The Eclogues

Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse. Round the wide world in banishment we roam, Forced from our pleasing fields and native home; While, stretched at ease, you sing your happy loves, And Amaryllis fills the shady groves.

Tityrus

These blessings, friend, a deity bestowed: For never can I deem him less than god. The tender firstlings of my woolly breed Shall on his holy altar often bleed. He gave my kine to graze the flowery plain, And to my pipe renewed the rural strain.

Meliboeus

I envy not your fortune, but admire, That, while the raging sword and wasteful fire Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around, No hostile arms approach your happy ground. Far different is my fate: my feeble goats With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes. And this, you see, I scarcely drag along, Who, yeaning, on the rocks has left her young; The hope and promise of my failing fold. My loss, by dire portents, the gods foretold; For, had I not been blind, I might have seen:⁠— Yon riven oak, the fairest of the green, And the hoarse raven, on the blasted bough, By croaking from the left, presaged the coming blow. But tell me, Tityrus, what heavenly power Preserved your fortunes in that fatal hour?

Tityrus

Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome Like Mantua, where on market-days we come, And thither drive our tender lambs from home.

Young Corydon, the unhappy shepherd swain, The fair Alexis loved, but loved in vain; And underneath the beechen shade, alone, Thus to the woods and mountains made his moan: Is this, unkind Alexis, my reward? And must I die unpitied, and unheard? Now the green lizard in the grove is laid; The sheep enjoy the coolness of the shade: And Thestylis wild thyme and garlic beats, For harvest hinds, o’erspent with toil and heats; While in the scorching sun I trace in vain Thy flying footsteps o’er the burning plain. The creaking locusts with my voice conspire, They fried with heat, and I with fierce desire. How much more easy was it to sustain Proud Amaryllis, and her haughty reign; The scorns of young Menalcas, once my care, Though he was black, and thou art heavenly fair! Trust not too much to that enchanting face: Beauty’s a charm; but soon the charm will pass. White lilies lie neglected on the plain, While dusky hyacinths for use remain. My passion is thy scorn; nor wilt thou know What wealth I have, what gifts I can bestow; What stores my dairies and my folds contain⁠— A thousand lambs that wander on the plain, New milk that, all the winter, never fails, And, all the summer, overflows the pails. Amphion sung not sweeter to his herd, When summoned stones the Theban turrets reared. Nor am I so deformed; for late I stood Upon the margin of the briny flood: The winds were still; and, if the glass be true, With Daphnis I may vie, though judged by you.

Sicilian muse, begin a loftier strain! Though lowly shrubs, and trees that shade the plain, Delight not all; Sicilian muse, prepare To make the vocal woods deserve a consul’s care. The last great age, foretold by sacred rhymes, Renews its finished course: Saturnian times Roll round again; and mighty years, begun From their first orb, in radiant circles run. The base degenerate iron offspring ends: A golden progeny from heaven descends. O chaste Lucina! speed the mother’s pains; And haste the glorious birth! thy own Apollo reigns! The lovely boy, with his auspicious face, Shall Pollio’s consulship and triumph grace: Majestic months set out with him to their appointed race. The father banished virtue shall restore; And crimes shall threat the guilty world no more. The son shall lead the life of gods, and be By gods and heroes seen, and gods and heroes see. The jarring nations he in peace shall bind, And with paternal virtues rule mankind. Unbidden earth shall wreathing ivy bring, And fragrant herbs (the promises of spring), As her first offerings to her infant king. The goats with strutting dugs shall homeward speed, And lowing herds secure from lions, feed. His cradle shall with rising flowers be crowned: The serpent’s brood shall die; the sacred ground Shall weeds and poisonous plants refuse to bear; Each common bush shall Syrian roses wear. But when heroic verse his youth shall raise, And form it to hereditary praise, Unlaboured harvests shall the fields adorn, And clustered grapes

Silenus acts as tutor, Chromis and Mnasylus as the two pupils.

I first transferred to Rome Sicilian strains: Nor blushed the Doric Muse to dwell on Mantuan plains. But when I tried her tender voice, too young, And fighting kings and bloody battles sung, Apollo checked my pride, and bade me feed My fattening flocks, nor dare beyond the reed. Admonished thus, while every pen prepares To write thy praises, Varus, and thy wars, My pastoral muse her humble tribute brings; And yet not wholly uninspired she sings; For all who read, and, reading, not disdain These rural poems, and their lowly strain, The name of Varus oft inscribed shall see In every grove, and every vocal tree; And all the sylvan reign shall sing of thee: Thy name, to Phoebus and the muses known, Shall in the front of every page be shown; For he who sings thy praise secures his own. Proceed, my muse!⁠—Two satyrs, on the ground, Stretched at his ease, their sire Silenus found, Dosed with his fumes, and heavy with his load, They found him snoring in his dark abode, And seized with youthful arms the drunken god. His rosy wreath was dropt not long before, Borne by the tide of wine, and floating on the floor. His empty can, with ears half worn away, Was hung on high, to boast the triumph of the day. Invaded thus, for want of better bands, His garland they unstring, and bind his hands: For, by the fraudful god deluded long, They now resolve to have their promised song.

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 staring upwards, thus inveighed Against the conscious gods, and cursed the cruel maid: “Star of the morning, why dost thou delay? Come, Lucifer, drive on the lagging day, While I my Nisa’s perjured faith deplore⁠— Witness, ye powers, by whom she falsely swore! The gods, alas! are witnesses in vain: Yet shall my dying breath to heaven complain. Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Maenalian strain.

“The pines of Maenalus, the vocal grove, Are ever full of verse, and full of love; They hear the hinds, they hear their god complain, Who suffered not the reeds to rise in vain. Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Maenalian strain.

“Mopsus triumphs: he weds the willing fair! When such is Nisa’s choice, what lover can despair? Now griffons join with mares; another age Shall see the hound and hind their thirst assuage, Promiscuous at the spring. Prepare the lights, O Mopsus! and perform the bridal rites. Scatter thy nuts among the scrambling boys: Thine is the night, and thine the nuptial joys. For thee the sun declines: O happy swain! Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Maenalian strain.

“O, Nisa! justly to thy choice condemned! Whom hast thou taken, whom hast thou contemned? For him thou hast refused my browsing herd, Scorned my thick eyebrows, and my shaggy beard.