An Ox-Herder's Holiday

by Brett Rutherford

     After Theocritus

Camped in the hills
to get away from it all,
on a leaf-bed hastily made,
the beauteous Daphnis slumbers.
Such arms, such legs, such line
of neck and shoulder
ought not be bared
beneath the snitching stars.

You might, at least, flap closed,
conceal yourself within that tent
so artfully constructed, but no,
the warm night air seduces.

No rest for you, fair Daphnis,
for wicked Pan has got your scent,
and not far off, Priapus springs
to full attention in his own lair,
and hearing the pan-pipe summons
primps all his attributes and dons
his yellow ivy garland. The game
is on as fleet-hoofed feet
bound this way and that
among the somnolent sheep.

Wake up! Wake up
and get away,
poor Daphnis. Sleep
holds you down,
while lust makes mighty leaps
in your direction. Oh, flee!
You’ve not a moment lose.

The underbrush stirs.
The pipe of one
draws the tread of the other.
A long priapic shadow
precedes the intruders.
Flee, Daphnis! No lad
should have to endure
what they might do to you.
No witnesses, for even
the oxen will avert their eyes,
embarrassed.  Unless,
of course, you’d rather stay.
Unless all along
this is exactly what
you meant by camping out.