Theocritus, Bion and Moschus, Rendered into English Prose — Key Ideas to Explore
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AT the beginning of the third century before Christ, in the years just preceding those in which Theocritus wrote, the genius of Greece seemed to have lost her productive force. Nor would it have been strange if that force had really been exhausted. Greek poetry had hitherto enjoyed a peculiarly free development, each form of art succeeding each without break or pause, because each—epic, lyric, dithyramb, the drama—had responded to some new need of the state and of religion. Now in the years that followed the fall of Athens and the conquests of Macedonia, Greek religion and the Greek state had ceased to be themselves. Religion and the state had been the patrons of poetry; on their decline poetry seemed dead. There were no heroic kings, like those for whom epic minstrels had chanted. The cities could no longer welcome an Olympian winner with Pindaric hymns. There was no imperial Athens to fill the theatres with a crowd of citizens and strangers eager to listen to new tragic masterpieces. There was no humorous democracy to laugh at all the world, and at itself, with Aristophanes. The very religion of Sophocles and Aeschylus was debased. A vulgar usurper had stripped the golden ornaments from Athene of the Parthenon. The ancient faith in the protecting gods of Athens, of Sparta, and of Thebes, had become a lax readiness to bow down in the temple of any Oriental Rimmon, of Serapis or Adonis. Greece had turned her face, with Alexander of Macedon, to the East; Alexander had fallen, and Greece had become little better than the western portion of a divided Oriental empire. The centre of intellectual life had been removed from Athens to Alexandria (_founded_ 332 B.C.) The new Greek cities of Egypt and Asia, and above all Alexandria, seemed no cities at all to Greeks who retained the pure Hellenic traditions. Alexandria was thirty times larger than the size assigned by Aristotle to a well-balanced state. Austere spectators saw in Alexandria an Eastern capital and mart, a place of harems and bazaars, a home of tyrants, slaves, dreamers, and pleasure-seekers. Thus a Greek of the old school must have despaired of Greek poetry. There was nothing (he would have said) to evoke it; no dawn of liberty could flush this silent Memnon into song. The collectors, critics, librarians of Alexandria could only produce literary imitations of the epic and the hymn, or could at best write epigrams or inscriptions for the statue of some alien and luxurious god. Their critical activity in every field of literature was immense, their original genius sterile. In them the intellect of the Hellenes still faintly glowed, like embers on an altar that shed no light on the way. Yet over these embers the god poured once again the sacred oil, and from the dull mass leaped, like a many-coloured frame, the genius of THEOCRITUS.
To take delight in that genius, so human, so kindly, so musical in expression, requires, it may be said, no long preparation. The art of Theocritus scarcely needs to be illustrated by any description of the conditions among which it came to perfection. It is always impossible to analyse into its component parts the genius of a poet. But it is not impossible to detect some of the influences that worked on Theocritus. We can study his early ‘environment’; the country scenes he knew, and the songs of the neatherds which he elevated into art. We can ascertain the nature of the demand for poetry in the chief cities and in the literary society of the time. As a result, we can understand the broad twofold division of the poems of Theocritus into rural and epic idyls, and with this we must rest contented.
Andrew Lang's 1889 prose rendering of the three canonical Greek bucolic poets opens with an introductory essay that situates Theocritus in the early third century BCE, a period when Greek poetry, Lang argues, had lost its earlier civic and religious force. The first idyl immediately establishes the pastoral mode: a goatherd and a shepherd engage in a singing contest, their verses woven with mythological references—Daphnis, the Nymphs, Priapus—and a detailed description of a carved ivy-wood cup. The prose translation preserves the directness of the Greek while smoothing it into Victorian English, making the poems accessible to readers unfamiliar with the original dialects.
The Pastoral Frame and Its Variations
The early idyls (I–VII) repeatedly stage encounters between herdsmen who trade songs, often with a prize at stake. In Idyl I, the goatherd promises a cup; in Idyl V, the contestants wager a lamb and a goat. These framing devices create a competitive yet convivial atmosphere. Yet the pastoral setting is not static: Idyl VII, titled “The Harvest Feast,” shifts to a journey narrative, with the poet Simichidas (a stand-in for Theocritus) walking to a harvest celebration on the island of Cos. The poem names real places and people, including the poet Philetas, blurring the line between fictional bucolic and autobiographical report. Readers should note how the landscape functions not merely as backdrop but as a stage for social and poetic exchange.
Urban Scenes and Courtly Praise
Not all poems in the collection are rural. Idyl XV, “The Women at the Adonis Festival,” transports the reader to Alexandria, where two Syracusan women navigate a crowded street to watch a tapestry of Adonis and Aphrodite. The poem is composed almost entirely in dialogue, with vivid details of the crowd, a singer’s hymn, and the women’s domestic chatter. This idyl demonstrates Theocritus’s range beyond shepherds. Similarly, Idyl XVII is a formal encomium to Ptolemy II, tracing his lineage, his marriage to Berenice, and the prosperity of Egypt under his rule. The language becomes grand and catalog-like, listing the lands and cities under Ptolemy’s control. These poems show the bucolic poet engaging with Hellenistic court culture.
Bion and Moschus: Echoes and Innovations
The later sections of the volume present the work of Bion and Moschus, poets who continued the bucolic tradition after Theocritus. Bion’s idyls are shorter and often more overtly elegiac; his first idyl opens with a lament for the dead Adonis, spoken by Aphrodite herself. The tone is mournful, the imagery focused on wounds and flowers. Moschus’s Idyl I, “Love the Runaway,” personifies Eros as a fugitive child, with Aphrodite offering a reward for his capture. This playful, mythological conceit differs from Theocritus’s more grounded shepherds. Moschus also includes a fragment on the death of Bion, blending pastoral lament with personal grief. These poems expand the emotional register of bucolic poetry, moving from rustic competition to mythological drama and literary tribute.
Lang’s Prose and the Editorial Apparatus
Andrew Lang’s translation renders the Greek into a flowing, slightly archaic English prose, avoiding the metrical constraints of verse translation. His introductory essay, “Theocritus and His Age,” provides historical context, discussing the decline of the Greek city-state and the rise of Alexandrian culture. Lang also includes a “Life of Theocritus” drawn from the Suda and other ancient sources, noting the uncertainty about the poet’s birthplace and parentage. The volume is organized by poet, with each idyl numbered and titled. Readers should consult the table of contents to navigate the collection; the epigrams and fragments at the end offer further glimpses of the poets’ range. Lang’s notes are sparse, so the essay serves as the primary guide to the historical and literary background.
Approaching this collection as a first-time reader, it helps to read the idyls in order, noting how the pastoral conventions are established, varied, and eventually transformed. The transition from Theocritus’s rural singing matches to Bion’s mythological laments and Moschus’s playful allegories reveals the flexibility of the bucolic genre. Lang’s prose translation, while dated in style, remains a clear and readable entry point into these foundational works of Western pastoral literature.
That rainy afternoon, Andrew Lang’s prose made Theocritus’ shepherds feel like quiet neighbors, their songs lingering along the windowpane’s trickle. I drifted from those green dialogues to a stranger, chivalric voice, and found myself inside Stephen Hawes’ dream-vision, The Pastime of Pleasure: An Allegorical Poem — Key Ideas to Explore, where every path leads somewhere claimed by allegory rather than echo.
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