The Bucolics and Eclogues
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ECLOGUE I
MELIBOEUS
TITYRUS
MELIBOEUSYou, Tityrus, 'neath a broad beech-canopyReclining, on the slender oat rehearseYour silvan ditties: I from my sweet fields,And home's familiar bounds, even now depart.Exiled from home am I; while, Tityrus, youSit careless in the shade, and, at your call,"Fair Amaryllis" bid the woods resound.TITYRUSO Meliboeus, 'twas a god vouchsafedThis ease to us, for him a god will IDeem ever, and from my folds a tender lambOft with its life-blood shall his altar stain.His gift it is that, as your eyes may see,My kine may roam at large, and I myselfPlay on my shepherd's pipe what songs I will.MELIBOEUSI grudge you not the boon, but marvel more,Such wide confusion fills the country-side.See, sick at heart I drive my she-goats on,And this one, O my Tityrus, scarce can lead:For 'mid the hazel-thicket here but nowShe dropped her new-yeaned twins on the bare flint,Hope of the flock- an ill, I mind me well,Which many a time, but for my blinded sense,The thunder-stricken oak foretold, oft tooFrom hollow trunk the raven's ominous cry.But who this god of yours? Come, Tityrus, tell.TITYRUSThe city, Meliboeus, they call Rome,I, simpleton, deemed like this town of ours,Whereto we shepherds oft are wont to driveThe younglings of the flock: so too I knewWhelps to resemble dogs, and kids their dams,Comparing small with great; but this as farAbove all other cities rears her headAs cypress above pliant osier towers.MELIBOEUSAnd what so potent cause took you to Rome?TITYRUSFreedom, which, though belated, cast at lengthHer eyes upon the sluggard, when my beard'Gan whiter fall beneath the barber's blade-Cast eyes, I say, and, though long tarrying, came,Now when, from Galatea's yoke released,I serve but Amaryllis: for I will own,While Galatea reigned over me, I hadNo hope of freedom, and no thought to save.Though many a victim from my folds went forth,Or rich cheese pressed for the unthankful town,Never with laden hands returned I home.MELIBOEUSI used to wonder, Amaryllis, whyYou cried to heaven so sadly, and for whomYou left the apples hanging on the trees;'Twas Tityrus was away. Why, Tityrus,The very pines, the very water-springs,The very vineyards, cried aloud for you.TITYRUSWhat could I do? how else from bonds be freed,Or otherwhere find gods so nigh to aid?There, Meliboeus, I saw that youth to whomYearly for twice six days my altars smoke.There instant answer gave he to my suit,"Feed, as before, your kine, boys, rear your bulls."MELIBOEUSSo in old age, you happy man, your fieldsWill still be yours, and ample for your need!Though, with bare stones o'erspread, the pastures allBe choked with rushy mire, your ewes with youngBy no strange fodder will be tried, nor hurtThrough taint contagious of a neighbouring flock.Happy old man, who 'mid familiar streamsAnd hallowed springs, will court the cooling shade!Here, as of old, your neighbour's bordering hedge,That feasts with willow-flower the Hybla bees,Shall oft with gentle murmur lull to sleep,While the leaf-dresser beneath some tall rockUplifts his song, nor cease their cooings hoarseThe wood-pigeons that are your heart's delight,Nor doves their moaning in the elm-tree top.TITYRUSSooner shall light stags, therefore, feed in air,The seas their fish leave naked on the strand,Germans and Parthians shift their natural bounds,And these the Arar, those the Tigris drink,Than from my heart his face and memory fade.MELIBOEUSBut we far hence, to burning Libya some,Some to the Scythian steppes, or thy swift flood,Cretan Oaxes, now must wend our way,Or Britain, from the whole world sundered far.Ah! shall I ever in aftertime beholdMy native bounds- see many a harvest henceWith ravished eyes the lowly turf-roofed cotWhere I was king? These fallows, trimmed so fair,Some brutal soldier will possess these fieldsAn alien master. Ah! to what a passHas civil discord brought our hapless folk!For such as these, then, were our furrows sown!Now, Meliboeus, graft your pears, now setYour vines in order! Go, once happy flock,My she-goats, go. Never again shall I,Stretched in green cave, behold you from afarHang from the bushy rock; my songs are sung;Never again will you, with me to tend,On clover-flower, or bitter willows, browse.TITYRUSYet here, this night, you might repose with me,On green leaves pillowed: apples ripe have I,Soft chestnuts, and of curdled milk enow.And, see, the farm-roof chimneys smoke afar,And from the hills the shadows lengthening fall!ECLOGUE II
ALEXIS
The shepherd Corydon with love was firedFor fair Alexis, his own master's joy:No room for hope had he, yet, none the less,The thick-leaved shadowy-soaring beech-tree groveStill 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 shadeAnd 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 disdainOf 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 amCare not to ask- how rich in flocks, or howIn snow-white milk abounding: yet for meRoam 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 homeOn Attic Aracynthus. Nor am ISo ill to look on: lately on the beachI saw myself, when winds had stilled the sea,And, if that mirror lie not, would not fearDaphnis 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-wandRound up the straggling flock! There you with meIn 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 roughYour dainty lip; such arts as these to learnWhat did Amyntas do?– what did he not?A pipe have I, of hemlock-stalks compactIn 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 findIn a steep glen, with coats white-dappled still,From a sheep's udders suckled twice a day-These still I keep for you; which ThestilisImplores me oft to let her lead away;And she shall have them, since my gifts you spurn.Come hither, beauteous boy; for you the NymphsBring baskets, see, with lilies brimmed; for you,Plucking pale violets and poppy-heads,Now the fair Naiad, of narcissus flowerAnd fragrant fennel, doth one posy twine-With cassia then, and other scented herbs,Blends them, and sets the tender hyacinth offWith yellow marigold. I too will pickQuinces all silvered-o'er with hoary down,Chestnuts, which Amaryllis wont to love,And waxen plums withal: this fruit no lessShall have its meed of honour; and I will pluckYou too, ye laurels, and you, ye myrtles, near,For so your sweets ye mingle. Corydon,You are a boor, nor heeds a whit your giftsAlexis; 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 herselfIn wanton sport the flowering cytisus,And Corydon Alexis, each led onBy their own longing. See, the ox comes homeWith plough up-tilted, and the shadows growTo 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 requiresOf pliant rush or osier? Scorned by this,Elsewhere some new Alexis you will find."ECLOGUE III
MENALCAS
DAMOETAS
PALAEMON
MENALCASWho owns the flock, Damoetas? Meliboeus?DAMOETASNay, they are Aegon's sheep, of late by himCommitted to my care.MENALCASO every wayUnhappy sheep, unhappy flock! while heStill courts Neaera, fearing lest her choiceShould fall on me, this hireling shepherd hereWrings hourly twice their udders, from the flockFilching the life-juice, from the lambs their milk.DAMOETASHold! not so ready with your jeers at men!We know who once, and in what shrine with you-The he-goats looked aside- the light nymphs laughed-MENALCASAy, then, I warrant, when they saw me slashMicon's young vines and trees with spiteful hook.DAMOETASOr here by these old beeches, when you brokeThe bow and arrows of Damon; for you chafedWhen first you saw them given to the boy,Cross-grained Menalcas, ay, and had you notDone him some mischief, would have chafed to death.MENALCASWith thieves so daring, what can masters do?Did I not see you, rogue, in ambush lieFor Damon's goat, while loud Lycisca barked?And when I cried, "Where is he off to now?Gather your flock together, Tityrus,"You hid behind the sedges.DAMOETASWell, was heWhom I had conquered still to keep the goat.Which in the piping-match my pipe had won!You may not know it, but the goat was mine.MENALCASYou out-pipe him? when had you ever pipeWax-welded? in the cross-ways used you notOn grating straw some miserable tuneTo mangle?DAMOETASWell, then, shall we try our skillEach against each in turn? Lest you be loth,I pledge this heifer; every day she comesTwice to the milking-pail, and feeds withalTwo young ones at her udder: say you nowWhat you will stake upon the match with me.MENALCASNaught from the flock I'll venture, for at homeI have a father and a step-dame harsh,And twice a day both reckon up the flock,And one withal the kids. But I will stake,Seeing you are so mad, what you yourselfWill own more priceless far- two beechen cupsBy the divine art of AlcimedonWrought and embossed, whereon a limber vine,Wreathed round them by the graver's facile tool,Twines over clustering ivy-berries pale.Two figures, one Conon, in the midst he set,And one- how call you him, who with his wandMarked out for all men the whole round of heaven,That they who reap, or stoop behind the plough,Might know their several seasons? Nor as yetHave I set lip to them, but lay them by.DAMOETASFor me too wrought the same AlcimedonA pair of cups, and round the handles wreathedPliant acanthus, Orpheus in the midst,The forests following in his wake; nor yetHave I set lip to them, but lay them by.Matched with a heifer, who would prate of cups?MENALCASYou shall not balk me now; where'er you bid,I shall be with you; only let us haveFor auditor- or see, to serve our turn,Yonder Palaemon comes! In singing-boutsI'll see you play the challenger no more.DAMOETASOut then with what you have; I shall not shrink,Nor budge for any man: only do you,Neighbour Palaemon, with your whole heart's skill-For it is no slight matter-play your part.PALAEMONSay on then, since on the greensward we sit,And now is burgeoning both field and tree;Now is the forest green, and now the yearAt fairest. Do you first, Damoetas, sing,Then you, Menalcas, in alternate strain:Alternate strains are to the Muses dear.DAMOETAS"From Jove the Muse began; Jove filleth all,Makes the earth fruitful, for my songs hath care."MENALCAS"Me Phoebus loves; for Phoebus his own gifts,Bays and sweet-blushing hyacinths, I keep."DAMOETAS"Gay Galatea throws an apple at me,Then hies to the willows, hoping to be seen."MENALCAS"My dear Amyntas comes unasked to me;Not Delia to my dogs is better known."DAMOETAS"Gifts for my love I've found; mine eyes have markedWhere the wood-pigeons build their airy nests."MENALCAS"Ten golden apples have I sent my boy,All that I could, to-morrow as many more."DAMOETAS"What words to me, and uttered O how oft,Hath Galatea spoke! waft some of them,Ye winds, I pray you, for the gods to hear."MENALCAS"It profiteth me naught, Amyntas mine,That in your very heart you spurn me not,If, while you hunt the boar, I guard the nets."DAMOETAS"Prithee, Iollas, for my birthday guestSend me your Phyllis; when for the young cropsI slay my heifer, you yourself shall come."MENALCAS"I am all hers; she wept to see me go,And, lingering on the word, 'farewell' she said,'My beautiful Iollas, fare you well.'"DAMOETAS"Fell as the wolf is to the folded flock,Rain to ripe corn, Sirocco to the trees,The wrath of Amaryllis is to me."MENALCAS"As moisture to the corn, to ewes with youngLithe willow, as arbute to the yeanling kids,So sweet Amyntas, and none else, to me."DAMOETAS"My Muse, although she be but country-bred,Is loved by Pollio: O Pierian Maids,Pray you, a heifer for your reader feed!"MENALCAS"Pollio himself too doth new verses make:Feed ye a bull now ripe to butt with horn,And scatter with his hooves the flying sand."DAMOETAS"Who loves thee, Pollio, may he thither comeWhere thee he joys beholding; ay, for himLet honey flow, the thorn-bush spices bear."MENALCAS"Who hates not Bavius, let him also loveThy songs, O Maevius, ay, and therewithalYoke foxes to his car, and he-goats milk."DAMOETAS"You, picking flowers and strawberries that growSo near the ground, fly hence, boys, get you gone!There's a cold adder lurking in the grass."MENALCAS"Forbear, my sheep, to tread too near the brink;Yon bank is ill to trust to; even nowThe ram himself, see, dries his dripping fleece!"DAMOETAS"Back with the she-goats, Tityrus, grazing thereSo near the river! I, when time shall serve,Will take them all, and wash them in the pool."MENALCAS"Boys, get your sheep together; if the heat,As late it did, forestall us with the milk,Vainly the dried-up udders shall we wring."DAMOETAS"How lean my bull amid the fattening vetch!Alack! alack! for herdsman and for herd!It is the self-same love that wastes us both."MENALCAS"These truly- nor is even love the cause-Scarce have the flesh to keep their bones togetherSome evil eye my lambkins hath bewitched."DAMOETAS"Say in what clime- and you shall be withalMy great Apollo- the whole breadth of heavenOpens no wider than three ells to view."MENALCAS"Say in what country grow such flowers as bearThe names of kings upon their petals writ,And you shall have fair Phyllis for your own."PALAEMONNot mine betwixt such rivals to decide:You well deserve the heifer, so does he,With all who either fear the sweets of love,Or taste its bitterness. Now, boys, shut offThe sluices, for the fields have drunk their fill.ECLOGUE IV
POLLIO
Muses of Sicily, essay we nowA somewhat loftier task! Not all men loveCoppice or lowly tamarisk: sing we woods,Woods worthy of a Consul let them be.Now the last age by Cumae's Sibyl sungHas come and gone, and the majestic rollOf circling centuries begins anew:Justice returns, returns old Saturn's reign,With a new breed of men sent down from heaven.Only do thou, at the boy's birth in whomThe iron shall cease, the golden race arise,Befriend him, chaste Lucina; 'tis thine ownApollo reigns. And in thy consulate,This glorious age, O Pollio, shall begin,And the months enter on their mighty march.Under thy guidance, whatso tracks remainOf our old wickedness, once done away,Shall free the earth from never-ceasing fear.He shall receive the life of gods, and seeHeroes with gods commingling, and himselfBe seen of them, and with his father's worthReign o'er a world at peace. For thee, O boy,First shall the earth, untilled, pour freely forthHer childish gifts, the gadding ivy-sprayWith foxglove and Egyptian bean-flower mixed,And laughing-eyed acanthus. Of themselves,Untended, will the she-goats then bring homeTheir udders swollen with milk, while flocks afieldShall of the monstrous lion have no fear.Thy very cradle shall pour forth for theeCaressing flowers. The serpent too shall die,Die shall the treacherous poison-plant, and farAnd wide Assyrian spices spring. But soonAs thou hast skill to read of heroes' fame,And of thy father's deeds, and inly learnWhat virtue is, the plain by slow degreesWith waving corn-crops shall to golden grow,From the wild briar shall hang the blushing grape,And stubborn oaks sweat honey-dew. NathlessYet shall there lurk within of ancient wrongSome traces, bidding tempt the deep with ships,Gird towns with walls, with furrows cleave the earth.Therewith a second Tiphys shall there be,Her hero-freight a second Argo bear;New wars too shall arise, and once againSome great Achilles to some Troy be sent.Then, when the mellowing years have made thee man,No more shall mariner sail, nor pine-tree barkPly traffic on the sea, but every landShall all things bear alike: the glebe no moreShall feel the harrow's grip, nor vine the hook;The sturdy ploughman shall loose yoke from steer,Nor wool with varying colours learn to lie;But in the meadows shall the ram himself,Now with soft flush of purple, now with tintOf yellow saffron, teach his fleece to shine.While clothed in natural scarlet graze the lambs."Such still, such ages weave ye, as ye run,"Sang to their spindles the consenting FatesBy Destiny's unalterable decree.Assume thy greatness, for the time draws nigh,Dear child of gods, great progeny of Jove!See how it totters- the world's orbed might,Earth, and wide ocean, and the vault profound,All, see, enraptured of the coming time!Ah! might such length of days to me be given,And breath suffice me to rehearse thy deeds,Nor Thracian Orpheus should out-sing me then,Nor Linus, though his mother this, and thatHis sire should aid- Orpheus Calliope,And Linus fair Apollo. Nay, though Pan,With Arcady for judge, my claim contest,With Arcady for judge great Pan himselfShould own him foiled, and from the field retire.Begin to greet thy mother with a smile,O baby-boy! ten months of wearinessFor thee she bore: O baby-boy, begin!For him, on whom his parents have not smiled,Gods deem not worthy of their board or bed.ECLOGUE V
MENALCAS
MOPSUS
MENALCASWhy, Mopsus, being both together met,You skilled to breathe upon the slender reeds,I to sing ditties, do we not sit downHere where the elm-trees and the hazels blend?MOPSUSYou are the elder, 'tis for me to bideYour choice, Menalcas, whether now we seekYon shade that quivers to the changeful breeze,Or the cave's shelter. Look you how the caveIs with the wild vine's clusters over-laced!MENALCASNone but Amyntas on these hills of oursCan vie with you.MOPSUSWhat if he also striveTo out-sing Phoebus?MENALCASDo you first begin,Good Mopsus, whether minded to sing aughtOf Phyllis and her loves, or Alcon's praise,Or to fling taunts at Codrus. Come, begin,While Tityrus watches o'er the grazing kids.MOPSUSNay, then, I will essay what late I carvedOn a green beech-tree's rind, playing by turns,And marking down the notes; then afterwardBid you Amyntas match them if he can.MENALCASAs limber willow to pale olive yields,As lowly Celtic nard to rose-buds bright,So, to my mind, Amyntas yields to you.But hold awhile, for to the cave we come.MOPSUS"For Daphnis cruelly slain wept all the Nymphs-Ye hazels, bear them witness, and ye streams-When she, his mother, clasping in her armsThe hapless body of the son she bare,To gods and stars unpitying, poured her plaint.Then, Daphnis, to the cooling streams were noneThat drove the pastured oxen, then no beastDrank of the river, or would the grass-blade touch.Nay, the wild rocks and woods then voiced the roarOf Afric lions mourning for thy death.Daphnis, 'twas thou bad'st yoke to Bacchus' carArmenian tigresses, lead on the pompOf revellers, and with tender foliage wreatheThe bending spear-wands. As to trees the vineIs crown of glory, as to vines the grape,Bulls to the herd, to fruitful fields the corn,So the one glory of thine own art thou.When the Fates took thee hence, then Pales' self,And even Apollo, left the country lone.Where the plump barley-grain so oft we sowed,There but wild oats and barren darnel spring;For tender violet and narcissus brightThistle and prickly thorn uprear their heads.Now, O ye shepherds, strew the ground with leaves,And o'er the fountains draw a shady veil-So Daphnis to his memory bids be done-And rear a tomb, and write thereon this verse:'I, Daphnis in the woods, from hence in fameAm to the stars exalted, guardian onceOf a fair flock, myself more fair than they.'"MENALCASSo is thy song to me, poet divine,As slumber on the grass to weary limbs,Or to slake thirst from some sweet-bubbling rillIn summer's heat. Nor on the reeds alone,But with thy voice art thou, thrice happy boy,Ranked with thy master, second but to him.Yet will I, too, in turn, as best I may,Sing thee a song, and to the stars upliftThy Daphnis- Daphnis to the stars extol,For me too Daphnis loved.MOPSUSThan such a boonWhat dearer could I deem? the boy himselfWas worthy to be sung, and many a timeHath Stimichon to me your singing praised.MENALCAS"In dazzling sheen with unaccustomed eyesDaphnis stands rapt before Olympus' gate,And sees beneath his feet the clouds and stars.Wherefore the woods and fields, Pan, shepherd-folk,And Dryad-maidens, thrill with eager joy;Nor wolf with treacherous wile assails the flock,Nor nets the stag: kind Daphnis loveth peace.The unshorn mountains to the stars up-tossVoices of gladness; ay, the very rocks,The very thickets, shout and sing, 'A god,A god is he, Menalcas "Be thou kind,Propitious to thine own. Lo! altars four,Twain to thee, Daphnis, and to Phoebus twainFor sacrifice, we build; and I for theeTwo beakers yearly of fresh milk afoam,And of rich olive-oil two bowls, will set;And of the wine-god's bounty above all,If cold, before the hearth, or in the shadeAt harvest-time, to glad the festal hour,From flasks of Ariusian grape will pourSweet nectar. Therewithal at my behestShall Lyctian Aegon and Damoetas sing,And Alphesiboeus emulate in danceThe dancing Satyrs. This, thy service due,Shalt thou lack never, both when we pay the NymphsOur yearly vows, and when with lustral ritesThe fields we hallow. Long as the wild boarShall love the mountain-heights, and fish the streams,While bees on thyme and crickets feed on dew,Thy name, thy praise, thine honour, shall endure.Even as to Bacchus and to Ceres, soTo thee the swain his yearly vows shall make;And thou thereof, like them, shalt quittance claim."MOPSUSHow, how repay thee for a song so rare?For not the whispering south-wind on its waySo much delights me, nor wave-smitten beach,Nor streams that race adown their bouldered beds.MENALCASFirst this frail hemlock-stalk to you I give,Which taught me "Corydon with love was firedFor fair Alexis," ay, and this beside,"Who owns the flock?– Meliboeus?"MOPSUSBut take youThis shepherd's crook, which, howso hard he begged,Antigenes, then worthy to be loved,Prevailed not to obtain- with brass, you see,And equal knots, Menalcas, fashioned fair!ECLOGUE VI
TO VARUS
First my Thalia stooped in sportive moodTo Syracusan strains, nor blushed withinThe woods to house her. When I sought to tellOf battles and of kings, the Cynthian godPlucked at mine ear and warned me: "Tityrus,Beseems a shepherd-wight to feed fat sheep,But sing a slender song." Now, Varus, I-For lack there will not who would laud thy deeds,And treat of dolorous wars- will rather tuneTo the slim oaten reed my silvan lay.I sing but as vouchsafed me; yet even thisIf, if but one with ravished eyes should read,Of thee, O Varus, shall our tamarisksAnd all the woodland ring; nor can there beA page more dear to Phoebus, than the pageWhere, foremost writ, the name of Varus stands.Speed ye, Pierian Maids! Within a caveYoung Chromis and Mnasyllos chanced to seeSilenus sleeping, flushed, as was his wont,With wine of yesterday. Not far aloof,Slipped from his head, the garlands lay, and thereBy its worn handle hung a ponderous cup.Approaching- for the old man many a timeHad balked them both of a long hoped-for song-Garlands to fetters turned, they bind him fast.Then Aegle, fairest of the Naiad-band,Aegle came up to the half-frightened boys,Came, and, as now with open eyes he lay,With juice of blood-red mulberries smeared him o'er,Both brow and temples. Laughing at their guile,And crying, "Why tie the fetters? loose me, boys;Enough for you to think you had the power;Now list the songs you wish for- songs for you,Another meed for her" -forthwith began.Then might you see the wild things of the wood,With Fauns in sportive frolic beat the time,And stubborn oaks their branchy summits bow.Not Phoebus doth the rude Parnassian cragSo ravish, nor Orpheus so entrance the heightsOf Rhodope or Ismarus: for he sangHow through the mighty void the seeds were drivenOf earth, air, ocean, and of liquid fire,How all that is from these beginnings grew,And the young world itself took solid shape,Then 'gan its crust to harden, and in the deepShut Nereus off, and mould the forms of thingsLittle by little; and how the earth amazedBeheld the new sun shining, and the showersFall, as the clouds soared higher, what time the woods'Gan first to rise, and living things to roamScattered among the hills that knew them not.Then sang he of the stones by Pyrrha cast,Of Saturn's reign, and of Prometheus' theft,And the Caucasian birds, and told withalNigh to what fountain by his comrades leftThe mariners cried on Hylas till the shore"Then Re-echoed "Hylas, Hylas! soothedPasiphae with the love of her white bull-Happy if cattle-kind had never been!-O ill-starred maid, what frenzy caught thy soulThe daughters too of Proetus filled the fieldsWith their feigned lowings, yet no one of themOf such unhallowed union e'er was fainAs with a beast to mate, though many a timeOn her smooth forehead she had sought for horns,And for her neck had feared the galling plough.O ill-starred maid! thou roamest now the hills,While on soft hyacinths he, his snowy sideReposing, under some dark ilex nowChews the pale herbage, or some heifer tracksAmid the crowding herd. Now close, ye Nymphs,Ye Nymphs of Dicte, close the forest-glades,If haply there may chance upon mine eyesThe white bull's wandering foot-prints: him belikeFollowing the herd, or by green pasture lured,Some kine may guide to the Gortynian stalls.Then sings he of the maid so wonder-struckWith the apples of the Hesperids, and thenWith moss-bound, bitter bark rings round the formsOf Phaethon's fair sisters, from the groundUp-towering into poplars. Next he singsOf Gallus wandering by Permessus' stream,And by a sister of the Muses ledTo the Aonian mountains, and how allThe choir of Phoebus rose to greet him; howThe shepherd Linus, singer of songs divine,Brow-bound with flowers and bitter parsley, spake:"These reeds the Muses give thee, take them thou,Erst to the aged bard of Ascra given,Wherewith in singing he was wont to drawTime-rooted ash-trees from the mountain heights.With these the birth of the Grynean groveBe voiced by thee, that of no grove besideApollo more may boast him." Wherefore speakOf Scylla, child of Nisus, who, 'tis said,Her fair white loins with barking monsters girtVexed the Dulichian ships, and, in the deepSwift-eddying whirlpool, with her sea-dogs toreThe trembling mariners? or how he toldOf the changed limbs of Tereus- what a feast,What gifts, to him by Philomel were given;How swift she sought the desert, with what wingsHovered in anguish o'er her ancient home?All that, of old, Eurotas, happy stream,Heard, as Apollo mused upon the lyre,And bade his laurels learn, Silenus sang;Till from Olympus, loth at his approach,Vesper, advancing, bade the shepherds tellTheir tale of sheep, and pen them in the fold.