Eclogues

no, nor Menalcas, were alive to-day.

Alack! could any of so foul a crime

be guilty? Ah! how nearly, thyself,

reft was the solace that we had in thee,

Menalcas! Who then of the Nymphs had sung,

or who with flowering herbs bestrewn the ground,

and o'er the fountains drawn a leafy veil?—

who sung the stave I filched from you that day

to Amaryllis wending, our hearts' joy?—

“While I am gone, 'tis but a little way,

feed, Tityrus, my goats, and, having fed,

drive to the drinking-pool, and, as you drive,

beware the he-goat; with his horn he butts.“

Ay, or to Varus that half-finished lay,

“Varus, thy name, so still our Mantua live—

Mantua to poor Cremona all too near—

shall singing swans bear upward to the stars.”

So may your swarms Cyrnean yew-trees shun,

your kine with cytisus their udders swell,

begin, if aught you have. The Muses made

me too a singer; I too have sung; the swains

call me a poet, but I believe them not:

for naught of mine, or worthy Varius yet

or Cinna deem I, but account myself

a cackling goose among melodious swans.

'Twas in my thought to do so, Lycidas;

even now was I revolving silently

if this I could recall—no paltry song:

“Come, Galatea, what pleasure is 't to play

amid the waves? Here glows the Spring, here earth

beside the streams pours forth a thousand flowers;

here the white poplar bends above the cave,

and the lithe vine weaves shadowy covert: come,

leave the mad waves to beat upon the shore.”

What of the strain I heard you singing once

on a clear night alone? the notes I still

remember, could I but recall the words.

“Why, Daphnis, upward gazing, do you mark

the ancient risings of the Signs? for look

where Dionean Caesar's star comes forth

in heaven, to gladden all the fields with corn,

and to the grape upon the sunny slopes

her colour bring! Now, the pears;

so shall your children's children pluck their fruit.”

Time carries all things, even our wits, away.

Oft, as a boy, I sang the sun to rest,

but all those songs are from my memory fled,

and even his voice is failing Moeris now;

the wolves eyed Moeris first: but at your wish

Menalcas will repeat them oft enow.

Your pleas but linger out my heart's desire:

now all the deep is into silence hushed,

and all the murmuring breezes sunk to sleep.

We are half-way thither, for Bianor's tomb

begins to show: here, Moeris, where the hinds

are lopping the thick leafage, let us sing.

Set down the kids, yet shall we reach the town;

or, if we fear the night may gather rain

ere we arrive, then singing let us go,

our way to lighten; and, that we may thus

go singing, I will case you of this load.

Cease, boy, and get we to the work in hand:

we shall sing better when himself is come.

This now, the very latest of my toils,

vouchsafe me, Arethusa! needs must I

sing a brief song to Gallus—brief, but yet

such as Lycoris' self may fitly read.

Who would not sing for Gallus? So, when thou

beneath Sicanian billows glidest on,

may Doris blend no bitter wave with thine,

begin! The love of Gallus be our theme,

and the shrewd pangs he suffered, while, hard by,

the flat-nosed she-goats browse the tender brush.

We sing not to deaf ears; no word of ours

but the woods echo it. What groves or lawns

held you, ye Dryad-maidens, when for love—

love all unworthy of a loss so dear—

Gallus lay dying? for neither did the slopes

of Pindus or Parnassus stay you then,

no, nor Aonian Aganippe. Him

even the laurels and the tamarisks wept;

for him, outstretched beneath a lonely rock,

wept pine-clad Maenalus, and the flinty crags

of cold Lycaeus. The sheep too stood around—

of us they feel no shame, poet divine;

nor of the flock be thou ashamed: even fair

Adonis by the rivers fed his sheep—

came shepherd too, and swine-herd footing slow,

and, from the winter-acorns dripping-wet

Menalcas. All with one accord exclaim:

“From whence this love of thine?” Apollo came;

“Gallus, art mad?” he cried, “thy bosom's care

another love is following.” Therewithal

Silvanus came, with rural honours crowned;

the flowering fennels and tall lilies shook

before him. Yea, and our own eyes beheld

pan, god of Arcady, with blood-red juice

of the elder-berry, and with vermilion, dyed.

“Wilt ever make an end?” quoth he, “behold

love recks not aught of it: his heart no more