H poet of tbe ipoor 



inner glow of his genius, the ^6t] of his 

 Muse, are felt only in his bucolic piping 

 and in that picture of absolute poverty in 

 Idyl XXI. It is like living the herdsman's 

 life along the sunny mountain-slopes to 

 read Idyl VIII. One hears the flutes. 

 Even in Idyl VII, where Theocritus be- 

 gins to put on a student's airs, the musk 

 of the goats is still blended with the summer 

 day's opulence and flower perfume, fruit 

 fragrance and the must of grapes and 

 grain. Indeed, this goat-musk (%tva[3pa) 

 and the suggestion of rude cheese-pressers 

 and the curd and rennet ought to be a 

 passport to the favor of modern realists. 



The little song at the end of Idyl X is 

 a fine bit of rural wit and irony. I have 

 heard the like, barring the inimitable art 

 of hiding art, in the hay-fields of the West, 

 but, of course, not in verse. 



Boys, the frog 's a lucky fellow ; he 

 Don't have to waste his wages for his beer ; 

 The drink he likes he swims in, don't ye see ! 



I have been going through these old 

 Doric masterpieces again in memory of 

 114 



