No More Learning

PISTHETAERUS. Lead the way, and may success attend us.

CHORUS. Lovable golden bird, whom I cherish above all others, you, whom I
associate with all my songs, nightingale, you have come, you have come,
to show yourself to me and to charm me with your notes. Come, you, who
play spring melodies upon the harmonious flute,[248] lead off our
anapaests. [249]

Weak mortals, chained to the earth, creatures of clay as frail as the
foliage of the woods, you unfortunate race, whose life is but darkness,
as unreal as a shadow, the illusion of a dream, hearken to us, who are
immortal beings, ethereal, ever young and occupied with eternal thoughts,
for we shall teach you about all celestial matters; you shall know
thoroughly what is the nature of the birds, what the origin of the gods,
of the rivers, of Erebus, and Chaos; thanks to us, Prodicus[250] will
envy you your knowledge.

At the beginning there was only Chaos, Night, dark Erebus, and deep
Tartarus. Earth, the air and heaven had no existence. Firstly,
black-winged Night laid a germless egg in the bosom of the infinite deeps
of Erebus, and from this, after the revolution of long ages, sprang the
graceful Eros with his glittering golden wings, swift as the whirlwinds
of the tempest. He mated in deep Tartarus with dark Chaos, winged like
himself, and thus hatched forth our race, which was the first to see the
light. That of the Immortals did not exist until Eros had brought
together all the ingredients of the world, and from their marriage
Heaven, Ocean, Earth and the imperishable race of blessed gods sprang
into being. Thus our origin is very much older than that of the dwellers
in Olympus. We are the offspring of Eros; there are a thousand proofs to
show it. We have wings and we lend assistance to lovers. How many
handsome youths, who had sworn to remain insensible, have not been
vanquished by our power and have yielded themselves to their lovers when
almost at the end of their youth, being led away by the gift of a quail,
a waterfowl, a goose, or a cock.
[251]

And what important services do not the birds render to mortals! First of
all, they mark the seasons for them, springtime, winter, and autumn. Does
the screaming crane migrate to Libya,--it warns the husbandman to sow,
the pilot to take his ease beside his tiller hung up in his
dwelling,[252] and Orestes[253] to weave a tunic, so that the rigorous
cold may not drive him any more to strip other folk. When the kite
reappears, he tells of the return of spring and of the period when the
fleece of the sheep must be clipped. Is the swallow in sight? All hasten
to sell their warm tunic and to buy some light clothing. We are your
Ammon, Delphi, Dodona, your Phoebus Apollo. [254] Before undertaking
anything, whether a business transaction, a marriage, or the purchase of
food, you consult the birds by reading the omens, and you give this name
of omen[255] to all signs that tell of the future. With you a word is an
omen, you call a sneeze an omen, a meeting an omen, an unknown sound an
omen, a slave or an ass an omen. [256] Is it not clear that we are a
prophetic Apollo to you? If you recognize us as gods, we shall be your
divining Muses, through us you will know the winds and the seasons,
summer, winter, and the temperate months. We shall not withdraw ourselves
to the highest clouds like Zeus, but shall be among you and shall give to
you and to your children and the children of your children, health and
wealth, long life, peace, youth, laughter, songs and feasts; in short,
you will all be so well off, that you will be weary and satiated with
enjoyment.

Oh, rustic Muse of such varied note, tio, tio, tio, tiotinx, I sing with
you in the groves and on the mountain tops, tio, tio, tio, tio,
tiotinx. [257] I pour forth sacred strains from my golden throat in honour
of the god Pan,[258] tio, tio, tio, tiotinx, from the top of the thickly
leaved ash, and my voice mingles with the mighty choirs who extol Cybele
on the mountain tops,[259] tototototototototinx. 'Tis to our concerts
that Phrynicus comes to pillage like a bee the ambrosia of his songs, the
sweetness of which so charms the ear, tio, tio, tio, tio, tinx.

If there be one of you spectators who wishes to spend the rest of his
life quietly among the birds, let him come to us.