The Bucolics and Eclogues. Virgil

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      No room for hope had he, yet, none the less,

      The thick-leaved shadowy-soaring beech-tree grove

      Still would he haunt, and there alone, as thus,

      To woods and hills pour forth his artless strains.

      "Cruel Alexis, heed you naught my songs?

      Have you no pity? you'll drive me to my death.

      Now even the cattle court the cooling shade

      And the green lizard hides him in the thorn:

      Now for tired mowers, with the fierce heat spent,

      Pounds Thestilis her mess of savoury herbs,

      Wild thyme and garlic. I, with none beside,

      Save hoarse cicalas shrilling through the brake,

      Still track your footprints 'neath the broiling sun.

      Better have borne the petulant proud disdain

      Of Amaryllis, or Menalcas wooed,

      Albeit he was so dark, and you so fair!

      Trust not too much to colour, beauteous boy;

      White privets fall, dark hyacinths are culled.

      You scorn me, Alexis, who or what I am

      Care not to ask- how rich in flocks, or how

      In snow-white milk abounding: yet for me

      Roam on Sicilian hills a thousand lambs;

      Summer or winter, still my milk-pails brim.

      I sing as erst Amphion of Circe sang,

      What time he went to call his cattle home

      On Attic Aracynthus. Nor am I

      So ill to look on: lately on the beach

      I saw myself, when winds had stilled the sea,

      And, if that mirror lie not, would not fear

      Daphnis to challenge, though yourself were judge.

      Ah! were you but content with me to dwell.

      Some lowly cot in the rough fields our home,

      Shoot down the stags, or with green osier-wand

      Round up the straggling flock! There you with me

      In silvan strains will learn to rival Pan.

      Pan first with wax taught reed with reed to join;

      For sheep alike and shepherd Pan hath care.

      Nor with the reed's edge fear you to make rough

      Your dainty lip; such arts as these to learn

      What did Amyntas do?– what did he not?

      A pipe have I, of hemlock-stalks compact

      In lessening lengths, Damoetas' dying-gift:

      'Mine once,' quoth he, 'now yours, as heir to own.'

      Foolish Amyntas heard and envied me.

      Ay, and two fawns, I risked my neck to find

      In a steep glen, with coats white-dappled still,

      From a sheep's udders suckled twice a day-

      These still I keep for you; which Thestilis

      Implores me oft to let her lead away;

      And she shall have them, since my gifts you spurn.

      Come hither, beauteous boy; for you the Nymphs

      Bring baskets, see, with lilies brimmed; for you,

      Plucking pale violets and poppy-heads,

      Now the fair Naiad, of narcissus flower

      And fragrant fennel, doth one posy twine-

      With cassia then, and other scented herbs,

      Blends them, and sets the tender hyacinth off

      With yellow marigold. I too will pick

      Quinces all silvered-o'er with hoary down,

      Chestnuts, which Amaryllis wont to love,

      And waxen plums withal: this fruit no less

      Shall have its meed of honour; and I will pluck

      You too, ye laurels, and you, ye myrtles, near,

      For so your sweets ye mingle. Corydon,

      You are a boor, nor heeds a whit your gifts

      Alexis; no, nor would Iollas yield,

      Should gifts decide the day. Alack! alack!

      What misery have I brought upon my head!-

      Loosed on the flowers Siroces to my bane,

      And the wild boar upon my crystal springs!

      Whom do you fly, infatuate? gods ere now,

      And Dardan Paris, have made the woods their home.

      Let Pallas keep the towers her hand hath built,

      Us before all things let the woods delight.

      The grim-eyed lioness pursues the wolf,

      The wolf the she-goat, the she-goat herself

      In wanton sport the flowering cytisus,

      And Corydon Alexis, each led on

      By their own longing. See, the ox comes home

      With plough up-tilted, and the shadows grow

      To twice their length with the departing sun,

      Yet me love burns, for who can limit love?

      Ah! Corydon, Corydon, what hath crazed your wit?

      Your vine half-pruned hangs on the leafy elm;

      Why haste you not to weave what need requires

      Of pliant rush or osier? Scorned by this,

      Elsewhere some new Alexis you will find."

      ECLOGUE III

      MENALCAS

      DAMOETAS

      PALAEMON