A Fragment from the "Birds" of Aristophanes. The Hoopoe summons the rest of the birds to a general assembly to hear Peisthetærus expound his plan for building a Bird-City. PEISTHETÆRUS. How will you call them hither? I'll go at once to yonder copse, and rouse But prithee speed thy quickest to the copse- HOOPOE. Come, partner mine, cease slumbering now, And let thy holiest music flow; The strains that through thy lips divine Thou pour'st for loss of mine and thine, Pouring from out thy thrilling throat The pure strain speeds through leafy grove Of yew trees to the seat of Jove, Responsive strikes to plaining love, The music of the blest on high. PEISTHETÆRUS. O royal Jove! how ravishing that bird's note It bathes the copse with richly honied strain. EUELPIDES. I say. PEISTHETÆRUS. What now? EUELPIDES. Won't you be quiet? EUELPIDES. The Hoopoe seems about to sing again. HOOPOE. Come away! Come away! Come away! Come away! Come hither my comrades of every feather, And swift-flying races that revel in seed, And Who, fast as ye flit, A soft warble emit: ye who in flocks seek the furrow And caw with delight as ye burrow, And soberly plod O'er each mouldering clod With a twit-twit-twitter, I twitter my lay, Come away from the fields, come away, come away! Come ye who seek the marshy flats, Intent to swallow stinging gnats; Who in moist plashy places feed, Then come and talk over the matter together, COME, leave the mill, throw down the flail, The Autumn's yellow sheaves are stored, We've had a glorious year!- Life's joyous cup together; Love shall look on with radiant face, A song, a song for Harvest Home- But first a thankful hymn of praise, With hearts and voices too, we'll raise To Him who crowns the year with good, Who giveth e'en the ravens food, To Him all praise be given! The mountain's base is hid in mist, And all the clouds which gird us round, Without the shade, without the sun,- Thank God for both-for joys and woes- And if pain come some future day, And come it must and will; Come, boy! and broach the cask of ale, Don't laugh, my man, if you and I And now a dance upon the green, No nonsense! come, my lads and mate, When first we married,―more's the woe,— But see the shades of evening fall, Shall tell a tale of old; Of knights who joust beneath the trees, Or else a quaint love-ditty. And wife, you must not scold or frown, I'm thinking of a bran-new gown For my young partner, Kitty. DENNIS |