and
mysterious night, that hard by them in the starry darkness the divine
Huntress was abroad, and about the base of AEtna she and her forest maids
drove the chase with horn and hound. In the cities ladies sang the psalm
of Adonis brought back from 'the stream eternal of Acheron.' Under the
mystic moon love-lorn damsels did their magic rites, and knit up spells
of power to bring home the men they loved. Among the vines and under the
grey olives songs were singing of Daphnis all day long. There were
junketings and dancings and harvest-homes for ever toward; the youths
went by to the gymnasium, and the girls stood near to watch them as they
went; the cicalas sang, the air was fragrant with apples and musical with
the sound of flutes and running water; while the blue Sicilian sky
laughed over all, and the soft Sicilian sea encircled the land and its
lovers with a ring of sapphire and silver. To translate Theocritus,
wrote Sainte-Beuve, is as if one sought to carry away in one's hand a
patch of snow that has lain forgotten through the summer in a cranny of
the rocks of AEtna:--'On a fait trois pas a peine, que cette neige deja
est fondue. On est heureux s'il en reste assez du moins pour donner le
vif sentiment de la fraicheur.' But Mr. Lang has so rendered into
English the graces of the loveliest of Dorian singers that he has earned
the thanks of every lover of true literature. Every one should read his
book, for it will bring him face to face with a very prince among poets
and with a very summer among centuries. That Theocritus was a rare and
beautiful master there is even in this English transcript an abundance of
evidence. Melancholy apart, he was the Watteau of the old Greek world--an
exquisite artist, a rare poet, a true and kindly soul; and it is very
good to be with him. We have changed it all of course, and are as
fortunate as we can expect. But it is good to be with Theocritus, for he
lets you live awhile in the happy age and under the happy heaven that
were his. He gives you leave and opportunity to listen to the tuneful
strife of Lacon and Comatas; to witness the duel in song between Corydon
and Battus; to talk of Galatea pelting with apples the barking dog of her
love-lorn Polypheme; under the whispering elms, to lie drinking with
Eucritus and Lycidas by the altar of Demeter, 'while she stands smiling
by, with sheaves and poppies in her hand.'

Old Lamps and New.

It is relief unspeakable to