Page:Eclogues of Virgil (1908).djvu/19

 Wept at my leaving, crying, "Now farewell,

A long farewell to thee, thou charming one!"

The wolf is fatal in the fold, and so

Are hailstones to ripe corn, wind blasts to trees—

Or—Amaryllis' anger to us all.

How sweet is gentle rain! and to the kids

From mother weaned, the arbutus is good,

So pliant willows to the pregnant kine—

But to my mind, Amyntas reigns alone.

Our Muse is rustic, yet by Pollio loved

Pierian maid, a heifer feed for him.

Pollio himself makes freshest songs, so feed

For him a bull that can already gore

And spurn the sand beneath his furious feet.

Where thou dost love to be, O Pollio, there

Let him who loves thee come, and for his joy

Let honey flow amain, let brambles balsam yield.

Who hates not Bavius' songs, he may love thine,

O, Mævius; may yoke foxes, he-goats milk!

Ye children, picking flowers and low-grown fruit,

Flee hence, for in the grass lurks a cold snake!

My sheep, go carefully—it is not safe

To trust the bank—the ram himself was forced

To dry his fleece.

Now, Tityrus, keep back

The grazing kids from river-bed, and I

In due time, in the pool will wash them all.

Come, boys, we'll fold the sheep, if the fierce heat