It is none of the new creeds that cry, in the dirge of the Sicilian
shepherds of our time, "Ah, light of mine eyes, what gift shall I
send thee, what offering to the other world? The apple fadeth, the
quince decayeth, and one by one they perish, the petals of the rose.
I will send thee my tears shed on a napkin, and what though it
burneth in the flame, if my tears reach thee at the last."

Yes, little is altered, Theocritus, on these shores beneath the sun,
where thou didst wear a tawny skin stripped from the roughest of he-
goats, and about thy breast an old cloak buckled with a plaited
belt. Thou wert happier there, in Sicily, methinks, and among vines
and shadowy lime-trees of Cos, than in the dust, and heat, and noise
of Alexandria. What love of fame, what lust of gold tempted thee
away from the red cliffs, and grey olives, and wells of black water
wreathed with maidenhair?


The music of thy rustic flute
Kept not for long its happy country tone;
Lost it too soon, and learned a stormy note
Of men contention tost, of men who groan,
Which tasked thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat -
It failed, and thou wast mute!


What hadst thou to make in cities, and what could Ptolemies and
Princes give thee better than the goat-milk cheese and the Ptelean
wine? Thy Muses were meant to be the delight of peaceful men, not
of tyrants and wealthy merchants, to whom they vainly went on a
begging errand. "Who will open his door and gladly receive our