Beneath an holm that murmur'd to the breeze The youthful Daphnis lean'd in rural ease: With him two gay Arcadian swains reclin'd, Who in the neighbouring vale their flocks had join'd,
Thyrsis, whose care it was the goats to keep, And Corydon, who fed the fleecy sheep; Both in the flowery prime of youthful days, Both skill'd in single or responsive lays.
While I with busy hand a shelter form To guard my myrtles from the future storm, The husband of my goats had chanced to stray; To find the vagrant out I take my way.
Which Daphnis seeing cries, “Dismiss your fear, Your kids and goat are all in safety here; And, if no other care require your stay, Come, and with us unbend the toils of day
In this cool shade; at hand your heifers feed, And of themselves will to the watering speed; Here fringed with reeds slow Mincius winds along, And round yon oak the bees soft-murmuring throng.”
What could I do? for I was left alone, My Phyllis and Alcippe both were gone, And none remain'd to feed my weanling lambs, And to restrain them from their bleating dams:
Betwixt the swains a solemn match was set, To prove their skill, and end a long debate. Though serious matters claim'd my due regard, Their pastime to my business I preferr'd.
To sing by turns the Muse inspir'd the swains, And Corydon began th’ alternate strains. Ye nymphs of Helicon, my sole desire! O warm my breast with all my Codrus’ fire.
If none can equal Codrus’ heavenly lays, For next to Phoebus he deserves the praise, No more I ply the tuneful art divine, My silent pipe shall hang on yonder pine.
Arcadian swains, an ivy wreath bestow, With early honours crown your poet's brow; Codrus shall chafe, if you my songs commend, Till burning spite his tortur'd entrails rend;
Or amulets, to bind my temples, frame, Lest his invidious praises blast my fame. A stag's tall horns, and stain'd with savage gore This bristled visage of a tusky boar,
To thee, O virgin-goddess of the chase, Young Mycon offers for thy former grace. If like success his future labours crown, Thine, goddess, then shall be a nobler boon,
In polish'd marble thou shalt shine complete, And purple sandals shall adorn thy feet. To thee, Priapus,each returning year, This bowl of milk, these hallow'd cakes we bear;
Thy care our garden is but meanly stor'd, And mean oblations all we can afford. But if our flocks a numerous offspring yield, And our decaying fold again be fill'd,
Though now in marble thou obscurely shine, For thee a golden statue we design. O Galatea, whiter than the swan, Loveliest of all thy sisters of the main,
Sweeter than Hybla, more than lilies fair! If ought of Corydon employ thy care, When shades of night involve the silent sky, And slumbering in their stalls the oxen lie,
Come to my longing arms and let me prove Th’ immortal sweets of Galatea's love. As the vile sea-weed scatter'd by the storm, As he whose face Sardinian herbs deform,
As burs and brambles that disgrace the plain, So nauseous, so detested be thy swain; If when thine absence I am doom'd to bear The day appears not longer than a year.
Go home, my flocks, ye lengthen out the day, For shame, ye tardy flocks, for shame away! Ye mossy fountains, warbling as ye flow! And softer than the slumbers ye bestow,
Ye grassy banks! ye trees with verdure crown'd, Whose leaves a glimmering shade diffuse around! Grant to my weary flocks a cool retreat, And screen them from the summer's raging heat!
For now the year in brightest glory shines, Now reddening clusters deck the bending vines. Here's wood for fuel; here the fire displays To all around its animating blaze;
Black with continual smoke our posts appear; Nor dread we more the rigour of the year, Than the fell wolf the fearful lambkins dreads, When he the helpless fold by night invades;
Or swelling torrents, headlong as they roll, The weak resistance of the shatter'd mole. Now yellow harvests wave on every field, Now bending boughs the hoary chestnut yield,
Now loaded trees resign their annual store, And on the ground the mellow fruitage pour; Jocund, the face of Nature smiles, and gay; But if the fair Alexis were away,
Inclement drought the hardening soil would drain, And streams no longer murmur o'er the plain. A languid hue the thirsty fields assume, Parch'd to the root the flowers resign their bloom,
The faded vines refuse their hills to shade, Their leafy verdure wither'd and decay'd: But if my Phyllis on these plains appear, Again the groves their gayest green shall wear,
Again the clouds their copious moisture lend, And in the genial rain shall Jove descend. Alcides’ brows the poplar-leaves surround, Apollo's beamy locks with bays are crown'd,
The myrtle, lovely queen of smiles, is thine, And jolly Bacchus loves the curling vine; But while my Phyllis loves the hazel-spray, To hazel yield the myrtle and the bay.
The fir, the hills; the ash adorns the woods; The pine, the gardens; and the poplar, floods. If thou, my Lycidas, wilt deign to come, And cheer thy shepherd's solitary home,
The ash so fair in woods, and garden-pine Will own their beauty far excell'd by thine. So sung the swains, but Thyrsis strove in vain; Thus far I bear in mind th’ alternate strain.
Young Corydon acquir'd unrivall'd fame, And still we pay a deference to his name.
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