Go you to town, my friend? this beaten way Conducts us thither. Ah! the fatal day, The unexpected day at last is come,
When a rude alien drives us from our home. Hence, hence, ye clowns, th’ usurper thus commands, To me you must resign your ancient lands. Thus helpless and forlorn we yield to fate;
And our rapacious lord to mitigate This brace of kids a present I design, Which load with curses, O ye powers divine! ‘ Twas said, Menalcas with his tuneful strains
Had sav'd the grounds of all the neighbouring swains, From where the hill, that terminates the vale, In easy risings first begins to swell, Far as the blasted beech that mates the sky,
And the clear stream that gently murmurs by. Such was the voice of fame; but music's charms, Amid the dreadful clang of warlike arms, Avail no more, than the Chaonian dove
When down the sky descends the bird of Jove. And had not the prophetic raven spoke His dire presages from the hollow oak, And often warn'd me to avoid debate,
And with a patient mind submit to fate, Ne'er had thy Moeris seen this fatal hour, And that melodious swain had been no more. What horrid breasts such impious thoughts could breed!
What barbarous hand could make Menalcas bleed! Could every tender Muse in him destroy, And from the shepherds ravish all their joy! For who but he the lovely nymphs could sing,
Or paint the valleys with the purple spring? Who shade the fountains from the glare of day? Who but Menalcas could compose the lay, Which, as we journey'd to my love's abode,
I softly sung to cheer the lonely road? “Tityrus, while I am absent, feed the flock, And, having fed, conduct them to the brook, ( The way is short, and I shall soon return )
But shun the he-goat with the butting horn.” Or who could finish the imperfect lays Sung by Menalcas to his Varus’ praise? “If fortune yet shall spare the Mantuan swains,
And save from plundering hands our peaceful plains, Nor doom us sad Cremona's fate to share, ( For ah! a neighbour's woe excites our fear ) Then high as Heaven our Varus’ fame shall rise,
The warbling swans shall bear it to the skies.” Go on, dear swain, these pleasing songs pursue; So may thy bees avoid the bitter yew, So may rich herds thy fruitful fields adorn,
So may thy cows with strutting dugs return. Even I with poets have obtain'd a name, The Muse inspires me with poetic flame Th’ applauding shepherds to my songs attend,
But I suspect my skill, though they commend. I dare not hope to please a Cinna's ear, Or sing what Varus might vouchsafe to hear. Harsh are the sweetest lays that I can bring,
So screams a goose where swans melodious sing. This I am pondering, if I can rehearse The lofty numbers of that labour'd verse. “Come, Galatea, leave the rolling seas;
Can rugged rocks and heaving surges please? Come, taste the pleasures of our sylvan bowers, Our balmy-breathing gales, and fragrant flowers. See, how our plains rejoice on every side,
How crystal streams thro’ blooming valleys glide: O'er the cool grot the whitening poplars bend, And clasping vines their grateful umbrage lend. Come, beauteous nymph, forsake the briny wave,
Loud on the beach let the wild billows rave.” Or what you sung one evening on the plain — The air, but not the words, I yet retain. “Why, Daphnis, dost thou calculate the skies
To know when ancient constellations rise? Lo, Caesar's star its radiant light displays, And on the nations sheds propitious rays. On the glad hills the reddening clusters glow,
And smiling plenty decks the plains below. Now graff thy pears; the star of Caesar reigns, To thy remotest race the fruit remains.” The rest I have forgot, for length of years
Deadens the sense, and memory impairs. All things in time submit to sad decay; Oft have we sung whole summer suns away. These vanish'd joys must Moeris now deplore,
His voice delights, his numbers charm no more; Him have the wolves beheld, bewitch'd his song, Bewitch'd to silence his melodious tongue. But your desire Menalcas can fulfil,
All these, and more, he sings with matchless skill. These faint excuses which my Moeris frames But heighten my desire.— And now the streams In slumber-soothing murmurs softly flow;
And now the sighing breeze hath ceas'd to blow. Half of our way is past, for I descry Bianor's tomb just rising to the eye. Here in this leafy harbour ease your toil,
Lay down your kids, and let us sing the while: We soon shall reach the town; or, lest a storm Of sudden rain the evening-sky deform, Be yours to cheer the journey with a song,
Eas'd of your load, which I shall bear along. No more, my friend; your kind entreaties spare, And let our journey be our present care; Let fate restore our absent friend again,
Then gladly I resume the tuneful strain.
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