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“These deadly plants great Moris gave to me,
In Pontus plucked: in Pontus thousands grow.
By their aid have I seen him skulk in woods
A wolf, unsepulchre the buried dead,
And charm to other fields the standing corn.
Bring, songs, bring Daphnis from the city home.

“Go, Amaryllis, ashes in thy hand:
Throw them—and look not backwards—o'er thy head
Into a running stream. These next I'll try 110
On Daphnis; who regards not gods nor songs.
Bring, songs, bring Daphnis from the city home.

“See! While I hesitate, a quivering flame
Hath clutched the wood, self-issuing from the ash.
May this mean good! Something—for Hylas too
Barks at the gate-it must mean. Is it true?
Or are we lovers dupes of our own dreams ?
Cease, songs, cease. Daphnis comes from the city

home!”

ECLOGUE IX.

LYCIDAS. MERIS.

L. MERIS, on foot ? and on the road to town? M. Oh Lycidas !-we live to tell, how one(Who dreamed of this ?)—a stranger—holds

our farm, And says, “ 'Tis mine: its ancient lords,

begone !" Beaten, cast down-for Chance is lord of all· We send him-bootlessly mayhap—these kids. L. Yet all, I heard, from where we lose yon hills,

With gradual bend down-sloping to the brook,
And those old beeches, broken columns now,

Had your Menalcas rescued by his songs. 10 M. Thou heardst. Fame said so. But our songs

avail,
Mæris, no more 'mid warspears than, they say,
Dodona's doves may, when the eagle stoops.
A boding raven from a rifted oak

Warned me, by this means or by that to nip
This strange strife in the bud: or dead were

now

curse

ma

we SO

Thy Moris; dead were great Menalcas too. L. Could such curse fall on man? Had we so

near Lost thee, Menalcas, and thy pleasantries ? Who then would sing the nymphs? Who strow with flowers

20 The ground, or train green darkness o'er the

springs ? And oh! that song, which I (saying ne'er a

word) Copied one day—(while thou wert off to see My darling, Amaryllis,)—from thy notes: “Feed, while I journey but a few short steps, Tityrus, my goats: and, Tityrus, when they've

fed, Lead them to drink : and cross not by the way

The he-goat's path : his horns are dangerous.” M. But that to Varus, that unfinished one!

“Varus ! thy name, if Mantua still be ours— 30 (Mantua! to poor Cremona all too near,)

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Shall tuneful swans exalt unto the stars.".
L. Begin, if in thee's aught. So may not yews

Of Cyrnus lure thy bees : so, clover-fed,
Thy cattle teem with milk. Me too the muse
Hath made a minstrel: I have songs; and me
The swains call 'poet.' But I heed them not.
For scarce yet sing I as the great ones sing,

But, a goose, cackle among piping swans.
M. Indeed, I am busy turning o'er and o'er- 40

In hopes to recollect it-in my brain
A song, and not a mean one, Lycidas. :

“Come, Galatea! sport'st thou in the waves ? Here spring is purpling; thick by river-banks Bloom the gay flowers; white poplar climbs

above The caves, and young vines plait a roof

between. Come! and let mad seas beat against the

shore.” L. What were those lines that once I heard thee

sing,

All uncompanioned on a summer night-
I know the music, if I had the words.

50 M. “Daphnis ! why watch those old-world planets

rise ? :
Lo! onward marches sacred Cæsar's star,
The star that made the valleys laugh with corn.
And grapes grow ruddier upon sunny hills.
Sow, Daphnis, pears, whereof thy sons shall

eat.”
-Time carries all-our memories e'en-away.
Well I remember how my boyish songs
Would oft outlast the livelong summer day,
And now they're all forgot. His very voice
Hath Moris lost: on Mæris wolves have
looked.

60 -But oft thou 'lt hear them from Menalcas yet. L. Thy pleas but draw my passion out. And lo!

All hushed to listen is the wide sea-floor,
And laid the murmurings of the soughing

winds.
And now we're half-way there. I can descry
Bianor's grave. Here, Moris, where the swains
Are raking off the thick leaves, let us sing.
Or, if we fear lest night meanwhile bring up
The rain clouds, singing let us journey on-

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