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“ 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
lore. Exert your utmost power, my lingering charms; And force my Daphnis to my longing arms.
" See while my last endeavours 1 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 charins! He
runs, he leaps, to my desiring arms."
LYCIDAS AND MERIS.
When Virgil, by the favour of Augustus, had recovered his patrimony
near Mantua, und 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, Mæris, and his friend Lycidas.
Ho, Mæris! whither on thy way so fast?
O Lycidas ! at last
* 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
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.”
powers Preserve our plains, and shield the Mantuan towers,
Obnoxious by Cremona's neighbouring crime,)
'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 mur
murs 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;
“Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old records,
Thy faint excuses but inflame me more: