Page:Eclogues of Virgil (1908).djvu/35

 Thou sea-nymph Galatea, who to me

Sweeter than Hybla's thyme, and whiter far

Than swans, and fairer art than ivory pale!

Soon as the pastured bulls shall seek their stalls

Come to thy Corydon, if thou care for him!

Now may I seem to thee bitter indeed,

Worse than Sardinian herbs, rougher than broom

And viler than the sea-weed cast ashore,

If this one day does not appear to me

Longer than twelve long months. Go home, my steers,

For very shame go home, my grazing herd.

Ye mossy founts, 'midst herbage slumb'rous soft

And the light shade of green arbutus boughs

Shelter my flock from the midsummer heat!

Now come the scorching days, now swell the buds

In the luxuriant branches of the vine.

Here glows a ruddy hearth, with pitch pine logs

Ever alight—and doorposts, black with smoke.

We heed no more the northern cold, than does

The wolf the flock, or flooded streams their banks.

Chestnuts and junipers in thick groves stand,

And fallen apples lie beneath the trees;

All things smile on us, but, Alexis fair,

Should he desert these hills, why, e'en the streams

Would dry up in their beds, for lack of him!

Now are the green fields parched; the withered grass

Thirsts in the poisoned air, and Bacchus e'en

Grudges our hills the shadow of his vines.

But when our Phyllis comes, then every grove