Eclogues of Virgil (1908)/Eclogue 7
ECLOGUE VII.
MELIBŒUS.
Melibœus. Corydon. Thyrsis.
Melibœus.By chance, my Daphnis sat to rest awhile
Under a rustling holm-oak, and his friends
Thyrsis and Corydon their mingled flocks
Had thither brought, Thyrsis his sheep—there too
The she-goats, full of milk, of Corydon.
Both swains were in the first flower of their youth,
Both of Arcadian sort, equal in song
And skilled in giving answer, verse by verse.
Hither (whilst I, with careful zeal, did seek
My tender myrtles from the cold to shield)
The he-goat, father of my flock, had strayed.
Soon I, and Daphnis, both each other spied,
And he cried, "Melibœus, come with haste!
Thy goat and kids are safe, so, if thou canst
Cease from thy labour, rest here in the shade.
O'er the fair meadows mays't thou see thy kine
Come of their own free will, to slake their thirst,
Green with soft rushes, here are Mincio's banks,
Whilst swarming bees hum round the sacred oak."
—What could I do? I owned no careful folk
At home, to shut up all my weanling lambs,
But, as this great match was by Corydon
And Thyrsis planned, I must prefer their joy
To my affairs. So both began the fray
In verse alternate. Muses, lend your aid
To 'mind me of the answering of their verse.
These Corydon did say, and Thyrsis those.
Corydon.Nymphs of Libethins, I your worshipper
Now crave from you this boon, either to grant
To me the gift of song, as once ye gave
To Codrus, who strings verses that may rank
Nearest to Phœbus' own—or, as indeed
Not all of us may win, then will I hang
My tuneful pipe upon your sacred pine.
Thyrsis.Arcadian shepherds, deck with ivy wreaths
Your rising poet, that with envy torn
Codrus may burst, or, should he praise too much
Then bind my brow with foxglove, that his tongue
May work no evil to the future bard.
Corydon.O Delia, at thy feet now lay I down
An offering—this head of bristled boar;
And the young Micon prays thee to accept
The branching antlers of the long-lived stag.
Had it been fitting, thou shouldst stand erect
In polished marble shown, with buskins red.
Thyrsis.A bowl of milk, Priapus, and these cakes,
Thou, year by year, mayest look for, and no more.
Of a poor garden, thou the keeper art.
For the time being, marble is thy form,
But, should the flock increase, 'twill be of gold.
Corydon.Thou sea-nymph Galatea, who to me
Sweeter than Hybla's thyme, and whiter far
Than swans, and fairer art than ivory pale!
Soon as the pastured bulls shall seek their stalls
Come to thy Corydon, if thou care for him!
Thyrsis.Now may I seem to thee bitter indeed,
Worse than Sardinian herbs, rougher than broom
And viler than the sea-weed cast ashore,
If this one day does not appear to me
Longer than twelve long months. Go home, my steers,
For very shame go home, my grazing herd.
Corydon.Ye mossy founts, 'midst herbage slumb'rous soft
And the light shade of green arbutus boughs
Shelter my flock from the midsummer heat!
Now come the scorching days, now swell the buds
In the luxuriant branches of the vine.
Thyrsis.Here glows a ruddy hearth, with pitch pine logs
Ever alight—and doorposts, black with smoke.
We heed no more the northern cold, than does
The wolf the flock, or flooded streams their banks.
Corydon.Chestnuts and junipers in thick groves stand,
And fallen apples lie beneath the trees;
All things smile on us, but, Alexis fair,
Should he desert these hills, why, e'en the streams
Would dry up in their beds, for lack of him!
Thyrsis.Now are the green fields parched; the withered grass
Thirsts in the poisoned air, and Bacchus e'en
Grudges our hills the shadow of his vines.
But when our Phyllis comes, then every grove
In richest verdure shall be clad, and Jove
Shall on our land descend, in gladd'ning showers.
Corydon.The poplar is the tree for Hercules;
The vine belongs to Bacchus, and the fair
Goddess of Beauty, claims her myrtle green;
While Phœbus in the shining bay delights.
But Phyllis loves the hazel, so whilst she
Shall love, no myrtle, nor e'en Phœbus' bay
Will e'er excel the humble hazel bush.
Thyrsis.The glory of the ash is in the woods,
The pine in gardens, poplar by the stream;
On the high mountains stands the lonely fir
But if, fair Lycidas, I can obtain
Oftener thy company, nor slender ash
Nor stately pine, for me will equal thee.
Melibœus.These are the songs I call to mind, and how
In vain for victory, vanquish'd Thyrsis strove
And how from that time, Corydon is ours.