Eclogues

Perseus Latin · Perseus Latin · 1,060 sections

6.69
reposing, under some dark ilex now
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chews the pale herbage, or some heifer tracks
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amid the crowding herd. Now close, ye Nymphs,
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ye Nymphs of Dicte, close the forest-glades,
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if haply there may chance upon mine eyes
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the white bull's wandering foot-prints: him belike
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following the herd, or by green pasture lured,
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some kine may guide to the Gortynian stalls.
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Then sings he of the maid so wonder-struck
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with the apples of the Hesperids, and then
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with moss-bound, bitter bark rings round the forms
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of Phaethon's fair sisters, from the ground
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up-towering into poplars. Next he sings
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of Gallus wandering by Permessus' stream,
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and by a sister of the Muses led
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to the Aonian mountains, and how all
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the choir of Phoebus rose to greet him; how
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the shepherd Linus, singer of songs divine,
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brow-bound with flowers and bitter parsley, spake:
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“These reeds the Muses give thee, take them thou,
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erst to the aged bard of Ascra given,
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wherewith in singing he was wont to draw
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time-rooted ash-trees from the mountain heights.
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With these the birth of the Grynean grove
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be voiced by thee, that of no grove beside
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apollo more may boast him.” Wherefore speak
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of Scylla, child of Nisus, who, 'tis said,
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her fair white loins with barking monsters girt
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vexed the Dulichian ships, and, in the deep
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swift-eddying whirlpool, with her sea-dogs tore
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the trembling mariners? or how he told
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of the changed limbs of Tereus—what a feast,
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what gifts, to him by Philomel were given;
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how swift she sought the desert, with what wings
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hovered in anguish o'er her ancient home?
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All that, of old, Eurotas, happy stream,
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heard, as Apollo mused upon the lyre,
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and bade his laurels learn, Silenus sang;
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till from Olympus, loth at his approach,
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vesper, advancing, bade the shepherds tell
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their tale of sheep, and pen them in the fold.
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daphnis beneath a rustling ilex-tree
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had sat him down; Thyrsis and Corydon
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had gathered in the flock, Thyrsis the sheep,
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and Corydon the she-goats swollen with milk—
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both in the flower of age, Arcadians both,
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ready to sing, and in like strain reply.
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Hither had strayed, while from the frost I fend
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my tender myrtles, the he-goat himself,
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lord of the flock; when Daphnis I espy!
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Soon as he saw me, “Hither haste,” he cried,
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“O Meliboeus! goat and kids are safe;
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and, if you have an idle hour to spare,
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rest here beneath the shade. Hither the steers
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will through the meadows, of their own free will,
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untended come to drink. Here Mincius hath
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with tender rushes rimmed his verdant banks,
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and from yon sacred oak with busy hum
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the bees are swarming.” What was I to do?
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No Phyllis or Alcippe left at home
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had I, to shelter my new-weaned lambs,
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and no slight matter was a singing-bout
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'twixt Corydon and Thyrsis. Howsoe'er,
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I let my business wait upon their sport.
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So they began to sing, voice answering voice
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in strains alternate—for alternate strains
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the Muses then were minded to recall—
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first Corydon, then Thyrsis in reply.
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“Libethrian Nymphs, who are my heart's delight,
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grant me, as doth my Codrus, so to sing—
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next to Apollo he—or if to this
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we may not all attain, my tuneful pipe
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here on this sacred pine shall silent hang.”
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“Arcadian shepherds, wreathe with ivy-spray
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your budding poet, so that Codrus burst
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with envy: if he praise beyond my due,
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then bind my brow with foxglove, lest his tongue
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with evil omen blight the coming bard.”
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“This bristling boar's head, Delian Maid, to thee,
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with branching antlers of a sprightly stag,
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young Micon offers: if his luck but hold,
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full-length in polished marble, ankle-bound
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with purple buskin, shall thy statue stand.”
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“A bowl of milk, Priapus, and these cakes,
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yearly, it is enough for thee to claim;
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thou art the guardian of a poor man's plot.
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Wrought for a while in marble, if the flock
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at lambing time be filled,stand there in gold.”
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“Daughter of Nereus, Galatea mine,
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sweeter than Hybla-thyme, more white than swans,
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fairer than ivy pale, soon as the steers
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shall from their pasture to the stalls repair,
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if aught for Corydon thou carest, come.”
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“Now may I seem more bitter to your taste
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than herb Sardinian, rougher than the broom,
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more worthless than strewn sea-weed, if to-day
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hath not a year out-lasted! Fie for shame!
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Go home, my cattle, from your grazing go!”
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“Ye mossy springs, and grass more soft than sleep,
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and arbute green with thin shade sheltering you,

Perseus Latin. CTS URN phi0690.phi001.perseus-eng2. Via the Perseus Digital Library / Open Greek and Latin TEI corpora. Licence: CC BY-SA 4.0. Source.