Page:Eclogues of Virgil (1908).djvu/31

 Now told he of the stones by Pyrrha cast,

Of Saturn's realm, of birds of Caucasus

And of Prometheus' theft—yet more he sang

How the fair youth of Argos, left behind

Beside the fountain, was in vain invoked

By sailors calling Hylas, Hylas! till

The shore was made to echo with the name.

He tries to comfort the ill-fated Pasiphæ,

Whose mind was turned to fancies base and wild.

Ah, hapless maid, of reason sweet bereft!

And sent to wander on the mountain drear,

Thy only friends the scattered herds of kine—

Ah, hapless maid! trod down by evil tongues!

The snow-white steer rests on the soft blue bloom

Of hyacinths, and chews the freshest grass,

Or follows one amongst the numerous herd.

Ye Nymphs of Crete, now close the forest paths,

Perchance his vagrant foot-prints we may see;

Or haply, they may lure him with green food,

Or he may follow heifers to their stalls.

—Now sings the bard of Atalanta; charmed

With golden apples of Hesperides—

Next tells how Phæton's sisters were transformed

To poplars—clothed with moss and bitter bark;

Then of the straying Gallus, by the streams

Sacred to Muses; how one led his steps

To the Aonian hills, and there rose up

The whole of Phœbus' choir, to honour him

And Linus, shepherd of grand song, his locks