C. "Ye mossy rills, and lawns more soft than T. "Warm hearth, good faggots, and great fires you'll find In my home black with smoke are all its planks: We laugh, who 're in it, at the chill north wind, As wolves at troops of sheep, mad streams at banks." C. "Here furry chesnuts rise and juniper: Heaped 'neath each tree the fallen apples lie: All smiles. But, once let fair Alexis stir From off these hills-and lo! the streams are dry." 60 T. "Thirsts in parched lands and dies the blighted grass; Vines lend no shadow to the mountain-height; But groves shall bloom again, when comes my lass; And in glad showers Jove descend in might.” C. "Poplars Alcides likes, and Bacchus vines; Fair Venus myrtle, and Apollo bay: T. But while to hazel-leaves my love inclines, Nor bays nor myrtles greater are than they." “Fair in woods ash; and pine on garden-grass: On tall cliffs fir; by pools the poplar-tree. 70 But if thou come here oft, sweet Lycidas, Lawn-pine and mountain-ash must yield to thee." M. All this I've heard before: remember well How Thyrsis strove in vain against defeat. From that day forth 'twas 'Corydon' for me. ECLOGUE VIII. ALPHESIBUS's and Damon's muse Charmed by whose strife the steer forgot to graze; Whose notes made lynxes motionless, and bade Rivers turn back and listen-sing we next: Alphesibous's and Damon's muse. Winn'st thou the crags of great Timavus now, ΙΟ 'Twas at the hour when night's cold shadow scarce "Wake, morning star! Prevent warm day, and come! While, duped and humbled, I-because I loved Nisa with all a husband's love-complain; 20 And call the gods, (though naught their cognizance Availed,) at my last hour, a dying man. Begin, my flute, a song of Arcady. 'There forests murmur aye, and pines discourse; And lovelorn swains, and Pan, who first reclaimed From idleness the reed, hath audience there. Begin, my flute, a song of Arcady. "Nisa-is aught impossible in love?— Is given to Mopsus. Griffins next will mate Mopsus! fling, bridegroom, nuts! Thou lead'st a wife "Oh, mated with a worthy husband! thou Who scorn'st mankind-abhorr'st this pipe, these goats Of mine, and shaggy brows, and hanging beard: Nor think'st that gods can see what mortals do! Begin, my flute, a song of Arcady. "Within our orchard-walls I saw thee first, Begin, my flute, a song of Arcady. 40 "Now know I what love is. On hard rocks born Tmaros, or Rhodope, or they who dwell In utmost Africa do father him; No child of mortal blood or lineage. Begin, my flute, a song of Arcady. 50 "In her son's blood a mother dipped her hands At fierce love's bidding. Hard was her heart too |