Page:Eclogues of Virgil (1908).djvu/44

 Ah, tis hard to bear!

When will the wicked cease? That we should risk

The loss of all our help and joy in thee!

Ah, who would then have chanted of the Nymphs

Who, with sweet flowering herbs, have strewn the ground

Or cast shade o'er the springs, or sung those lays

Which lately, from Menalcas, I have learned?

One ran—"Now, Tityrus, whilst I am gone,

But a short way—thou must the she-goats feed—

When satisfied, then drive them to their drink,

But take heed to avoid the he-goat's path,

For with his horn he strikes."

Nay, rather this:

Which, tho' unfinished, he to Varus sang—

"Varus, thy name shall to the stars be raised.

"Let but our Mantua remain for us,

"Tho' near Cremona, the ill-fated town."

Now may thy honied swarms avoid the yews

Of Corsica, and may thy cows, full-fed,

Pastured on cytisus, give richest milk,

And even I, a poet, have been made

By Pierus' daughters; even I sing songs.

The Shepherds call me bard; I heed them not.

As yet I am not worthy to be called

Of Varro, or of Cinna, follower.

'Tis but a cackle mine, midst singing swans.

And 'tis the same with me—I even now

Am much considering as to this song—

My memory tells me, tis no common one.