PASTORAL X.

OR,

GALLUS.

ARGUMENT.

Gallus, a great patron of Virgil, and an excellent poet, was very deeply in love with one Cytheris, whom he calls Lycoris, and who had forsaken him for the company of a soldier. The poet therefore supposes his friend Gallus retired, in his height of melancholy, into the solitudes af Arcadia, (the celebrated scene of pastorals,) where he represents him in a very languishing condition, with all the rural deities about him, pitying his hard usage, and condoling his misfortune.

THY sacred succour, Arethusa, bring,

To crown my labour, ('tis the last I sing,)
Which proud Lycoris may with pity view:-
The Muse is mournful, though the numbers few.
Refuse me not a verse, to grief and Gallus due.
So may thy silver streams beneath the tide,
Unmixed with briny seas, securely glide.

VOL. XIII.

2 D

Sing then my Gallus, and his hopeless vows;
Sing, while my cattle crop the tender browze.
The vocal grove shall answer to the sound,
And echo, from the vales, the tuneful voice rebound.
What lawns or woods with-held you from his aid,
Ye nymphs, when Gallus was to love betrayed,
To love, unpitied by the cruel maid?
Not steepy Pindus could retard your course,
Nor cleft Parnassus, nor the Aonian source:
Nothing, that owns the Muses, could suspend
Your aid to Gallus :--Gallus is their friend.
For him the lofty laurel stands in tears,

S

And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears.

Mænalian pines the godlike swain bemoan,
When, spread beneath a rock, he sighed alone;
And cold Lycæus wept from every dropping stone.
The sheep surround their shepherd, as he lies:
Blush not, sweet poet, nor the name despise.
Along the streams, his flock Adonis fed;
And yet the queen of beauty blest his bed.
The swains and tardy neat-herds came, and last
Menalcas, wet with beating winter mast.
Wondering, they asked from whence arose thy flame.
Yet more amazed, thy own Apollo came.
Flushed were his cheeks, and glowing were his eyes:
"Is she thy care? is she thy care?" he cries.

Thy false Lycoris flies thy love and thee,

And, for thy rival, tempts the raging sea,

The forms of horrid war, and heaven's inclemency." Silvanus came: his brows a country crown Of fennel, and of nodding lilies, drown. Great Pan arrived; and we beheld him too, His cheeks and temples of vermilion hue. "Why, Gallus, this immoderate grief?" he cried, "Think'st thou that love with tears is satisfied?

The meads are sooner drunk with morning dews,
The bees with flowery shrubs, the goats with browze."
Unmoved, and with dejected eyes, he mourned:
He paused, and then these broken words returned:-
""Tis past; and pity gives me no relief:

But you,
Arcadian swains, shall sing my grief,
And on your hills my last complaints renew:
So sad a song is only worthy you.

How light would lie the turf upon my breast,
If you my sufferings in your songs exprest!
Ah! that your birth and business had been mine-
To pen the sheep, and press the swelling vine!
Had Phyllis or Amyntas caused my pain,
Or any nymph or shepherd on the plain,
(Though Phyllis brown, though black Amyntas were,
Are violets not sweet, because not fair?)

Beneath the sallows and the shady vine,

My loves had mixed their pliant limbs with mine:
Phyllis with myrtle wreaths had crowned my hair,
And soft Amyntas sung away my care.

Come, see what pleasures in our plains abound;
The woods, the fountains, and the flowery ground.
As you are beauteous, were you half so true,
Here could I live, and love, and die with only you.
Now I to fighting fields am sent afar,

And strive in winter camps with toils of war;
While you, (alas, that I should find it so!)
To shun my sight, your native soil forego,
And climb the frozen Alps, and tread the eternal

snow.

Ye frosts and snows, her tender body spare!
Those are not limbs for icicles to tear.

For me, the wilds and deserts are my choice;
The Muses, once my care; my once harmonious
voice.

There will I sing, forsaken, and alone :

The rocks and hollow caves shall echo to my moan.

The rind of every plant her name shall know;
And, as the rind extends, the love shall grow.
Then on Arcadian mountains will I chase
(Mixed with the woodland nymphs) the savage race;
Nor cold shall hinder me, with horns and hounds
To thrid the thickets, or to leap the mounds.
And now methinks o'er steepy rocks I go,

And rush through sounding woods, and bend the
Parthian bow;

As if with sports my sufferings I could ease,
Or by my pains the god of love appease.
My frenzy changes: I delight no more
On mountain tops to chase the tusky boar:
No game but hopeless love my thoughts pursue:
Once more, ye nymphs, and songs, and sounding
woods, adieu!

Love alters not for us his hard decrees,

Not though beneath the Thracian clime we freeze, Or Italy's indulgent heaven forego,

And in mid-winter tread Sithonian snow;

Or, when the barks of elms are scorched, we keep
On Meroe's burning plains the Libyan sheep.
In hell, and earth, and seas, and heaven above,
Love conquers all; and we must yield to Love."
My Muses, here your sacred raptures end:
The verse was what I owed my suffering friend.
This while I sung, my sorrows I deceived,
And bending osiers into baskets weaved.
The song, because inspired by you, shall shine;
And Gallus will approve, because 'tis mine-
Gallus, for whom my holy flames renew,
Each hour, and every moment rise in view;
As alders, in the spring, their boles extend,
And heave so fiercely, that the bark they rend.
Now let us rise; for hoarseness oft invades
The singer's voice, who sings beneath the shades.

5.

From juniper unwholesome dews distil,

That blast the sooty corn, the withering herbage,

kill.

Away, my goats, away! for you have browzed your

fill.

END OF THE THIRTEENTH VOLUME.

Edinburgh,

Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.