The Bucolics and Eclogues

Part 1

37 BC

THE ECLOGUES

by Virgil

ECLOGUE I

MELIBOEUS TITYRUS

MELIBOEUS 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.

TITYRUS 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.

MELIBOEUS 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.

TITYRUS 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.

MELIBOEUS And what so potent cause took you to Rome?

TITYRUS 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.

MELIBOEUS 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.

TITYRUS 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."

MELIBOEUS 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.

TITYRUS 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.

MELIBOEUS 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.

TITYRUS 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!

ECLOGUE II

ALEXIS

The shepherd Corydon with love was fired For fair Alexis, his own master's joy: No room for hope had he, yet, none the less, The thick-leaved shadowy-soaring beech-tree grove Still 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 shade And 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 disdain Of 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 am Care not to ask- how rich in flocks, or how In snow-white milk abounding: yet for me Roam 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 home On Attic Aracynthus. Nor am I So ill to look on: lately on the beach I saw myself, when winds had stilled the sea, And, if that mirror lie not, would not fear Daphnis 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-wand Round up the straggling flock! There you with me In 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 rough Your dainty lip; such arts as these to learn What did Amyntas do?- what did he not? A pipe have I, of hemlock-stalks compact In 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 find In a steep glen, with coats white-dappled still, From a sheep's udders suckled twice a day- These still I keep for you; which Thestilis Implores me oft to let her lead away; And she shall have them, since my gifts you spurn. Come hither, beauteous boy; for you the Nymphs Bring baskets, see, with lilies brimmed; for you, Plucking pale violets and poppy-heads, Now the fair Naiad, of narcissus flower And fragrant fennel, doth one posy twine- With cassia then, and other scented herbs, Blends them, and sets the tender hyacinth off With yellow marigold. I too will pick Quinces all silvered-o'er with hoary down, Chestnuts, which Amaryllis wont to love, And waxen plums withal: this fruit no less Shall have its meed of honour; and I will pluck You too, ye laurels, and you, ye myrtles, near, For so your sweets ye mingle. Corydon, You are a boor, nor heeds a whit your gifts Alexis; 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 herself In wanton sport the flowering cytisus, And Corydon Alexis, each led on By their own longing. See, the ox comes home With plough up-tilted, and the shadows grow To 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 requires Of pliant rush or osier? Scorned by this, Elsewhere some new Alexis you will find."

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