LYCIDASSay whither, Moeris?- Make you for the town,Or on what errand bent?
MOERIS
O Lycidas,We have lived to see, what never yet we feared,An interloper own our little farm,And say, "Be off, you former husbandmen!These fields are mine." Now, cowed and out of heart,Since Fortune turns the whole world upside down,We are taking him- ill luck go with the same!-'These kids you see.
LYCIDAS
But surely I had heardThat where the hills first draw from off the plain,And the high ridge with gentle slope descends,Down to the brook-side and the broken crestsOf yonder veteran beeches, all the landWas by the songs of your Menalcas saved.
MOERISHeard it you had, and so the rumour ran,But 'mid the clash of arms, my Lycidas,Our songs avail no more than, as 'tis said,Doves of Dodona when an eagle comes.Nay, had I not, from hollow ilex-boleWarned by a raven on the left, cut shortThe rising feud, nor I, your Moeris here,No, nor Menalcas, were alive to-day.
LYCIDASAlack! could any of so foul a crimeBe 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 dayTo 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."
MOERISAy, 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."
LYCIDASSo may your swarms Cyrnean yew-trees shun,Your kine with cytisus their udders swell,Begin, if aught you have. The Muses madeMe too a singer; I too have sung; the swainsCall me a poet, but I believe them not:For naught of mine, or worthy Varius yetOr Cinna deem I, but account myselfA cackling goose among melodious swans.
MOERIS'Twas in my thought to do so, Lycidas;Even now was I revolving silentlyIf this I could recall- no paltry song:"Come, Galatea, what pleasure is 't to playAmid the waves? Here glows the Spring, here earthBeside 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."
LYCIDASWhat of the strain I heard you singing onceOn a clear night alone? the notes I stillRemember, could I but recall the words.
MOERIS"Why, Daphnis, upward gazing, do you markThe ancient risings of the Signs? for lookWhere Dionean Caesar's star comes forthIn heaven, to gladden all the fields with corn,And to the grape upon the sunny slopesHer 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 wishMenalcas will repeat them oft enow.
LYCIDASYour 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 tombBegins to show: here, Moeris, where the hindsAre 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 rainEre we arrive, then singing let us go,Our way to lighten; and, that we may thusGo singing, I will case you of this load.
MOERISCease, 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 ISing a brief song to Gallus- brief, but yetSuch as Lycoris' self may fitly read.Who would not sing for Gallus? So, when thouBeneath 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 oursBut the woods echo it. What groves or lawnsHeld you, ye Dryad-maidens, when for love-Love all unworthy of a loss so dear-Gallus lay dying? for neither did the slopesOf Pindus or Parnassus stay you then,No, nor Aonian Aganippe. HimEven the laurels and the tamarisks wept;For him, outstretched beneath a lonely rock,Wept pine-clad Maenalus, and the flinty cragsOf cold Lycaeus. The sheep too stood around-Of us they feel no shame, poet divine;Nor of the flock be thou ashamed: even fairAdonis by the rivers fed his sheep-Came shepherd too, and swine-herd footing slow,And, from the winter-acorns dripping-wetMenalcas. All with one accord exclaim:"From whence this love of thine?" Apollo came;"Gallus, art mad?" he cried, "thy bosom's careAnother love is following."TherewithalSilvanus came, with rural honours crowned;The flowering fennels and tall lilies shookBefore him. Yea, and our own eyes beheldPan, god of Arcady, with blood-red juiceOf the elder-berry, and with vermilion, dyed."Wilt ever make an end?" quoth he, "beholdLove recks not aught of it: his heart no moreWith tears is sated than with streams the grass,Bees with the cytisus, or goats with leaves.""Yet will ye sing, Arcadians, of my woesUpon your mountains," sadly he replied-"Arcadians, that alone have skill to sing.O then how softly would my ashes rest,If of my love, one day, your flutes should tell!And would that I, of your own fellowship,Or dresser of the ripening grape had been,Or guardian of the flock! for surely then,Let Phyllis, or Amyntas, or who else,Bewitch me- what if swart Amyntas be?Dark is the violet, dark the hyacinth-Among the willows, 'neath the limber vine,Reclining would my love have lain with me,Phyllis plucked garlands, or Amyntas sung.Here are cool springs, soft mead and grove, Lycoris;Here might our lives with time have worn away.But me mad love of the stern war-god holdsArmed amid weapons and opposing foes.Whilst thou- Ah! might I but believe it not!-Alone without me, and from home afar,Look'st upon Alpine snows and frozen Rhine.Ah! may the frost not hurt thee, may the sharpAnd jagged ice not wound thy tender feet!I will depart, re-tune the songs I framedIn verse Chalcidian to the oaten reedOf the Sicilian swain. Resolved am IIn the woods, rather, with wild beasts to couch,And bear my doom, and character my loveUpon the tender tree-trunks: they will grow,And you, my love, grow with them. And meanwhileI with the Nymphs will haunt Mount Maenalus,Or hunt the keen wild boar. No frost so coldBut I will hem with hounds thy forest-glades,Parthenius. Even now, methinks, I rangeO'er rocks, through echoing groves, and joy to launchCydonian arrows from a Parthian bow.-As if my madness could find healing thus,Or that god soften at a mortal's grief!Now neither Hamadryads, no, nor songsDelight me more: ye woods, away with you!No pangs of ours can change him; not though weIn the mid-frost should drink of Hebrus' stream,And in wet winters face Sithonian snows,Or, when the bark of the tall elm-tree boleOf drought is dying, should, under Cancer's Sign,In Aethiopian deserts drive our flocks.Love conquers all things; yield we too to love!"
These songs, Pierian Maids, shall it sufficeYour poet to have sung, the while he sat,And of slim mallow wove a basket fine:To Gallus ye will magnify their worth,Gallus, for whom my love grows hour by hour,As the green alder shoots in early Spring.Come, let us rise: the shade is wont to beBaneful to singers; baneful is the shadeCast by the juniper, crops sicken tooIn shade. Now homeward, having fed your fill--Eve's star is rising-go, my she-goats, go.