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Whither away, oh Mœris? To the town?

Ah, Lycidas, that which we never feared

We yet have lived to see our grievous lot,

That alien owners of our whilom fields

Can say to us, "Begone, ye tresspassers,

"This land is ours."—Well, fortune turns her wheel!

So we are sending to our conqueror

These kids of ours—(may ill luck go with them!)

Nay, surely we had heard that, by his songs

Menalcas had redeemed that grassy slope

Left by the hills, beneath their steeper ridge,

Down to the water-side, and where atop

Decaying beech-trees stand.

So was it said.

But, Lycidas, against the will of Mars

Our songs are powerless, as Chaonian does

'Gainst swooping eagles. Yet was I fore-warned

From hollow ilex, by the raven's croak

To end the dire dispute, by any means.

Else would thy friend, thy Mœris, not be here,

Nor yet Menalcas.