The Bucolics and Eclogues. Virgil

      You, Tityrus, 'neath a broad beech-canopy

      Reclining, on the slender oat rehearse

      Your silvan ditties: I from my sweet fields,

      And home's familiar bounds, even now depart.

      Exiled from home am I; while, Tityrus, you

      Sit careless in the shade, and, at your call,

      "Fair Amaryllis" bid the woods resound.

      O Meliboeus, 'twas a god vouchsafed

      This ease to us, for him a god will I

      Deem ever, and from my folds a tender lamb

      Oft 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 myself

      Play on my shepherd's pipe what songs I will.

      I 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 now

      She 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 too

      From hollow trunk the raven's ominous cry.

      But who this god of yours? Come, Tityrus, tell.

      The city, Meliboeus, they call Rome,

      I, simpleton, deemed like this town of ours,

      Whereto we shepherds oft are wont to drive

      The younglings of the flock: so too I knew

      Whelps to resemble dogs, and kids their dams,

      Comparing small with great; but this as far

      Above all other cities rears her head

      As cypress above pliant osier towers.

      And what so potent cause took you to Rome?

      Freedom, which, though belated, cast at length

      Her 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 had

      No 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.

      I used to wonder, Amaryllis, why

      You cried to heaven so sadly, and for whom

      You 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.

      What could I do? how else from bonds be freed,

      Or otherwhere find gods so nigh to aid?

      There, Meliboeus, I saw that youth to whom

      Yearly for twice six days my altars smoke.

      There instant answer gave he to my suit,

      "Feed, as before, your kine, boys, rear your bulls."

      So in old age, you happy man, your fields

      Will still be yours, and ample for your need!

      Though, with bare stones o'erspread, the pastures all

      Be choked with rushy mire, your ewes with young

      By no strange fodder will be tried, nor hurt

      Through taint contagious of a neighbouring flock.

      Happy old man, who 'mid familiar streams

      And 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 rock

      Uplifts his song, nor cease their cooings hoarse

      The wood-pigeons that are your heart's delight,

      Nor doves their moaning in the elm-tree top.

      Sooner 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.

      But 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 behold

      My native bounds- see many a harvest hence

      With ravished eyes the lowly turf-roofed cot

      Where I was king? These fallows, trimmed so fair,

      Some brutal soldier will possess these fields

      An alien master. Ah! to what a pass

      Has civil discord brought our hapless folk!

      For such as these, then, were our furrows sown!

      Now, Meliboeus, graft your pears, now set

      Your vines in order! Go, once happy flock,

      My she-goats, go. Never again shall I,

      Stretched in green cave, behold you from afar

      Hang from the bushy rock; my songs are sung;

      Never again will you, with me to tend,

      On clover-flower, or bitter willows, browse.

      Yet 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!

      The shepherd Corydon with love was fired

      For fair

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