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YON breezy pine, whose foliage shades the
In many a vocal whisper sweetly sings: [springs,
Sweet too the murmurs of thy breathing reed:
Thine, Goatherd, next to Pan, is Music's meed!
For, if the god receive a horn'd he goat,
The female shall attend thy Dorian oat!
But if the rights of silvan Pan forbid
And he the female claim, be thine a kid!
Full udder'd, ere we stroke its flowing teat,
We hold the tender kid delicious meat.
GOAT. Sweeter thy warblings than the streams that glide
Down the smooth rock, so musical a tide!
If one white ewe reward the Muse's strain,
A stall-fed lamb awaits the shepherd swain:
But if the gentler lambkin please the Nine,
Then, tuneful Thyrsis, shall the ewe be thine.
THYR. Say, wilt thou rest thee on this shelving bed,
By the cool tamarisk's shady bower o'erspread?
Come, wilt thou charm the woodnymphs with thy
I'll feed thy goats, if thou consent to play. [lay?
GOAT. I dare not, shepherd, at the hour of noon,
My pipe to rustic melodies attune:
"Tis Pan we fear: from hunting he returns,
As all in silence hush'd the noonday burns;
And, tired, reposes mid the woodland scene,
Whilst on his nostrils sits a bitter spleen.
But come (since Daphnis' woes to thee are known;
And well we deem the rural Muse thine own),
Let us, at ease, beneath that elm recline [shine;
Where sculptured Naiads o'er their fountains
While gay Priapus guards the sweet retreat,
And oaks, wide-branching, shade yon pastoral
And, Thyrsis, if thou sing so soft a strain [seat.
As erst contending with the Libyan swain;
Thrice shalt thou milk that goat for such a lay;
Two kids she rears, yet fills two pails a day.
With this, I'll stake (o'erlaid with wax it stands,
And smells just recent from the graver's hands)
My large two-handled cup,rich-wrought and deep:
Around whose brim pale ivy seems to creep,
With helichryse entwined: small tendrils hold
Its saffron fruit in many a clasping fold.
Within, high-touch'd, a female figure shines;-
Her cawl-her vest-how soft the waving lines!
And near, two youths (bright ringlets grace their
Breathe in alternate strife their amorous vows. On each, by turns, the faithless fair one smiles, And views the rival pair with wanton wiles.
Brimful through passion swell their twinkling
And their full bosoms heave with fruitless sighs!
Amidst the scene, a fisher, gray with years,
On the rough summit of a rock appears;
And labouring, with one effort as he stands,
To throw his large net, drags it with both hands!
So muscular his limbs attract the sight-
You'd swear the fisher stretch'd with all his might.
Round his hoar neck, each swelling vein displays
A vigour worthy youth's robuster days!
Next, red ripe grapes in bending clusters glow:
A boy, to watch the vineyard, sits below!
Two foxes round him skulk: this slily gapes
To catch a luscious morsel of the grapes;
But that, in ambush, aiming at the scrip,
Thinks 'tis too sweet a moment to let slip-
And cries: It suits my tooth-the little dunce-
I'll send him dinnerless away, for once!'
He, idly busy, with his rush-bound reeds
Weaves locust traps; nor scrip nor vineyard
Flexile around its sides the' acanthus twined,
Strikes as a miracle of art the mind.
This cup (from Calydon it cross'd the seas)
I bought for a she goat, and new-made cheese!
As yet unsoil'd, nor touch'd by lip of mine,
My friend, this masterpiece of wood be thine,
For thy loved hymn so sweet, a willing meed!
Sure sweeter flows not from the pastoral reed!
And yet I envy not thy proudest boast—
Thy song will never reach Oblivion's coast.
THYR. Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pas-
Lo, Ætna's swain! 'tis Thyrsis' notes that flow!
Where stray'd ye, nymphs, when Daphnis pined with love?
Through Peneus' vale, or Pindus' steepy grove?
For not Anapus' flood your steps delay'd—
Or Acis' sacred wave, or Ætna's shade!
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe, In melting cadence may the numbers flow. Gaunt wolves and pards deplored his parting breath;
And e'en the forest lion mourn'd his death.
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe, In melting cadence may the numbers flow. Bulls, cows, and steers stood drooping at his side, And wail'd, in sorrow, as the shepherd died.
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe, In melting cadence may the numbers flow. First winged Hermes from the mountain came: Whence, Daphnis, whence (he cried) this fatal flame?'
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe, In melting cadence may the numbers flow. The goatherds, hinds, and shepherds, all inquired—
'What ail'd the herdsman? and what fever fired?" Priapus came, and cried-'Ah, Daphnis, say, Does love, poor Daphnis, steal thy soul away? She with bare feet through woods and fountains
Exclaiming, "Hah, too thoughtless in thy loves! Hah! what though herdsman be thy purer name, Sure, all the goatherd marks thy lawless flame.
He views with leering eyes his goats askance,
Notes their keen sport, and pines in every glance:
Thus, while the virgin train, fleet bounding by,
Weave the gay dance, and titter at thy sigh;
Perfidious man! each laugh lights up desire,
That wastes thy gloting eyes with wanton fire!"
Silent he sat still burning, every vein [pain.
Throbb'd through dire love, till death extinguish'd
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe,
In melting cadence may the numbers flow.
Next Venus' self the hapless youth address'd
(With faint, forced smiles, yet anger at her breast):
'Well, Daphnis, art thou still a match for love?
Say, does not Cupid now the victor prove?'
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe, In melting cadence may the numbers flow. Buthe: "Too true thou sayst, that Love hath won! Too sure thy triumphs mark my setting sun!'
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe, In melting cadence may the numbers flow. 'Fly, where Anchises-to his arms awayAnd screen your pleasures from the garish day. On Ida's hill: there spread o'erarching groves; There many an oak will hide your covert loves; There the broad rush, in matted verdure, thrives; There bees, in busy swarms, hum round their hives.
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe, In melting cadence may the numbers flow. 'Adonis too-though delicately fairHe feeds his flocks, and hunts the flying hare!
Begin, dear Muse, the strain of pastoral woe, In melting cadence may the numbers flow.