Page:Eclogues of Virgil (1908).djvu/10

 Some to parched Africa, to Scythia some

Or to Oaxes, the swift Cretan stream

Or distant Britain, cut off from the world.

Ah me! shall I, long hence, my native land

Revisit, and with wonder gaze upon

My poor turf-covered hut, by scanty corn

Surrounded? Shall these oft-tilled fields be then

By lawless soldiery possessed? these crops

Of waving corn shall the barbarians own?

Lo! what great misery has discord wrought

Amongst us all! Ah to what end have we

Patiently sown our fields—for others' gain!?

Ha! Melibœus, wilt thou graft thy trees

Or set thy vines along in order now?

Go hence, my she-goats, my once happy flock

Never again may I, from distant cave

Gaze on your frolics, hanging from the rock

Midst the thick bushes; no more songs I sing

Nor can I watch you, O my goats, whilst ye

Crop flowering cytisus, or willows harsh!

Yet, for this night with me, thou mayst repose

On green leaves heaped; good store of fruit have we

Of mellow apples, chestnuts ripe, and milk

Fresh-curdled: thou canst see afar the smoke

Rise from farm-roofs, the lengthening shadows too

From the high hills are cast: the day is done.