The Eclogues quotes

who afterwards recovered his estate by Maecenas’s intercession, and, as an instance of his gratitude, composed the following Pastoral, where he sets out his own good fortune in the person of Tityrus, and the calamities of his Mantuan neighbours in the character of Meliboeus.

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.

Or shall we mount again the rural throne, And rule the country kingdoms, once our own? Did we for these barbarians plant and sow? On these, on these, our happy fields bestow?

Good heaven! what dire effects from civil discord flow!

Now let me graff my pears, and prune the vine; The fruit is theirs, the labour only, mine. Farewell, my pastures, my paternal stock, My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock!

Did we for these barbarians plant and sow? On these, on these, our happy fields bestow? Good heaven! what dire effects from civil discord flow! Now let me graff my pears, and prune the vine;

The fruit is theirs, the labour only, mine.

Farewell, my pastures, my paternal stock, My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock! No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb The steepy cliffs, or crop the flowery thyme!

Ah, cruel creature! whom dost thou despise? The gods, to live in woods, have left the skies: And godlike Paris, in the Idaean grove, To Priam’s wealth preferred Oenone’s love. In cities, which she built, let Pallas reign;

Towers are for gods, but forests for the swain.

The greedy lioness the wolf pursues, The wolf the kid, the wanton kid the browse; Alexis thou art chased by Corydon: All follow several games, and each his own. See, from afar the fields no longer smoke;

In cities, which she built, let Pallas reign; Towers are for gods, but forests for the swain. The greedy lioness the wolf pursues, The wolf the kid, the wanton kid the browse; Alexis thou art chased by Corydon:

All follow several games, and each his own.

See, from afar the fields no longer smoke; The sweating steers, unharnassed from the yoke, Bring, as in triumph, back the crooked plough; The shadows lengthen as the sun goes low; Cool breezes now the raging heats remove; Ah!

See, from afar the fields no longer smoke; The sweating steers, unharnassed from the yoke, Bring, as in triumph, back the crooked plough; The shadows lengthen as the sun goes low; Cool breezes now the raging heats remove;

Ah! cruel heaven, that made no cure for love!

I wish for balmy sleep, but wish in vain: Love has no bounds in pleasure, or in pain. What frenzy, shepherd, has thy soul possessed? Thy vineyard lies half-pruned, and half-undressed. Quench, Corydon, thy long-unanswered fire, Mind what the common wants of life require:

The shadows lengthen as the sun goes low; Cool breezes now the raging heats remove; Ah! cruel heaven, that made no cure for love! I wish for balmy sleep, but wish in vain:

Love has no bounds in pleasure, or in pain.

What frenzy, shepherd, has thy soul possessed? Thy vineyard lies half-pruned, and half-undressed. Quench, Corydon, thy long-unanswered fire, Mind what the common wants of life require: On willow twigs employ thy weaving care; And find an easier love, though not so fair.

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;

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;

The nightly wolf is baneful to the fold, Storms to the wheat, to buds the bitter cold;

But, from my frowning fair, more ills I find, Than from the wolves, and storms, and winter wind.

The kids with pleasure browse the bushy plain; The showers are grateful to the swelling grain; To teeming ewes the sallow’s tender tree; But, more than all the world, my love to me.

the vales his voice rebound, And carry to the skies the sacred sound. And now the setting sun had warned the swain To call his counted cattle from the plain; Yet still the unwearied sire pursues the tuneful strain,

Till, unperceived, the heavens with stars were hung, And sudden night surprised the yet unfinished song.

“I viewed thee first (how fatal was the view!) And led thee where the ruddy wildings grew, High on the planted hedge, and wet with morning dew. Then scarce the bending branches I could win; The callow down began to clothe my chin.

I saw; I perished; yet indulged my pain.

Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Maenalian strain.

Let oaks now glitter with Hesperian fruit, And purple daffodils from alder shoot; Fat amber let the tamarisk distill, And hooting owls contend with swans in skill; Hoarse Tityrus strive with Orpheus in the woods, And challenge famed Arion on the floods.

Or, oh! let nature cease, and chaos reign!

Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Maenalian strain.

“Pale Phoebe, drawn by verse, from heaven descends; And Circe changed with charms Ulysses’ friends. Verse breaks the ground, and penetrates the brake, And in the winding cavern splits the snake.

Verse fires the frozen veins.

Restore, my charms, My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms.

“As fire this figure hardens, made of clay, And this of wax with fire consumes away; Such let the soul of cruel Daphnis be—

Hard to the rest of women, soft to me.

Crumble the sacred mole of salt and corn: Next in the fire the bays with brimstone burn And, while it crackles in the sulphur, say, ‘This I for Daphnis burn; thus Daphnis burn away! This laurel is his fate.’

“See, while my last endeavours I delay, The waking ashes rise, and round our altars play! Run to the threshold, Amaryllis—hark! Our Hylax opens, and begins to bark.

Good heaven! may lovers what they wish believe? Or dream their wishes, and those dreams deceive?

No more! my Daphnis comes! no more, my charms! He comes, he runs, he leaps to my desiring arms.”

(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.”

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:

Silvanus came: his brows a country crown Of fennel, and of nodding lilies, drown. Great Pan arrived; and we beheld him too, His cheeks and temples of vermilion hue. “Why, Gallus, this immoderate grief? (he cried)

Think’st thou that love with tears is satisfied?

The meads are sooner drunk with morning dews, The bees with flowery shrubs, the goats with browse.” Unmoved, and with dejected eyes, he mourned: He paused, and then these broken words returned: “ ’Tis past; and pity gives me no relief:

Ah! that your birth and business had been mine— To pen the sheep, and press the swelling vine! Had Phyllis or Amyntas caused my pain, Or any nymph or shepherd on the plain, (Though Phyllis brown, though black, Amyntas were,

Are violets not sweet, because not fair?

) Beneath the sallows and the shady vine, My loves had mixed their pliant limbs with mine: Phyllis with myrtle wreaths had crowned my hair, And soft Amyntas sung away my care. Come, see what pleasures in our plains abound;

Love alters not for us his hard decrees, Not though beneath the Thracian clime we freeze, Or Italy’s indulgent heaven forgo, And in mid-winter tread Sithonian snow; Or, when the barks of elms are scorched, we keep On Meroë’s burning plains the Libyan sheep.

In hell, and earth, and seas, and heaven above, Love conquers all; and we must yield to Love.

My muses, here your sacred raptures end: The verse was what I owed my suffering friend. This while I sung, my sorrows I deceived, And bending osiers into baskets weaved. The song, because inspired by you, shall shine;