin'd; Blest was the shepherd, for the nymph was kind. I whom you call'd your Dear, your Love so late, Say, am I now the object of your hate? Say, is my form displeasing to your sight?— This cruel love will surely kill me quite. Lo! ten large apples, tempting to the view, Pluck'd from your favourite tree, where late they grew. Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store; To-morrow will produce as many more. Mean-while these heart-consuming pains remove, And give me gentle pity for my love. Oh was I made, by some transforming power, A bee to buzz in your sequester'd bower! To pierce your ivy shade with murmuring sound, And the light leaves that compass you around. I know thee, Love, and to my sorrow find, A god thou art, but of the savage kind; A lioness sure suckled the fell child, And with his brother-whelps maintain'd him in the wild; On me his scorching flames incessant prey, Glow in my bones, and melt my soul away. Ah nymph! whose eyes destructive glances dart, Fair is your face, but flinty is your heart: With kisses kind this rage of love appease! For me, fond swain! even empty kisses please. Your scorn distracts me, and will make me tear The flowery crown I wove for you to wear, Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath, And fragrant herbs ambrosial odours breathe. Ah me! what pangs I feel! and yet the fair Nor sees my sorrows, nor will hear my prayer. I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die, And from yon rock, that points its summit high, Where patient Olpis snares the finny fry, I'll leap; and tho' perchance I rise again, You'll laugh to see me plunging in the main. By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found Your chang'd affection, for it gave no sound, Tho' in my hand struck hollow as it lay, But quickly wither'd, like your love, away. An old witch brought sad tidings to my ears, She who tells fortunes with the sieve and sheers; For, leasing barley in my fields of late, She told me, I should love, and you should hate! For you my care a milk-white goat supplied, Two wanton kids run frisking at her side; Which oft the nut-brown maid, Erithacis, Has begg'd, and paid before-hand with a kiss; And since you thus my ardent passion slight, Her's they shall be before to-morrow night. My right eye itches; may it lucky prove, Perhaps I soon shall see the nymph I love; Beneath yon pine I'll sing distinct and clear, Perhaps the fair my tender notes may hear; Perhaps may pity my melodious moan— She is not metamorphos'd into stone. Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife, To win a mistress, or to lose his life, Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way, The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay; She look'd, she languish'd, all her soul took fire, She plung'd into the gulph of deep desire. To Pyle from Othrys sage Melampus came, He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame; Fair Pero blest his brother Bias' arms, And in a virtuous race diffus'd her charms. Adonis fed his cattle on the plain, Yet sea-born Venus lov'd the rural swain; She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chace, Nor dead dismiss'd him from her warm embrace. Tho' young Endymion was by Cynthia blest, I envy nothing but his lasting rest. Iasion slumbering on the Cretan plain Ceres once saw, and blest the happy swain With pleasures too divine for ears profane. My head grows giddy, love affects me sore; Yet you regard not; so I'll sing no more— Here will I put a period to my care— Adieu, false nymph, adieu, ungrateful fair: Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my last, My corse will give the wolves a rich repast, As sweet to them, as honey to your taste.