The Eclogues

whom those lands were assigned by the emperor, in reward of his service against Brutus and Cassius. This Pastoral therefore is filled with complaints of his hard usage; and the persons introduced are the bailiff of Virgil, Moeris, and his friend Lycidas.

Lycidas	Ho, Moeris! whither on thy way so fast? This leads to town.
Moeris	O Lycidas! at last The time is come I never thought to see, (Strange revolution for my farm and me) When the grim captain in a surly tone Cries out, “Pack up, ye rascals, and be gone.” Kicked out, we set the best face on’t we could; And these two kids, to appease his angry mood, I bear⁠—of which the Furies give him good!
Lycidas	Your country friends were told another tale⁠— That, from the sloping mountain to the vale And doddered oak, and all the banks along, Menalcas saved his fortune with a song.
Moeris	Such was the news, indeed; but songs and rhymes Prevail as much in these hard iron times, As would a plump of trembling fowl, that rise Against an eagle sousing from the skies. And, had not Phoebus warned me, by the croak Of an old raven, from a hollow oak, To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain, And Moeris not survived him, to complain.
Lycidas	Now heaven defend! could barbarous rage induce The brutal son of Mars to insult the sacred muse? Who then should sing the nymphs? or who rehearse The waters gliding in a smoother verse! Or Amaryllis praise that heavenly lay, That shortened, as we went, our tedious way⁠— “O Tityrus! tend my herd, and see them fed; To morning pastures, evening waters, led; And ’ware the Libyan ridgils butting head.”
Moeris	Or what unfinished he to Varus read⁠— “Thy name, O Varus! (if the kinder powers Preserve our plains, and shield the Mantuan towers, Obnoxious by Cremona’s neighbouring crime), The wings of swans, and stronger-pinioned rhyme, Shall raise aloft, and soaring bear above⁠— The immortal gift of gratitude to Jove.”
Lycidas	Sing on, sing on: for I can ne’er be cloyed. So may thy swarms the baleful yew avoid: So may thy cows their burdened bags distend, And trees to goats their willing branches bend. Mean as I am, yet have the muses made Me free, a member of the tuneful trade: At least the shepherds seem to like my lays, But I discern their flattery from their praise: I nor to Cinna’s ears, nor Varus’, dare aspire, But gabble, like a goose, amidst the swan-like choir.
Moeris	’Tis what I have been conning in my mind; Nor are they verses of a vulgar kind. “Come, Galatea! come! the seas forsake! What pleasures can the tides with their hoarse murmurs make? See, on the shore inhabits purple spring; Where nightingales their love-sick ditty sing: See, meads with purling streams, with flowers the ground The grottoes cool, with shady poplars crowned, And creeping vines on arbours weaved around. Come then, and leave the waves’ tumultuous roar; Let the wild surges vainly beat the shore.”
Lycidas	Or that sweet song I heard with such delight; The same you sung alone one starry night. The tune I still retain, but not the words.
Moeris	“Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old records, To know the seasons when the stars arise? See Caesar’s lamp is lighted in the skies⁠— The star, whose rays the blushing grapes adorn, And swell the kindly ripening ears of corn. Under this influence, graft the tender shoot; Thy children’s children shall enjoy the fruit.” The rest I have forgot; for cares and time Change all things, and untune my soul to rhyme. I could have once sung down a summer’s sun: But now the chime of poetry is done: My voice grows hoarse; I feel the notes decay, As if the wolves had seen me first to-day. But these, and more than I to mind can bring, Menalcas has not yet forgot to sing.
Lycidas	Thy faint excuses but inflame me more: And now the waves roll silent to the shore; Hushed winds the topmost branches scarcely bend, As if thy tuneful song they did attend: Already we have half our way o’ercome; Far off I can discern Bianor’s tomb. Here, where the labourers’ hands have formed a bower Of wreathing trees, in singing waste an hour. Rest here thy weary limbs; thy kids lay down; We’ve day before us yet, to reach the town; Or if, ere night, the gathering clouds we fear, A song will help, the beating storm to bear. And, that thou may’st not be too late abroad, Sing, and I’ll ease thy shoulders of thy load.
Moeris	Cease to request me; let us mind our way: Another song requires another day. When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice, And find a friend at court, I’ll find a voice.

Pastoral X

Gallus

Gallus, a great patron of Virgil, and an excellent poet, was very deeply in love with one Citheris, whom he calls Lycoris, and who had forsaken him for the company of a soldier. The poet therefore supposes his friend Gallus retired, in his height of melancholy, into the solitudes of Arcadia (the celebrated scene of pastorals), where he represents him in a very languishing condition, with all the rural deities about him, pitying his hard usage, and condoling his misfortune.

Thy sacred succour, Arethusa, bring,
To crown my labour (’tis the last I sing),
Which proud Lycoris may with pity view:
The muse is mournful, though the numbers few.
Refuse me not a verse, to grief and Gallus due.
So may thy silver streams beneath the tide,
Unmixed with briny seas, securely glide.
Sing then my Gallus, and his hopeless vows;
Sing while my cattle crop the tender browse.
The vocal grove shall answer to the sound,
And echo, from the vales, the tuneful voice rebound.

What lawns or woods withheld you from his aid,
Ye nymphs, when Gallus was to love betrayed,
To love, unpitied by the cruel maid?
Not steepy Pindus could retard your course,
Nor cleft Parnassus, nor the Aonian source:
Nothing that owns the muses, could suspend
Your aid to Gallus:⁠—Gallus is their friend.
For him the lofty laurel stands in tears,
And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears.
Maenalian pines the godlike swain bemoan,
When spread beneath a rock, he sighed alone;
And cold Lycaeus wept from every dropping stone.
The sheep surround their shepherd, as he lies:
Blush not, sweet poet, nor the name despise:
Along the streams, his flock Adonis fed;
And yet the queen of beauty blest his bed.
The swains and