"Bear out these ashes; cast them in the brook; Cast backwards o'er your head; nor turn your look: Since neither gods nor godlike verse can move, Break out, ye smothered fires, and kindle smothered love.
Exert your utmost power, my lingering charms;
And force my Daphnis to my longing arms.
"See while my last endeavours I delay,
The walking ashes rise, and round our altars play!
Run to the threshold, Amaryllis-hark!
Our Hylax opens, and begins to bark.
Good heaven! may lovers what they wish believe?
Or dream their wishes, and those dreams deceive?
No more! my Daphnis comes! no more, my charms!
He comes, he runs, he leaps, to my desiring arms."
When Virgil, by the favour of Augustus, had recovered his patrimony near Mantua, and went in hope to take possession, he was in danger to be slain by Arius the centurion, to whom those lands were assigned by the Emperor, in reward of his service against Brutus and Cassius. This Pastoral therefore is filled with complaints of his hard usage; and the persons introduced are the bailiff of Virgil, Maris, and his friend Lycidas.
Ho, Moris! whither on thy way so fast?
This leads to town.
The time is come, I never thought to see, (Strange revolution for my farm and me!)
* In the Ninth Pastoral, Virgil has made a collection of many scattering passages, which he had translated from Theocritus; and here he has bound them into a nosegay.-DRYDEN.
When the grim captain in a surly tone
Cries out," Pack up, ye rascals, and be gone."
Kicked out, we set the best face on't we could;
And these two kids, t'appease his angry mood,
I bear,―of which the Furies give him good!
Your country friends were told another tale,—
That, from the sloping mountain to the vale,
And doddered oak, and all the banks along,
Menalcas saved his fortune with a song.
Such was the news, indeed; but songs and rhymes
Prevail as much in these hard iron times,
As would a plump of trembling fowl, that rise
Against an eagle sousing from the skies.
And, had not Phoebus warned me, by the croak
Of an old raven from a hollow oak,
To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain,
And Moris not survived him, to complain.
Now heaven defend! could barbarous rage induce
The brutal son of Mars t'insult the sacred Muse?
Who then should sing the nymphs? or who rehearse
The waters gliding in a smoother verse?
Or Amaryllis praise that heavenly lay,
That shortened, as we went, our tedious way,-
"O Tityrus, tend my herd, and see them fed;
To morning pastures, evening waters, led;
And 'ware the Libyan ridgil's butting head."
Or what unfinished he to Varus read :
"Thy name, O Varus, (if the kinder powers
Preserve our plains, and shield the Mantuan towers,
Obnoxious by Cremona's neighbouring crime,)
The wings of swans, and stronger-pinioned rhyme,
Shall raise aloft, and soaring bear above-
The immortal gift of gratitude to Jove."
Sing on, sing on; for I can ne'er be cloyed.
So may thy swarms the baleful yew avoid;
So may thy cows their burdened bags distend,
And trees to goats their willing branches bend.
Mean as I am, yet have the Muses made
Me free, a member of the tuneful trade:
At least the shepherds seem to like my lays;
But I discern their flattery from their praise:
I nor to Cinna's ears, nor Varus,' dare aspire,
But gabble, like a goose, amidst the swan-like choir.
'Tis what I have been conning in my mind; Nor are they verses of a vulgar kind.
"Come, Galatea! come! the seas forsake! What pleasures can the tides with their hoarse murmurs make?
See, on the shore inhabits purple spring,
Where nightingales their love-sick ditty sing: See, meads with purling streams, with flowers the ground,
The grottoes cool, with shady poplars crowned, And creeping vines on arbours weaved around. Come then, and leave the waves' tumultuous roar; Let the wild surges vainly beat the shore."
Or that sweet song I heard with such delight;
The same you sung alone one starry night.
The tune I still retain, but not the words.
"Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old records,
To know the seasons when the stars arise?
See, Cæsar's lamp is lighted in the skies,-
The star, whose rays the blushing grapes adorn,
And swell the kindly ripening ears of corn.
Under this influence, graft the tender shoot;
Thy children's children shall enjoy the fruit."
The rest I have forgot; for cares and time
Change all things, and untune my soul to rhyme.
I could have once sung down a summer's sun;
But now the chime of poetry is done:
My voice grows hoarse; I feel the notes decay,
As if the wolves had seen me first to-day.
But these, and more than I to mind can bring,
Menalcas has not yet forgot to sing.
Thy faint excuses but inflame me more:
And now the waves roll silent to the shore;
Husht winds the topmost branches scarcely bend,
As if thy tuneful song they did attend:
Already we have half our way o'ercome;
Far off I can discern Bianor's tomb.
Here, where the labourer's hands have formed a bowes
Of wreathing trees, in singing waste an hour.
Rest here thy weary limbs; thy kids lay down:
We've day before us yet to reach the town;
Or if, ere night, the gathering clouds we fear,
song will help the beating storm to bear.
And, that thou may'st not be too late abroad,
Sing, and I'll ease thy shoulders of thy load.
Cease to request me; let us mind our way:
Another song requires another day.
When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice,
And find a friend at court, I'll find a voice.
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