Eclogues

bloom with narcissus-flower, the tamarisk

sweat with rich amber, and the screech-owl vie

in singing with the swan: let Tityrus

be Orpheus, Orpheus in the forest-glade,

arion 'mid his dolphins on the deep.

‘Begin, my flute, with me Maenalian lays.’

Yea, be the whole earth to mid-ocean turned!

Farewell, ye woodlands I from the tall peak

of yon aerial rock will headlong plunge

into the billows: this my latest gift,

from dying lips bequeathed thee, see thou keep.

Cease now, my flute, now cease Maenalian lays.’”

thus Damon: but do ye, Pierian Maids—

we cannot all do all things—tell me how

alphesiboeus to his strain replied.

“Bring water, and with soft wool-fillet bind

these altars round about, and burn thereon

rich vervain and male frankincense, that I

may strive with magic spells to turn astray

my lover's saner senses, whereunto

there lacketh nothing save the power of song.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

Songs can the very moon draw down from heaven

circe with singing changed from human form

the comrades of Ulysses, and by song

is the cold meadow-snake, asunder burst.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

These triple threads of threefold colour first

I twine about thee, and three times withal

around these altars do thine image bear:

uneven numbers are the god's delight.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

Now, Amaryllis, ply in triple knots

the threefold colours; ply them fast, and say

this is the chain of Venus that I ply.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

As by the kindling of the self-same fire

harder this clay, this wax the softer grows,

so by my love may Daphnis; sprinkle meal,

and with bitumen burn the brittle bays.

Me Daphnis with his cruelty doth burn,

I to melt cruel Daphnis burn this bay.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

As when some heifer, seeking for her steer

through woodland and deep grove, sinks wearied out

on the green sedge beside a stream, love-lorn,

nor marks the gathering night that calls her home—

as pines that heifer, with such love as hers

may Daphnis pine, and I not care to heal.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

These relics once, dear pledges of himself,

the traitor left me, which, O earth, to thee

here on this very threshold I commit—

pledges that bind him to redeem the debt.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

These herbs of bane to me did Moeris give,

in Pontus culled, where baneful herbs abound.

With these full oft have I seen Moeris change

to a wolf's form, and hide him in the woods,

oft summon spirits from the tomb's recess,

and to new fields transport the standing corn.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

Take ashes, Amaryllis, fetch them forth,

and o'er your head into the running brook

fling them, nor look behind: with these will

upon the heart of Daphnis make essay.

Nothing for gods, nothing for songs cares he.

‘Draw from the town, my songs, draw Daphnis home.’

Look, look I the very embers of themselves

have caught the altar with a flickering flame,

while I delay to fetch them: may the sign

prove lucky! something it must mean, for sure,

and Hylax on the threshold 'gins to bark!

May we believe it, or are lovers still

by their own fancies fooled?

Give o'er, my songs,

daphnis is coming from the town, give o'er.”

Say whither, Moeris?—Make you for the town,

or on what errand bent?

O Lycidas,

we have lived to see, what never yet we feared,

an interloper own our little farm,

and say, “Be off, you former husbandmen!

These fields are mine.” Now, cowed and out of heart,

since Fortune turns the whole world upside down,

we are taking him—ill luck go with the same!—

these kids you see.

But surely I had heard

that where the hills first draw from off the plain,

and the high ridge with gentle slope descends,

down to the brook-side and the broken crests

of yonder veteran beeches, all the land

was by the songs of your Menalcas saved.

Heard it you had, and so the rumour ran,

but 'mid the clash of arms, my Lycidas,

our songs avail no more than, as 'tis said,

doves of Dodona when an eagle comes.

Nay, had I not, from hollow ilex-bole

warned by a raven on the left, cut short

the rising feud, nor I, your Moeris here,