[1] In this fourth pastoral, no particular landscape is delineated. The whole is a prophetic song of triumph. But as almost all the images and allusions are of the rural kind, it is no less a true bucolic than the others; if we admit the definition of a pastoral, given us by an author of the first rank,[A] who calls it "A poem in which any action or passion is represented by its effects upon country life."

It is of little importance to inquire on what occasion this poem was written. The spirit of prophetic enthusiasm that breathes through it, and the resemblance it bears in many places to the Oriental manner, make it not improbable, that our poet composed it partly from some pieces of ancient prophecy that might have fallen into his hands, and that he afterwards inscribed it to his friend and patron Pollio, on occasion of the birth of his son Salonius.

[A] The author of the Rambler.

[2] This passage has perplexed all the critics. Out of a number of significations that have been offered, the translator has pitched upon one, which he thinks the most agreeable to the scope of the poem and most consistent with the language of the original. The reader, who wants more particulars on this head, may consult Servius, De La Cerda, or Ruæus.

PASTORAL V.[1]

MENALCAS, MOPSUS.

MENALCAS.
Since you with skill can touch the tuneful reed,
 Since few my verses or my voice exceed:
 In this refreshing shade shall we recline,
 Where hazels with the lofty elms combine?
MOPSUS.
Your riper age a due respect requires,
 'Tis mine to yield to what my friend desires;
 Whether you choose the zephyr's fanning breeze,
 That shakes the wavering shadows of the trees;
 Or the deep-shaded grotto's cool retreat:—
 And see yon cave screen'd from the scorching heat,
 Where the wild vine its curling tendrils weaves,
 Whose grapes glow ruddy through the quivering leaves.
MENALCAS.
Of all the swains that to our hills belong,
 Amyntas only vies with you in song.
MOPSUS.
What, though with me that haughty shepherd vie,
 Who proudly dares Apollo's self defy?
MENALCAS.
Begin: let Alcon's praise inspire your strains,[2]
 Or Codrus' death, or Phyllis' amorous pains;
 Begin, whatever theme your Muse prefer.
 To feed the kids be, Tityrus, thy care.
MOPSUS.
I rather will repeat that mournful song,
 Which late I carv'd the verdant beech along;
 (I carv'd and trill'd by turns the labour'd lay)
 And let Amyntas match me if he may.
MENALCAS.
As slender willows where the olive grows,
 Or sordid shrubs when near the scarlet rose,
 Such (if the judgment I have form'd be true)
 Such is Amyntas when compar'd with you.
MOPSUS.
No more, Menalcas; we delay too long,
 The grot's dim shade invites my promis'd song.
 When Daphnis fell by fate's remorseless blow,[3]
 The weeping nymphs pour'd wild the plaint of woe;
 Witness, O hazel-grove, and winding stream,
 For all your echoes caught the mournful theme.
 In agony of grief his mother prest
 The clay cold carcass to her throbbing breast,
 Frantic with anguish wail'd his hapless fate,
 Rav'd at the stars, and Heaven's relentless hate.
 'Twas then the swains in deep despair forsook
 Their pining flocks, nor led them to the brook;
 The pining flocks for him their pastures slight,
 Nor grassy plains, nor cooling streams invite.
 The doleful tidings reach'd the Libyan shores,
 And lions mourn'd in deep repeated roars.
 His cruel doom the woodlands wild bewail,
 And plaintive hills repeat the melancholy tale.
 'Twas he, who first Armenia's tigers broke,
 And tam'd their stubborn natures to the yoke;
 He first with ivy wrapt the thyrsus round,
 And made the hills with Bacchus' rites resound.[4]
 As vines adorn the trees which they entwine,
 As purple clusters beautify the vine,
 As bulls the herd, as corns the fertile plains,
 The godlike Daphnis dignified the swains.
 When Daphnis from our eager hopes was torn,
 Phœbus and Pales left the plains to mourn.
 Now weeds and wretched tares the crop subdue,
 Where store of generous wheat but lately grew.
 Narcissus' lovely flower no more is seen,
 No more the velvet violet decks the green;
 Thistles for these the blasted meadow yields,
 And thorns and frizzled burs deform the fields.
 Swains, shade the springs, and let the ground be drest
 With verdant leaves; 'Twas Daphnis' last request.
 Erect a tomb in honour to his name
 Mark'd with this verse to celebrate his fame.
 "The swains with Daphnis' name this tomb adorn,
 Whose high renown above the skies is borne;
 Fair was his flock, he fairest on the plain,
 The pride, the glory of the sylvan reign."
MENALCAS.
Sweeter, O bard divine, thy numbers seem,
 Than to the scorched swain the cooling stream,
 Or soft on fragrant flowerets to recline,
 And the tir'd limbs to balmy sleep resign.
 Blest youth! whose voice and pipe demand the praise
 Due but to thine, and to thy master's lays.
 I in return the darling theme will choose,
 And Daphnis' praises shall inspire my Muse;
 He in my song shall high as Heaven ascend,
 High as the Heavens, for Daphnis was my friend.
MOPSUS.
His virtues sure our noblest numbers claim;
 Nought can delight me more than such a theme,
 Which in your song new dignity obtains;
 Oft has our Stimichon extoll'd the strains.
MENALCAS.
Now Daphnis shines, among the gods a god,
 Struck with the splendours of his new abode.
 Beneath his footstool far remote appear
 The clouds slow-sailing, and the starry sphere.
 Hence lawns and groves with gladsome raptures ring,
 The swains, the nymphs, and Pan in concert sing.
 The wolves to murder are no more inclin'd,
 No guileful nets ensnare the wandering hind,
 Deceit and violence and rapine cease,
 For Daphnis loves the gentle arts of peace.
 From savage mountains shouts of transport rise,
 Borne in triumphant echoes to the skies:
 The rocks and shrubs emit melodious sounds,
 Through nature's vast extent the god, the god rebounds.
 Be gracious still, still present to our prayer;
 Four altars, lo! we build with pious care.
 Two for th' inspiring god of song divine,
 And two, propitious Daphnis, shall be thine.
 Two bowls white-foaming with their milky store,
 Of generous oil two brimming goblets more,
 Each year we shall present before thy shrine,
 And cheer the feast with liberal draughts of wine;
 Before the fire when winter-storms invade,
 In summer's heat beneath the breezy shade:
 The hallow'd bowls with wine of Chios crown'd,
 Shall pour their sparkling nectar to the ground.
 Damœtas shall with Lyctian[5] Ægon play,
 And celebrate with festive strains the day.
 Alphesibœus to the sprightly song
 Shall like the dancing Satyrs trip along.
 These rites shall still be paid, so justly due,
 Both when the nymphs receive our annual vow,
 And when with solemn songs, and victims crown'd,
 Our lands in long procession we surround,
 While fishes love the streams and briny deep,
 And savage boars the mountain's rocky steep,
 While grasshoppers their dewy food delights,
 While balmy thyme the busy bee invites;
 So long shall last thine honours and thy fame,
 So long the shepherds shall resound thy name.
 Such rites to thee shall husbandmen ordain,
 As Ceres and the god of wine obtain.
 Thou to our prayers propitiously inclin'd
 Thy grateful suppliants to their vows shall bind.
MOPSUS.
What boon, dear shepherd, can your song requite?
 For nought in nature yields so sweet delight.
 Not the soft sighing of the southern gale,
 That faintly breathes along the flowery vale;
 Nor, when light breezes curl the liquid plain,
 To tread the margin of the murmuring main;
 Nor melody of streams, that roll away
 Through rocky dales, delights me as your lay.
MENALCAS.
No mean reward, my friend, your verses claim;
 Take then this flute that breath'd the plaintive theme
 Of Corydon;[6] when proud Damœtas[7] tried
 To match my skill, it dash'd his hasty pride.
MOPSUS.
And let this sheepcrook by my friend be worn,
 Which brazen studs in beamy rows adorn;
 This fair Antigenes oft begg'd to gain,
 But all his beauty, all his prayers were vain.

[1] Here we discover Menalcas and Mopsus seated in an arbour formed by the interwoven twigs of a wild vine. A grove of hazels and elms surrounds this arbour. The season seems to be Summer. The time of the day is not specified.

[2] From this passage it is evident that Virgil thought pastoral poetry capable of a much greater variety in its subjects, than some modern critics will allow.

[3] It is the most general and most probable conjecture, that Julius Cæsar is the Daphnis, whose death and deification are here celebrated. Some, however, are of opinion, that by Daphnis is meant a real shepherd of Sicily of that name, who is said to have invented bucolic poetry, and in honour of whom the Sicilians performed yearly sacrifices.

[4] This can be applied only to Julius Cæsar; for it was he who introduced at Rome the celebration of the Bacchanalian revels.—Servius.

[5] Lyctium was a city of Crete.

[6] See Pastoral second.

[7] See Pastoral third.

PASTORAL VI.[1]

SILENUS.

My sportive Muse first sung Sicilian strains,
 Nor blush'd to dwell in woods and lowly plains.
 To sing of kings and wars when I aspire,
 Apollo checks my vainly-rising fire.
 "To swains the flock and sylvan pipe belong,
 Then choose some humbler theme, nor dare heroic song."
 The voice divine, O Varus I obey.
 And to my reed shall chant a rural lay;
 Since others long thy praises to rehearse,
 And sing thy battles in immortal verse.
 Yet if these songs, which Phœbus bids me write,
 Hereafter to the swains shall yield delight,
 Of thee the trees and humble shrubs shall sing,
 And all the vocal grove with Varus ring.
 The song inscrib'd to Varus' sacred name
 To Phœbus' favour has the justest claim.
 Come then, my Muse, a sylvan song repeat.
 'Twas in his shady arbour's cool retreat
 Two youthful swains the god Silenus found,
 In drunkenness and sleep his senses bound,
 His turgid veins the late debauch betray;
 His garland on the ground neglected lay,
 Fallen from his head; and by the well-worn ear
 His cup of ample size depended near.
 Sudden the swains the sleeping god surprise,
 And with his garland bind him as he lies,
 (No better chain at hand) incens'd so long
 To be defrauded of their promis'd song.
 To aid their project, and remove their fears,
 Ægle, a beauteous fountain-nymph, appears;
 Who, while he hardly opes his heavy eyes,
 His stupid brow with bloody berries dyes.
 Then smiling at the fraud Silenus said,
 "And dare you thus a sleeping god invade?
 To see me was enough; but haste, unloose
 My bonds; the song no longer I refuse;
 Unloose me, youths; my song shall pay your pains;
 For this fair nymph another boon remains."
 He sung; responsive to the heavenly sound
 The stubborn oaks and forests dance around.
 Tripping the Satyrs and the Fauns advance,
 Wild beasts forget their rage, and join the general dance.
 Not so Parnassus' listening rocks rejoice,
 When Phœbus raises his celestial voice;
 Nor Thracia's echoing mountains so admire,
 When Orpheus strikes the loud-lamenting lyre.
 For first he sung of Nature's wondrous birth;
 How seeds of water, air, and flame, and earth,
 Down the vast void with casual impulse hurl'd,
 Clung into shapes, and form'd this fabric of the world.
 Then hardens by degrees the tender soil,
 And from the mighty mound the seas recoil.
 O'er the wide world new various forms arise;
 The infant Sun along the brighten'd skies
 Begins his course, while Earth with glad amaze
 The blazing wonder from below surveys.
 The clouds sublime their genial moisture shed,
 And the green grove lifts high its leafy head.
 The savage beasts o'er desert mountains roam,
 Yet few their numbers, and unknown their home.
 He next the blest Saturnian ages sung;
 How a new race of men from Pyrrha sprung;[2]
 Prometheus' daring theft, and dreadful doom,
 Whose growing heart devouring birds consume.
 Then names the spring, renown'd for Hylas' fate,
 By the sad mariners bewail'd too late;
 They call on Hylas with repeated cries,
 And Hylas, Hylas, all the lonesome shore replies,
 Next he bewails Pasiphæ (hapless dame!)
 Who for a bullock felt a brutal flame.
 What fury fires thy bosom, frantic queen!
 How happy thou, if herds had never been!
 The maids, whom Juno, to avenge her wrong,[3]
 Like heifers doom'd to low the vales along,
 Ne'er felt the rage of thy detested fire,
 Ne'er were polluted with thy foul desire;
 Though oft for horns they felt their polish'd brow,
 And their soft necks oft fear'd the galling plough.
 Ah wretched queen! thou roam'st the mountain-waste,
 While, his white limbs on lilies laid to rest,
 The half-digested herb again he chews,
 Or some fair female of the herd pursues.
 "Beset, ye Cretan nymphs, beset the grove,
 And trace the wandering footsteps of my love.
 Yet let my longing eyes my love behold,
 Before some favourite beauty of the fold
 Entice him with Gortynian[4] herds to stray,
 Where smile the vales in richer pasture gay."
 He sung how golden fruit's resistless grace
 Decoy'd the wary virgin from the race.[5]
 Then wraps in bark the mourning sisters round,[6]
 And rears the lofty alders from the ground.
 He sung, while Gallus by Permessus[7] stray'd,
 A sister of the nine the hero led
 To the Aonian hill; the choir in haste
 Left their bright thrones, and hail'd the welcome guest.
 Linus arose, for sacred song renown'd,
 Whose brow a wreath of flowers and parsley bound;
 And "Take," he said, "this pipe, which heretofore
 The far-fam'd shepherd of Ascræa[8] bore;
 Then heard the mountain-oaks its magic sound,
 Leap'd from their hills, and thronging danced around.
 On this thou shalt renew the tuneful lay,
 And grateful songs to thy Apollo pay,
 Whose fam'd Grynæan[9] temple from thy strain
 Shall more exalted dignity obtain."
 Why should I sing unhappy Scylla's fate?[10]
 Sad monument of jealous Circe's hate!
 Round her white breast what furious monsters roll,
 And to the dashing waves incessant howl:
 How from the ships that bore Ulysses' crew[11]
 Her dogs the trembling sailors dragg'd, and slew.
 Of Philomela's feast why should I sing,[12]
 And what dire chance befell the Thracian king?
 Changed to a lapwing by th' avenging god,
 He made the barren waste his lone abode,
 And oft on soaring pinions hover'd o'er
 The lofty palace then his own no more.
 The tuneful god renews each pleasing theme,
 Which Phœbus sung by blest Eurotas' stream;
 When bless'd Eurotas gently flow'd along,
 And bade his laurels learn the lofty song.
 Silenus sung; the vocal vales reply,
 And heavenly music charms the listening sky.
 But now their folds the number'd flocks invite,
 The star of evening sheds its trembling light,
 And the unwilling Heavens are wrapt in night.

[1] The cave of Silenus, which is the scene of this eclogue, is delineated with sufficient accuracy. The time seems to be the evening; at least the song does not cease, till the flocks are folded, and the evening star appears.

[2] See Ovid. Met. Lib. I.

[3] Their names were Lysippe, Ipponoë, and Cyrianassa. Juno, to be avenged of them for preferring their own beauty to hers, struck them with madness, to such a degree, that they imagined themselves to be heifers.

[4] Gortyna was a city of Crete. See Ovid. Art. Am. Lib. I.

[5] Atalanta. See Ovid. Metamorph. Lib. X.

[6] See Ovid. Metamorph. Lib. II.

[7] A river in Bœotia arising from Mount Helicon, sacred to the Muses.

[8] Hesiod.

[9] Grynium was a maritime town of the Lesser Asia, where were an ancient temple and oracle of Apollo.

[10] See Virgil Æn. III.

[11] See Homer Odyss. Lib. XII.

[12] See Ovid's Metamorph. Lib. VI.

PASTORAL VII.[1]

MELIBŒUS, CORYDON, THYRSIS.

MELIBŒUS.
Beneath an holm that murmur'd to the breeze
 The youthful Daphnis lean'd in rural ease:
 With him two gay Arcadian swains reclin'd,
 Who in the neighbouring vale their flocks had join'd,
 Thyrsis, whose care it was the goats to keep,
 And Corydon, who fed the fleecy sheep;
 Both in the flowery prime of youthful days,
 Both skill'd in single or responsive lays.
 While I with busy hand a shelter form
 To guard my myrtles from the future storm,
 The husband of my goats had chanced to stray;
 To find the vagrant out I take my way.
 Which Daphnis seeing cries, "Dismiss your fear,
 Your kids and goat are all in safety here;
 And, if no other care require your stay,
 Come, and with us unbend the toils of day
 In this cool shade; at hand your heifers feed,
 And of themselves will to the watering speed;
 Here fringed with reeds slow Mincius winds along,
 And round yon oak the bees soft-murmuring throng."
 What could I do? for I was left alone,
 My Phyllis and Alcippe both were gone,
 And none remain'd to feed my weanling lambs,
 And to restrain them from their bleating dams:
 Betwixt the swains a solemn match was set,
 To prove their skill, and end a long debate.
 Though serious matters claim'd my due regard,
 Their pastime to my business I preferr'd.
 To sing by turns the Muse inspir'd the swains,
 And Corydon began th' alternate strains.
CORYDON.
Ye nymphs of Helicon, my sole desire!
 O warm my breast with all my Codrus' fire.
 If none can equal Codrus' heavenly lays,
 For next to Phœbus he deserves the praise,
 No more I ply the tuneful art divine,
 My silent pipe shall hang on yonder pine.
THYRSIS.
Arcadian swains, an ivy wreath bestow,
 With early honours crown your poet's brow;
 Codrus shall chafe, if you my songs commend,
 Till burning spite his tortur'd entrails rend;
 Or amulets, to bind my temples, frame,
 Lest his invidious praises blast my fame.
CORYDON.
A stag's tall horns, and stain'd with savage gore
 This bristled visage of a tusky boar,
 To thee, O virgin-goddess of the chase,
 Young Mycon offers for thy former grace.
 If like success his future labours crown,
 Thine, goddess, then shall be a nobler boon,
 In polish'd marble thou shalt shine complete,
 And purple sandals shall adorn thy feet.
THYRSIS.
To thee, Priapus,[2] each returning year,
 This bowl of milk, these hallow'd cakes we bear;
 Thy care our garden is but meanly stor'd,
 And mean oblations all we can afford.
 But if our flocks a numerous offspring yield,
 And our decaying fold again be fill'd,
 Though now in marble thou obscurely shine,
 For thee a golden statue we design.
CORYDON.
O Galatea, whiter than the swan,
 Loveliest of all thy sisters of the main,
 Sweeter than Hybla, more than lilies fair!
 If ought of Corydon employ thy care,
 When shades of night involve the silent sky,
 And slumbering in their stalls the oxen lie,
 Come to my longing arms and let me prove
 Th' immortal sweets of Galatea's love.
THYRSIS.
As the vile sea-weed scatter'd by the storm,
 As he whose face Sardinian herbs deform,[3]
 As burs and brambles that disgrace the plain,
 So nauseous, so detested be thy swain;
 If when thine absence I am doom'd to bear
 The day appears not longer than a year.
 Go home, my flocks, ye lengthen out the day,
 For shame, ye tardy flocks, for shame away!
CORYDON.
Ye mossy fountains, warbling as ye flow!
 And softer than the slumbers ye bestow,
 Ye grassy banks! ye trees with verdure crown'd,
 Whose leaves a glimmering shade diffuse around!
 Grant to my weary flocks a cool retreat,
 And screen them from the summer's raging heat!
 For now the year in brightest glory shines,
 Now reddening clusters deck the bending vines.
THYRSIS.
Here's wood for fuel; here the fire displays
 To all around its animating blaze;
 Black with continual smoke our posts appear;
 Nor dread we more the rigour of the year,
 Than the fell wolf the fearful lambkins dreads,
 When he the helpless fold by night invades;
 Or swelling torrents, headlong as they roll,
 The weak resistance of the shatter'd mole.
CORYDON.
Now yellow harvests wave on every field,
 Now bending boughs the hoary chestnut yield,
 Now loaded trees resign their annual store,
 And on the ground the mellow fruitage pour;
 Jocund, the face of Nature smiles, and gay;
 But if the fair Alexis were away,
 Inclement drought the hardening soil would drain,
 And streams no longer murmur o'er the plain.
THYRSIS.
A languid hue the thirsty fields assume,
 Parch'd to the root the flowers resign their bloom,
 The faded vines refuse their hills to shade,
 Their leafy verdure wither'd and decay'd:
 But if my Phyllis on these plains appear,
 Again the groves their gayest green shall wear,
 Again the clouds their copious moisture lend,
 And in the genial rain shall Jove descend.
CORYDON.
Alcides' brows the poplar-leaves surround,
 Apollo's beamy locks with bays are crown'd,
 The myrtle, lovely queen of smiles, is thine,
 And jolly Bacchus loves the curling vine;
 But while my Phyllis loves the hazel-spray,
 To hazel yield the myrtle and the bay.
THYRSIS.
The fir, the hills; the ash adorns the woods;
 The pine, the gardens; and the poplar, floods.
 If thou, my Lycidas, wilt deign to come,
 And cheer thy shepherd's solitary home,
 The ash so fair in woods, and garden-pine
 Will own their beauty far excell'd by thine.
MELIBŒUS.
So sung the swains, but Thyrsis strove in vain;
 Thus far I bear in mind th' alternate strain.
 Young Corydon acquir'd unrivall'd fame,
 And still we pay a deference to his name.

[1] The scene of this pastoral is as follows. Four shepherds, Daphnis in the most distinguished place, Corydon, Thyrsis, and Melibœus, are seen reclining beneath an holm. Sheep and goats intermixed are feeding hard by. At a little distance Mincius, fringed with reeds, appears winding along. Fields and trees compose the surrounding scene. A venerable oak, with bees swarming around it, is particularly distinguished. The time seems to be the forenoon of a summerday.

[2] This deity presided over gardens.

[3] It was the property of this poisonous herb to distort the features of those who had eaten of it, in such a manner, that they seemed to expire in an agony of laughter.

PASTORAL VIII.[1]

DAMON, ALPHESIBŒUS.

Rehearse we, Pollio, the enchanting strains
 Alternate sung by two contending swains.
 Charm'd by their songs, the hungry heifers stood
 In deep amaze, unmindful of their food;
 The listening lynxes laid their rage aside,
 The streams were silent, and forgot to glide.
 O thou, where'er thou lead'st thy conquering host,
 Or by Timavus,[2] or th' Illyrian coast!
 When shall my Muse, transported with the theme,
 In strains sublime my Pollio's deeds proclaim;
 And celebrate thy lays by all admir'd,
 Such as of old Sophocles' Muse inspir'd?
 To thee, the patron of my rural songs,
 To thee my first, my latest lay belongs.
 Then let this humble ivy-wreath enclose,
 Twin'd with triumphal bays, thy godlike brows.
 What time the chill sky brightens with the dawn,
 When cattle love to crop the dewy lawn,
 Thus Damon to the woodlands wild complain'd,
 As 'gainst an olive's lofty trunk he lean'd.
DAMON.
Lead on the genial day, O star of morn!
 While wretched I, all hopeless and forlorn,
 With my last breath my fatal woes deplore,
 And call the gods by whom false Nisa swore;
 Though they, regardless of a lover's pain,
 Heard her repeated vows, and heard in vain.
 Begin, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.[3]
 Blest Mænalus! that hears the pastoral song
 Still languishing its tuneful groves along!
 That hears th' Arcadian god's celestial lay,
 Who taught the idly-rustling reeds to play!
 That hears the singing pines! that hears the swain
 Of love's soft chains melodiously complain!
 Begin, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.
 Mopsus the willing Nisa now enjoys—
 What may not lovers hope from such a choice!
 Now mares and griffins shall their hate resign,
 And the succeeding age shall see them join
 In friendship's tie; now mutual love shall bring
 The dog and doe to share the friendly spring.
 Scatter thy nuts, O Mopsus, and prepare
 The nuptial torch to light the wedded fair.
 Lo, Hesper hastens to the western main!
 And thine the night of bliss—thine, happy swain!
 Begin, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.
 Exult, O Nisa, in thy happy state!
 Supremely blest in such a worthy mate;
 While you my beard detest, and bushy brow,
 And think the gods forget the world below:
 While you my flock and rural pipe disdain,
 And treat with bitter scorn a faithful swain.
 Begin, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.
 When first I saw you by your mother's side,
 To where our apples grew I was your guide:
 Twelve summers since my birth had roll'd around,
 And I could reach the branches from the ground.
 How did I gaze!—how perish!—ah how vain
 The fond bewitching hopes that sooth'd my pain!
 Begin, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.
 Too well I know thee, Love. From Scythian snows,
 Or Lybia's burning sands the mischief rose.
 Rocks adamantine nurs'd this foreign bane,
 This fell invader of the peaceful plain.
 Begin, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.
 Love taught the mother's[4] murdering hand to kill,
 Her children's blood love bade the mother spill.
 Was love the cruel cause?[5] Or did the deed
 From fierce unfeeling cruelty proceed?
 Both fill'd her brutal bosom with their bane;
 Both urg'd the deed, while Nature shrunk in vain.
 Begin, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.
 Now let the fearful lamb the wolf devour;
 Let alders blossom with Narcissus' flower;
 From barren shrubs let radiant amber flow;
 Let rugged oaks with golden fruitage glow;
 Let shrieking owls with swans melodious vie;
 Let Tityrus the Thracian numbers try,
 Outrival Orpheus in the sylvan reign,
 And emulate Arion on the main.
 Begin, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.
 Let land no more the swelling waves divide;
 Earth, be thou whelm'd beneath the boundless tide;
 Headlong from yonder promontory's brow
 I plunge into the rolling deep below.
 Farewell, ye woods! farewell, thou flowery plain!
 Hear the last lay of a despairing swain.
 And cease, my pipe, the sweet Mænalian strain.
Here Damon ceas'd. And now, ye tuneful Nine,
 Alphesibœus' magic verse subjoin,
 To his responsive song your aid we call,
 Our power extends not equally to all.
ALPHESIBŒUS.
Bring living waters from the silver stream,
 With vervain and fat incense feed the flame:
 With this soft wreath the sacred altars bind,
 To move my cruel Daphnis to be kind,
 And with my phrensy to inflame his soul:
 Charms are but wanting to complete the whole.
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 By powerful charms what prodigies are done!
 Charms draw pale Cynthia from her silver throne;
 Charms burst the bloated snake, and Circe's[6] guests
 By mighty magic charms were changed to beasts,
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 Three woollen wreaths, and each of triple dye,
 Three times about thy image I apply,
 Then thrice I bear it round the sacred shrine;
 Uneven numbers please the powers divine.
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 Haste, let three colours with three knots be join'd,
 And say, "Thy fetters, Venus, thus I bind."
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 As this soft clay is harden'd by the flame,
 And as this wax is soften'd by the same,
 My love that harden'd Daphnis to disdain,
 Shall soften his relenting heart again.
 Scatter the salted corn, and place the bays,
 And with fat brimstone light the sacred blaze.
 Daphnis my burning passion slights with scorn,
 And Daphnis in this blazing bay I burn.
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 As when, to find her love, an heifer roams
 Through trackless groves, and solitary glooms;
 Sick with desire, abandon'd to her woes,
 By some lone stream her languid limbs she throws;
 There in deep anguish wastes the tedious night,
 Nor thoughts of home her late return invite:
 Thus may he love, and thus indulge his pain,
 While I enhance his torments with disdain.
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 These robes beneath the threshold here I leave,
 These pledges of his love, O Earth, receive.
 Ye dear memorials of our mutual fire,
 Of you my faithless Daphnis I require.
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 These deadly poisons and these magic weeds,
 Selected from the store which Pontus breeds,
 Sage Mœris gave me; oft I saw him prove
 Their sovereign power; by these, along the grove
 A prowling wolf the dread magician roams;
 Now gliding ghosts from the profoundest tombs
 Inspired he calls; the rooted corn he wings
 And to strange fields the flying harvest brings.
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 These ashes from the altar take with speed,
 And treading backwards cast them o'er your head
 Into the running stream nor turn your eye.
 Yet this last spell, though hopeless, let me try.
 But nought can move the unrelenting swain,
 And spells, and magic verse, and gods are vain.
 Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms,
 O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms.
 Lo, while I linger, with spontaneous fire
 The ashes redden, and the flames aspire!
 May this new prodigy auspicious prove!
 What fearful hopes my beating bosom move!
 Hark! does not Hylax bark—ye powers supreme
 Can it be real, or do lovers dream!—
 He comes, my Daphnis comes! forbear my charms;
 My love, my Daphnis flies to bless my longing arms.