The Eclogues

besides the Delphian god
Had taught the laurels, and the Spartan flood,
Silenus sung: the vales his voice rebound,
And carry to the skies the sacred sound.
And now the setting sun had warned the swain
To call his counted cattle from the plain;
Yet still the unwearied sire pursues the tuneful strain,
Till, unperceived, the heavens with stars were hung,
And sudden night surprised the yet unfinished song.

Pastoral VII

Meliboeus

Meliboeus. Corydon. Thyrsis

Meliboeus here gives us the relation of a sharp poetical contest between Thyrsis and Corydon, at which he himself and Daphnis were present; who both declared for Corydon.

Meliboeus	Beneath a holm, repaired two jolly swains (Their sheep and goats together grazed the plains), Both young Arcadians, both alike inspired To sing, and answer as the song required. Daphnis, as umpire, took the middle seat; And fortune thither led my weary feet. For, while I fenced my myrtles from the cold, The father of my flock had wandered from the fold. Of Daphnis I enquired: he smiling said, “Dismiss your fear,” and pointed where he fed: “And, if no greater cares disturb your mind, Sit here with us, in covert of the wind. Your lowing heifers, of their own accord, At watering time will seek the neighbouring ford. Here wanton Mincius winds along the meads, And shades his happy banks with bending reeds. And see, from yon old oak that mates the skies, How black the clouds of swarming bees arise.” What should I do? nor was Alcippe nigh, Nor absent Phillis could my care supply, To house, and feed by hand, my weaning lambs, And drain the strutting udders of their dams. Great was the strife betwixt the singing swains: And I preferred my pleasure to my gains. Alternate rhyme the ready champions chose: These Corydon rehearsed and Thyrsis those.
Corydon	Ye muses, ever fair, and ever young, Assist my numbers, and inspire my song. With all my Codrus, O! inspire my breast: For Codrus, after Phoebus, sings the best. Or, if my wishes have presumed too high, And stretched their bounds beyond mortality, The praise of artful numbers I resign, And hang my pipe upon the sacred pine.
Thyrsis	Arcadian swains, your youthful poet crown With ivy-wreaths; though surly Codrus frown. Or, if he blast my muse with envious praise, Then fence my brows with amulets of bays, Lest his ill arts or his malicious tongue Should poison or bewitch my growing song.
Corydon	These branches of a stag, this tusky boar (The first essay of arms untried before), Young Micon offers, Delia, to thy shrine. But speed his hunting with thy power divine; Thy statue then of Parian stone shall stand; Thy legs in buskins with a purple band.
Thyrsis	This bowl of milk, these cakes (our country fare), For thee, Priapus, yearly we prepare, Because a little garden is thy care. But if the falling lambs increase my fold, Thy marble statue shall be turned to gold.
Corydon	Fair Galatea, with thy silver feet, O, whiter than the swan, and more than Hybla sweet! Tall as a poplar, taper as the bole! Come, charm thy shepherd, and restore my soul Come, when my lated sheep at night return; And crown the silent hours, and stop the rosy morn.
Thyrsis	May I become as abject in thy sight, As sea-weed on the shore, and black as night; Rough as a burr, deformed like him who chaws Sardinian herbage to contract his jaws; Such and so monstrous let thy swain appear, If one day’s absence looks not like a year. Hence from the field, for shame! the flock deserves No better feeding, while the shepherd starves.
Corydon	Ye mossy springs, inviting easy sleep, Ye trees whose leafy shades those mossy fountains keep, Defend my flock! The summer heats are near, And blossoms on the swelling vines appear.
Thyrsis	With heapy fires our cheerful hearth is crowned; And firs for torches in the woods abound: We fear not more the winds, and wintry cold, Than streams the banks, or wolves the bleating fold.
Corydon	Our woods with juniper and chesnuts crowned, With falling fruits and berries paint the ground; And lavish nature laughs, and strews her stores around. But, if Alexis from our mountains fly, E’en running rivers leave their channels dry.
Thyrsis	Parched are the plains, and frying is the field, Nor withering vines their juicy vintage yield. But, if returning Phyllis bless the plain, The grass revives; the woods are green again; And Jove descends in showers of kindly rain.
Corydon	The poplar is by great Alcides worn; The brows of Phoebus his own bays adorn; The branching vine the jolly Bacchus loves; The Cyprian queen delights in myrtle groves; With hazel Phyllis crowns her flowing hair; And, while she loves that common wreath to wear, Nor bays, nor myrtle boughs, with hazel shall compare.
Thyrsis	The towering ash is fairest in the woods, In gardens pines, and poplars by the floods; But, if my Lycidas will ease my pains, And often visit our forsaken plains, To him the towering ash shall yield in woods, In gardens pines, and poplars by the floods.
Meliboeus	The rhymes I did to memory commend, When vanquished Thyrsis did in vain contend; Since when, ’tis Corydon among the swains; Young Corydon without a rival reigns.

Pastoral VIII

Pharmaceutria

This Pastoral contains the songs of Damon and Alphesiboeus. The first of them bewails the loss of his mistress, and repines at the success of his rival Mopsus. The other repeats the charms of some enchantress, who endeavoured by her spells and magic to make Daphnis in love with her.

The mournful muse of two despairing swains,
The love rejected, and the lover’s pains;
To which the savage Lynxes listening stood;
The rivers stood on heaps, and stopped the running flood;
The hungry herd their needful food refuse⁠—
Of two despairing swains, I sing the mournful muse.

Great Pollio! thou, for whom thy Rome prepares
The ready triumph of thy finished wars,
Whether Timavus or the Illyrian coast,
Whatever land or sea thy presence boast:
Is there an hour in fate reserved for me,
To sing thy deeds in numbers worthy thee?
In numbers like to thine, could I rehearse
Thy lofty tragic scenes, thy laboured verse;
The world another Sophocles in thee,
Another Homer should behold in me.
Amidst thy laurels let this ivy twine:
Thine was my earliest muse; my latest shall be thine.

Scarce from our upper world the shades withdrew,
Scarce were the flocks refreshed with morning dew,
When Damon, stretched beneath an olive shade,
And wildly