Page:Eclogues of Virgil (1908).djvu/39

 Alas! now know I what is Love! a boy

Not of our race or blood, but born on rocks

Of Rhodopé, or Ismarus, or the race

Of distant Garamantes—such is he.

O flute, with me sing songs of Arcady!

Fierce love has made a mother stain her hands

With her own children's blood—fierce mother too

Was she more cruel, or the boy more vile?

A cruel mother, and an impious boy.

O flute, with me sing songs of Arcady!

Now let the wolf be coward of the sheep,

Let golden apples be the hard oak's fruit,

With sweet Narcissus may the alder bloom,

May richest amber ooze from tamarisks,

Owls vie with swans, and Tityrus in the woods

Orpheus shall seem—Arion, dolphin led.

For me now all is at an end, as though

The deep sea covered me: farewell, ye woods,

Headlong from yonder mountain-top I leap

Into the waves: this dying gift receive,

Now, my flute cease to sing Arcadian strains!"

These songs were sung by Damon—Muses, tell

What answer made Alphesibœus then?

We are not all sufficient for all things.

Bring water forth; then round these altars twine

The sacrificial billet—burn thereon

Rich vervain and the strength of frankincense,

So I may seek by magic rites to turn

My love's sound mind; only the charm I lack.