[1] In this eighth pastoral no particular scene is described. The poet rehearses the songs of two contending swains, Damon and Alphesibœus. The former adopts the soliloquy of a despairing lover: the latter chooses for his subject the magic rites of an enchantress forsaken by her lover, and recalling him by the power of her spells.

[2] A river in Italy.

[3] This intercalary line (as it is called by the commentators) which seems to be intended as a chorus or burden to the song, is here made the last of a triplet, that it may be as independent of the context and the verse in the translation as it is in the original.—Mænalus was a mountain of Arcadia.

[4] Medea.

[5] This seems to be Virgil's meaning. The translator did not choose to preserve the conceit on the words puer and mater in his version; as this (in his opinion) would have rendered the passage obscure and unpleasing to an English reader.

[6] See Hom. Odyss. Lib. X.

PASTORAL IX.[1]

LYCIDAS, MŒRIS.

LYCIDAS.
Go you to town, my friend? this beaten way
 Conducts us thither.
MŒRIS.
Ah! the fatal day,
 The unexpected day at last is come,
 When a rude alien drives us from our home.
 Hence, hence, ye clowns, th' usurper thus commands,
 To me you must resign your ancient lands.
 Thus helpless and forlorn we yield to fate;
 And our rapacious lord to mitigate
 This brace of kids a present I design,
 Which load with curses, O ye powers divine!
LYCIDAS.
'Twas said, Menalcas with his tuneful strains
 Had sav'd the grounds of all the neighbouring swains,
 From where the hill, that terminates the vale,
 In easy risings first begins to swell,
 Far as the blasted beech that mates the sky,
 And the clear stream that gently murmurs by.
MŒRIS.
Such was the voice of fame; but music's charms,
 Amid the dreadful clang of warlike arms,
 Avail no more, than the Chaonian dove
 When down the sky descends the bird of Jove.
 And had not the prophetic raven spoke
 His dire presages from the hollow oak,
 And often warn'd me to avoid debate,
 And with a patient mind submit to fate,
 Ne'er had thy Mœris seen this fatal hour,
 And that melodious swain had been no more.
LYCIDAS.
What horrid breasts such impious thoughts could breed!
 What barbarous hand could make Menalcas bleed!
 Could every tender Muse in him destroy,
 And from the shepherds ravish all their joy!
 For who but he the lovely nymphs could sing,
 Or paint the valleys with the purple spring?
 Who shade the fountains from the glare of day?
 Who but Menalcas could compose the lay,
 Which, as we journey'd to my love's abode,
 I softly sung to cheer the lonely road?
 "Tityrus, while I am absent, feed the flock,[2]
 And, having fed, conduct them to the brook,
 (The way is short, and I shall soon return)
 But shun the he-goat with the butting horn."
MŒRIS.
Or who could finish the imperfect lays
 Sung by Menalcas to his Varus' praise?
 "If fortune yet shall spare the Mantuan swains,
 And save from plundering hands our peaceful plains,
 Nor doom us sad Cremona's fate to share,
 (For ah! a neighbour's woe excites our fear)
 Then high as Heaven our Varus' fame shall rise,
 The warbling swans shall bear it to the skies."
LYCIDAS.
Go on, dear swain, these pleasing songs pursue;
 So may thy bees avoid the bitter yew,
 So may rich herds thy fruitful fields adorn,
 So may thy cows with strutting dugs return.
 Even I with poets have obtain'd a name,
 The Muse inspires me with poetic flame
 Th' applauding shepherds to my songs attend,
 But I suspect my skill, though they commend.
 I dare not hope to please a Cinna's ear,
 Or sing what Varus might vouchsafe to hear.
 Harsh are the sweetest lays that I can bring,
 So screams a goose where swans melodious sing.
MŒRIS.
This I am pondering, if I can rehearse
 The lofty numbers of that labour'd verse.
 "Come, Galatea, leave the rolling seas;
 Can rugged rocks and heaving surges please?
 Come, taste the pleasures of our sylvan bowers,
 Our balmy-breathing gales, and fragrant flowers.
 See, how our plains rejoice on every side,
 How crystal streams thro' blooming valleys glide:
 O'er the cool grot the whitening poplars bend,
 And clasping vines their grateful umbrage lend.
 Come, beauteous nymph, forsake the briny wave,
 Loud on the beach let the wild billows rave."
LYCIDAS.
Or what you sung one evening on the plain—
 The air, but not the words, I yet retain.
MŒRIS.
"Why, Daphnis, dost thou calculate the skies
 To know when ancient constellations rise?
 Lo, Cæsar's star its radiant light displays,
 And on the nations sheds propitious rays.
 On the glad hills the reddening clusters glow,
 And smiling plenty decks the plains below.
 Now graff thy pears; the star of Cæsar reigns,
 To thy remotest race the fruit remains."
 The rest I have forgot, for length of years
 Deadens the sense, and memory impairs.
 All things in time submit to sad decay;
 Oft have we sung whole summer suns away.
 These vanish'd joys must Mœris now deplore,
 His voice delights, his numbers charm no more;
 Him have the wolves beheld, bewitch'd his song,[3]
 Bewitch'd to silence his melodious tongue.
 But your desire Menalcas can fulfil,
 All these, and more, he sings with matchless skill.
LYCIDAS.
These faint excuses which my Mœris frames
 But heighten my desire.—And now the streams
 In slumber-soothing murmurs softly flow;
 And now the sighing breeze hath ceas'd to blow.
 Half of our way is past, for I descry
 Bianor's tomb just rising to the eye.[4]
 Here in this leafy harbour ease your toil,
 Lay down your kids, and let us sing the while:
 We soon shall reach the town; or, lest a storm
 Of sudden rain the evening-sky deform,
 Be yours to cheer the journey with a song,
 Eas'd of your load, which I shall bear along.
MŒRIS.
No more, my friend; your kind entreaties spare,
 And let our journey be our present care;
 Let fate restore our absent friend again,
 Then gladly I resume the tuneful strain.

[1] This and the first eclogue seem to have been written on the same occasion. The time is a still evening. The landscape is described at the 97th line of this translation. On one side of the highway is an artificial arbour, where Lycidas invites Mœris to rest a little from the fatigue of his journey: and at a considerable distance appears a sepulchre by the way-side, where the ancient sepulchres were commonly erected.

The critics with one voice seem to condemn this eclogue as unworthy of its author; I know not for what good reason. The many beautiful lines scattered through it would, one might think, be no weak recommendation. But it is by no means to be reckoned a loose collection of incoherent fragments; its principal parts are all strictly connected, and refer to a certain end, and its allusions and images are wholly suited to pastoral life. Its subject, though uncommon, is not improper; for what is more natural, than that two shepherds, when occasionally mentioning the good qualities of their absent friend, particularly his poetical talents, should repeat such fragments of his songs as they recollected?

[2] These lines, which Virgil has translated literally from Theocritus, may be supposed to be a fragment of a poem mentioned in the preceding verses; or, what is more likely, to be spoken by Lycidas to his servant; something similar to which may be seen Past. 5. v. 20. of this translation.—The original is here remarkably explicit, even to a degree of affectation. This the translator has endeavoured to imitate.

[3] In Italia creditur luporum visus esse noxios; vocemque homini quem priores contemplentur adimere ad præsens.

Plin. N. H. VIII. 22.

[4] Bianor is said to have founded Mantua.—Servius.

PASTORAL X.[1]

GALLUS.
To my last labour lend thy sacred aid,
 O Arethusa: that the cruel maid
 With deep remorse may read the mournful song,
 For mournful lays to Gallus' love belong.
 (What Muse in sympathy will not bestow
 Some tender strains to soothe my Gallus' woe?)
 So may thy waters pure of briny stain
 Traverse the waves of the Sicilian main.
 Sing, mournful Muse, of Gallus' luckless love,
 While the goats browse along the cliffs above.
 Nor silent is the waste while we complain,
 The woods return the long-resounding strain.
 Whither, ye fountain-nymphs, were ye withdrawn,
 To what lone woodland, or what devious lawn,
 When Gallus' bosom languish'd with the fire
 Of hopeless love, and unallay'd desire?
 For neither by th' Aonian spring you stray'd,
 Nor roam'd Parnassus' heights, nor Pindus' hallow'd shade.
 The pines of Mænalus were heard to mourn,
 And sounds of woe along the groves were borne.
 And sympathetic tears the laurel shed,
 And humbler shrubs declin'd their drooping head.
 All wept his fate, when to despair resign'd
 Beneath a desert-cliff he lay reclin'd.
 Lyceus' rocks were hung with many a tear,
 And round the swain his flocks forlorn appear.
 Nor scorn, celestial bard, a poet's name;
 Renown'd Adonis by the lonely stream
 Tended his flock.—As thus he lay along,
 The swains and awkward neatherds round him throng.
 Wet from the winter-mast Menalcas came.
 All ask, what beauty rais'd the fatal flame.
 The god of verse vouchsafed to join the rest;
 He said, "What phrensy thus torments thy breast?
 While she, thy darling, thy Lycoris, scorns
 Thy proffer'd love, and for another burns,
 With whom o'er winter-wastes she wanders far,
 'Midst camps, and clashing arms, and boisterous war."
 Sylvanus came with rural garlands crown'd,
 And wav'd the lilies long, and flowering fennel round.
 Next we beheld the gay Arcadian god;
 His smiling cheeks with bright vermilion glow'd.
 "For ever wilt thou heave the bursting sigh?
 Is love regardful of the weeping eye?
 Love is not cloy'd with tears; alas, no more
 Than bees luxurious with the balmy flow'r,
 Than goats with foliage, than the grassy plain
 With silver rills and soft refreshing rain."
 Pan spoke; and thus the youth with grief opprest;
 "Arcadians, hear, O hear my last request;
 O ye, to whom the sweetest lays belong,
 O let my sorrows on your hills be sung:
 If your soft flutes shall celebrate my woes,
 How will my bones in deepest peace repose!
 Ah had I been with you a country-swain,
 And prun'd the vine, and fed the bleating train;
 Had Phyllis, or some other rural fair,
 Or black Amyntas been my darling care;
 (Beauteous though black; what lovelier flower is seen
 Than the dark violet on the painted green?)
 These in the bower had yielded all their charms,
 And sunk with mutual raptures in my arms:
 Phyllis had crown'd my head with garlands gay,
 Amyntas sung the pleasing hours away.
 Here, O Lycoris, purls the limped spring,
 Bloom all the meads, and all the woodlands sing;
 Here let me press thee to my panting breast
 Till youth, and joy, and life itself be past.
 Banish'd by love o'er hostile lands I stray,
 And mingle in the battle's dread array;
 Whilst thou, relentless to my constant flame,
 (Ah could I disbelieve the voice of fame!)
 Far from thy home, unaided and forlorn,
 Far from thy love, thy faithful love, art borne,
 On the bleak Alps with chilling blast to pine,
 Or wander waste along the frozen Rhine.
 Ye icy paths, O spare her tender form!
 O spare those heavenly charms, thou wintry storm!
 "Hence let me hasten to some desert-grove,
 And soothe with songs my long unanswer'd love.
 I go, in some lone wilderness to suit
 Eubœan lays to my Sicilian flute.
 Better with beasts of prey to make abode
 In the deep cavern, or the darksome wood;
 And carve on trees the story of my woe,
 Which with the growing bark shall ever grow,
 Meanwhile with woodland-nymphs, a lovely throng,
 The winding groves of Mænalus along
 I roam at large; or chase the foaming boar;
 Or with sagacious hounds the wilds explore,
 Careless of cold. And now methinks I bound
 O'er rocks and cliffs, and hear the woods resound;
 And now with beating heart I seem to wing
 The Cretan arrow from the Parthian string—
 As if I thus my phrensy could forego,
 As if love's god could melt at human woe.
 Alas! nor nymphs nor heavenly songs delight—
 Farewell, ye groves! the groves no more invite.
 No pains, no miseries of man can move
 The unrelenting deity of love.
 To quench your thirst in Hebrus' frozen flood,
 To make the Scythian snows your drear abode;
 Or feed your flock on Ethiopian plains,
 When Sirius' fiery constellation reigns,
 (When deep-imbrown'd the languid herbage lies,
 And in the elm the vivid verdure dies)
 Were all in vain. Love's unresisted sway
 Extends to all, and we must love obey."
 'Tis done: ye Nine, here ends your poet's strain
 In pity sung to soothe his Gallus' pain.
 While leaning on a flowery bank I twine
 The flexile osiers, and the basket join.
 Celestial Nine, your sacred influence bring,
 And soothe my Gallus' sorrows while I sing:
 Gallus, my much belov'd! for whom I feel
 The flame of purest friendship rising still:
 So by a brook the verdant alders rise,
 When fostering zephyrs fan the vernal skies.
 Let us begone: at eve, the shade annoys
 With noxious damps, and hurts the singer's voice;
 The juniper breathes bitter vapours round,
 That kill the springing corn, and blast the ground.
 Homeward, my sated goats, now let us hie;
 Lo beamy Hesper gilds the western sky.

[1] The scene of this pastoral is very accurately delineated. We behold the forlorn Gallus stretched along beneath a solitary cliff, his flocks standing round him at some distance. A group of deities and swains encircle him, each of whom is particularly described. On one side we see the shepherds with their crooks; next to them the neatherds, known by the clumsiness of their appearance; and next to these Menalcas with his clothes wet, as just come from beating or gathering winter-mast. On the other side we observe Apollo with his usual insignia; Sylvanus crowned with flowers, and brandishing in his hand the long lilies and flowering fennel; and last of all, Pan, the god of shepherds, known by his ruddy smiling countenance, and the other peculiarities of his form.

Gallus was a Roman of very considerable rank, a poet of no small estimation, and an intimate friend of Virgil. He loved to distraction one Cytheris (here called Lycoris) who slighted him, and followed Antony into Gaul.

EPITAPH FOR A SHERIFFS MESSENGER;

WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED AT THE PARTICULAR DESIRE OF THE PERSON FOR WHOM IT IS INTENDED.

Alas, how empty all our worldly schemes;
 Vain are our wishes, our enjoyment dreams.
 A debt to nature one and all must pay,
 Nor will the creditor defer her day;
 Death comes a messenger, displays the writ,
 And to the fatal summons all submit.
 An earthly messenger I was of yore,
 The scourge of debtors then, but now—no more.
 Oft have I stood in all my pomp confess'd,
 The blazon beaming dreadful at my breast;
 Oft have I wav'd on high th' attractive rod,
 And made the wretch obsequious to my nod.
 Pale shivering Poverty, that stalk'd behind,
 His greasy rags loose fluttering in the wind,
 And Terror, cudgel-arm'd, that strode before,
 Still to my deeds unquestion'd witness bore.
 Dire execution, as I march'd, was spread;
 My threat'ning horn they heard—they heard and fled.
 While thus destruction mark'd my headlong course,
 Nor mortals durst oppose my matchless force,
 A deadly warrant from the court of heaven
 To Death, the sovereign messenger, was given.
Swift as the lightning's instantaneous flame,
 Arm'd with his dart, the king of catchpoles came.
 My heart, unmov'd before, was seiz'd with fear,
 And sunk beneath his all-subduing spear;
 To heaven's high bar the spirit wing'd its way,
 And left the carcass forfeit to the clay.
 Reader! though every ill beset thee round,
 With patience bear, nor servilely despond;
 Though heaven awhile delay th' impending blow,
 Heaven sees the sorrows of the world below,
 And sets at last the suffering mourner free
 From famine, misery, pestilence, and me.
June 28th, 1759.                                       Mont. Abd. Ford.

TO MR. ALEXANDER ROSS,

AT LOCHLEE, AUTHOR OF THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS AND OTHER POEMS IN THE BROAD SCOTCH DIALECT.

O Ross, thou wale of hearty cocks,
 Sae crouse and canty with thy jokes!
 Thy hamely auldwarl'd muse provokes
 Me for awhile
 To ape our guid plain countra' folks
 In verse and stile.
Sure never carle was haff sae gabby
 E're since the winsome days o' Habby:
O mayst thou ne'er gang, clung, or shabby,
 Nor miss thy snaker!
 Or I'll ca' fortune nasty drabby,
 And say—pox take her!
O may the roupe ne'er roust thy weason,
 May thirst thy thrapple never gizzen!
 But bottled ale in mony a dizzen,
 Aye lade thy gantry!
 And fouth o'vivres a' in season,
 Plenish thy pantry!
Lang may thy stevin fill wi' glee
 The glens and mountains of Lochlee,
 Which were right gowsty but for thee,
 Whase sangs enamour
 Ilk lass, and teach wi' melody
 The rocks to yamour.
Ye shak your head, but, o' my fegs,
 Ye've set old Scota[1] on her legs,
 Lang had she lyen wi' beffs and flegs,
 Bumbaz'd and dizzie;
 Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs,
 Waes me! poor hizzie!
Since Allan's death naebody car'd
 For anes to speer how Scota far'd,
 Nor plack nor thristled turner war'd
 To quench her drouth;
 For frae the cottar to the laird
 We a' rin South.
The Southland chiels indeed hae mettle,
 And brawly at a sang can ettle,
 Yet we right couthily might settle
 O' this side Forth.
 The devil pay them wi' a pettle
 That slight the North.
Our countra leed is far frae barren,
 It's even right pithy and aulfarren,
 Oursells are neiper-like, I warran,
 For sense and smergh;
 In kittle times when faes are yarring,
 We're no thought ergh.
Oh! bonny are our greensward hows,
 Where through the birks the birny rows,
 And the bee bums, and the ox lows,
 And saft winds rusle;
 And shepherd lads on sunny knows
 Blaw the blythe fusle.
It's true, we Norlans manna fa'
 To eat sae nice or gang sae bra',
 As they that come from far awa,
 Yet sma's our skaith;
 We've peace (and that's well worth it a')
 And meat and claith.
Our fine newfangle sparks, I grant ye,
 Gie' poor auld Scotland mony a taunty;
 They're grown sae ugertfu' and vaunty,
 And capernoited,
 They guide her like a canker'd aunty
 That's deaf and doited.
Sae comes of ignorance I trow,
 It's this that crooks their ill fa'r'd mou'
 Wi' jokes sae coarse, they gar fouk spue
 For downright skonner;
 For Scotland wants na sons enew
 To do her honour.
I here might gie a skreed o' names,
 Dawties of Heliconian dames!
 The foremost place Gawin Douglas claims,
 That canty priest;
 And wha can match the fifth King James
 For sang or jest?
Montgomery grave, and Ramsay gay,
 Dunbar, Scot,[2] Hawthornden, and mae
 Than I can tell; for o' my fae,
 I maun break aff;
 'Twould take a live lang simmer day
 To name the haff.
The saucy chiels—I think they ca' them
 Criticks, the muckle sorrow claw them,
 (For mense nor manners ne'er could awe them
 Frae their presumption)
 They need nae try thy jokes to fathom;
 They want rumgumption.
But ilka Mearns and Angus bearn,
 Thy tales and sangs by heart shall learn,
 And chiels shall come frae yont the Cairn—
 —Amounth, right yousty,
 If Ross will be so kind as share in
 Their pint at Drousty.[3]

[1] The name Ross gives to his muse.

[2] Author of the Vision—[It was written by Ramsay, under the name of Scot. A. D.]

[3] An alehouse in Lochlee.



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