Great was the strife betwixt the singing swains:
And I preferr'd my pleasure to my gains.
Alternate rhyme the ready champion chose:
These Corydon rehears'd, and Thyrsis those.
Ye muses, ever fair and ever young,
Assist my numbers and inspire my song.
With all my Codrus, O! inspire my breast;
For Codrus, after Phoebus, sings the best.
Or, if my wishes have presum'd too high,
And stretch'd their bounds beyond mortality,
The praise of artful numbers I resign,
And hang my pipe upon the sacred pine.
Arcadian swains, your youthful poet crown
With ivy-wreaths, though surly Codrus frown.
Or, if he blast my muse with envious praise,
Then fence my brows with amulets of bays.
Lest his ill arts or his malicious tongue
Should poison, or bewitch my growing song.
These branches of a stag, this tusky boar
(The first essay of arms untried before)
Young Micon offers, Delia, to thy shrine.
But, speed his hunting with thy pow'r divine;
Thy statue then of Parian stone shall stand;
Thy legs in buskins with a purple band.
This bowl of milk, these cakes, (our country fare)
For thee, Priapus, yearly we prepare,
Because a little garden is thy care.
But, if the falling lambs increase my fold,
Thy marble statue shall be turn'd to gold.
Fair Galatea, with thy silver feet.
O, whiter than the swan, and more than Hybla sweet! ·
Tall as a poplar, taper as the pole!
Come, charm thy shepherd, and restore my soul.
Come, when my lated sheep at night return;
And crown the silent hours, and stop the rosy morn.
May I become as abject in thy sight
As sea-weed on the shore, and black as night;
Rough as a burr; deform'd like him who chaws
Sardinian herbage to contract his jaws;
Such and so monstrous let thy swain appear,
If one day's absence looks not like a year.
Hence from the field, for shame! the flock deserves
No better feeding while the shepherd starves.
Ye mossy springs, inviting easy sleep
Ye trees, whose leafy shades those mossy fountains keep
Defend my flock! The summer heats are near,
And blossoms on the swelling vines appear.
With heapy fires our cheerful hearth is crown'd,
And firs for torches in the woods abound:
We fear not more the winds and wintry cold,
Than streams the banks, or wolves the bleating fold.
Our woods, with juniper and chestnuts crown'd,
With falling fruits and berries paint the ground;
And lavish nature laughs, and strows her stores around. But, if Alexis from our mountains fly,
E'en running rivers leave their channels dry.
Parch'd are the plains, and frying is the field,
Nor with❜ring vines their juicy vintage yield
But, if returning Phyllis bless the plain,
The grass revives; the woods are green again;
And Jove descends in showers of kindly rain.
The poplar is by great Alcides worn;
The brows of Phoebus his own bays adorn;
The branching vine the jolly Bacchus loves;
The Cyprian queen delights in myrtle groves;
With hazel hyllis crowns her flowing hair;
And, while she loves that common wreath to wear,
Nor bays, nor myrtle boughs, with hazel shall compare.
The tow'ring ash is fairest in the woods;
In gardens,pines, and poplars by the floods;
But, if my Lucidas will ease my pains,
And often visit our forsaken plains,
To him the tow'ring ash shall yield in woods,
In gardens, pines, and poplars by the floods.
These rhymes I did to memory commend,
When vanquish'd Thyrsis did in vain contend;
Since when 'tis Corydon among the swains,
Young Corydon without a rival reigns.
This pastoral contains the songs of Damon and Alphesibæus. The first of them bewails the loss of his mistress, and repines at the success of his rival Mopsus. The other repeats the charms of some enchantress, who endeavoured by her spells and magic to make Daphnis in love with her.
THE mournful muse of two despairing swains,
The love rejected and the lovers' pains;
To which the savage lynxes list'ning stood;
The rivers stood in heaps, and stopp'd the running flood
The hungry herd their needful food refuse -
Of two despairing swains, I sing the mournful muse.
Great Pollio! thou, for whom thy Rome prepares
The ready triumph of thy finish'd wars,
Whether Timavus or th' Illyrian coast,
Whatever land or sea, thy presence boast;
Is there an hour in fate reserv'd for me,
To sing thy deeds in numbers worthy thee?
In numbers like to thine, could I rehearse
Thy lofty tragic scenes, thy labour'd verse;
The world another Sophocles in thee,
Another Homer should behold in me.
Amidst thy laurels let this ivy twine:
Thine was my earliest muse, my latest shall be thine. Scarce from the world the shades of night withdrew, Scarce were the flocks refresh'd with morning dew, 20
When Damon, stretch'd beneath an olive shade,
And wildly staring upwards, thus inveigh'd
Against the conscious gods, and curs'd the maid:
"Star of the morning, why dost thou delay?
Come, Lucifer, drive on the lagging day,
While I my Nisa's perjur'd faith deplore-
Witness, ye pow'rs by whom she falsely swore!
The gods, alas! are witnesses in vain:
Yet shall my dying breath to heaven complain. Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalían strain. 30 "The pines of Mænalus, the vocal grove,
Are ever full of verse and full of love:
They hear the hinds, they hear their god complain,
Who suffer'd not the reeds to rise in vain.
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain. 35
"Mopsus triumphs; he weds the willing fair.
When such is Nisa's choice, what lover can despair?
Now griffons join with mares; another age
Shall see the hound and hind their thirst assuage,
Promiscuous at the spring. Prepare the lights
O Mopsus! and perform the bridal rites.
Scatter thy nuts among the scrambling boys:
Thine is the night,and thine the nuptial joys.
For thee the sun declines: O happy swain!
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain. 45
"O Nisa! justly to thy choice condemn'd!
Whom hast thou taken, whom hast thou contemn'd?
For him, thou hast refus'd my browzing herd,
Scorn'd my thick eye-brows, and my shaggy beard.
Unhappy Damon sighs and sings in vain,
While Nisa thinks no god regards a lover's pain.
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain.
"I view'd thee first, (how fatal was the view!)
And led thee where the ruddy wildings grew,
High on the planted hedge, and wet with morning
dew.
|