Classic Poem

We had not got half way, nor yet discerned
The tomb of Brasilas, when we overtook
Travelling along, a favourite of the Muses, —
A goatherd, of the name of Lycidas;
And goatherd well he seemed; for on his shoulders
There hung a whitish goatskin, hairy and thick
Smelling of the fresh curd; about his body
Was an old vest, tied with a woven girdle;
And in his hand he bore a crooked stick
Made of wild olive. Placidly he turned,
A little smile parting his kindly mouth,
And with a genial eye accosting me,
Said, " Ah, Theocritus! and where go you
This burning noon, when lizards are asleep
Within the hedges, and the crested lark
Represses his fine madness? Is it a feast
You're making haste to, or a vintaging,
That thus you dash the pebbles with your sandals?"
" Dear Lycidas," cried I, " you talk indeed
Like one whom all agree, shepherd and reaper,
To pipe among them nobly, — which delights me;
And yet I trust I am your equal too.
It is a feast we're going to. Some friends
Keep one to-day to the well-draperied Ceres,
Mother of Earth, and offer their first fruits
For gratitude, their garners are so full.
But come; — as we have lighted on each other,
Let us take mutual help, and by the way
Pastoralize a little: for my mouth
Breathes also of the Muse; and people call me
Greatest of living song; — a praise, however,
Of which I am not credulous, — no, by Earth;
For there's Philetas, and our Samian too,
Whom I no more pretend to have surpassed,
Than frogs the grasshoppers."
Well; — we agreed;
And Lycidas, with one of his sweet smiles,
Said, " You must let me give you, when we finish,
This olive-stick, for you have proved yourself
A scion truly from the stock of Jove.
I also hate the builder that pretends
To rival mountain-tops, and just as much
The petty birds that with ridiculous toil
Chatter and chuff against the Chian warbler.
But come, — let us begin, Theocritus. —
Well, — I'll be first then. Tell me if you like
This little piece, friend, which I hammered out
The other day when I was on the mountain."