# Eclogues of Virgil (1908)/Eclogue 10

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ECLOGUE X.
GALLUS.
O Arethusa, help me once again To string some verses for my Gallus' ear, Fit for Lycoris fair herself to read. To Gallus mine, who would refuse such songs? So may the bitter stream that Doris pours Mingle not with thy wave as thou dost flow Into the flood that loves fair Sicily! We may begin to tell of Gallus' loves, Our flat-nosed she-goats nibbling hard the while The tender plants. To deaf ears sing we not, The forest echoes all our tuneful lays. What glades did ye frequent, ye Naiads young While Gallus pined in chains of cruel Love? Ye lingered not upon Parnassus' slopes Nor yet on Pindas did your steps delay Whilst e'en the laurels wept, to see him lie So sad, beneath the cliff, where the cold stones Of stern Lycæus seemed to share his grief His sheep surround him, staring at his woe. Divinest poet, do not scorn thy flock! ​Remember that the fair Adonis fed His sheep on the rich lawns by river's bank. Now comes the shepherd, and the neat-herds slow, Menalcas too, all wet with harvesting Plentiful acorns, in the wintry woods. All ask of Gallus, why he madly loves? Apollo bids him know, Lycoris now Follows a new love through the snowy waste. Behold, Silvanus, with his rustic crown, Waving a sceptre made of lilies tall And giant fennel-blooms. Then comes great Pan, The god of Arcady, whom we have seen "Rosy with juice of elder-berrics ripe. "Where will this end?" he cries, "Love careth not "For such as these, and cruel Love is not "O'ercome by tears. The grasses cannot drink "Too deeply of the softly-trickling rills, "Nor will the bees quit cytisus in bloom, "Nor browsing goats the green leaves of the Spring." "Then sadly he replies—"Yet of all these "Ye soon will sing. Arcadians skilled in song "Unto your mountains when ye shall return. "Ah, if one day your pipes should tell my loves, "Softly my bones might rest beneath the sod. "Would I had dwelt with you, to tend your flocks "Or dress your vines! Yea, some fair maid might then "'Neath bending willows my repose have shared. "Phyllis perchance, or whom my fancy chose. "Even Amyntas, though of swarthy hue. ​"But what of that? are not sweet violets dark "And hyacinths deep blue? She would have sung "And Phyllis plucked sweet-scented Melilot, "Lycoris, see what fountains cool are here, "What downy meads, and woodlands that entice "Lovers to spend their swiftly-passing hours! "Now, far from me, alas, thou dost remain. "Lured by mad passion, 'midst the War-God's hosts "Surrounded by fierce foes, with weapons grim. "Scarce can I deem it true that thou hast gone "Far from thy country to the Alpine snows, "And dwell'st 'mid frosts as cruel as thyself! "Ah, may the rough ice spare thy tender feet— "May the keen frost not harm thee! But for me "I must depart, and learn to sing my verse "To the Sicilian's shepherd's pipe, and must "Sternly resolve to suffer, in the woods "Where roam the wild beasts; there my love I'll carve "On trees, that as they grow, increase its mark. "Sometimes I will pursue the savage boar, "Or, with a troop of nymphs, climb Mœnalus— "Parthenian glades I'll traverse, with my dogs "However bleak the winds! Already there "I seem to be! 'Mid rocks and echoing groves— "And pleased, in fancy send the Cretan shaft "From Parthian bow. Ah! if such joys could heal "Love's lasting madness, or if gods could learn "To pity all the bitter griefs of men! "Not Dryads even give me now delight ​"Nor can, as once, sweet songs my heart refresh, "Nor shady forests please. We cannot hope "To change Love by our toil—not though we drink "From icy Hebrus, or endure hard days "Thro' drenching winters or Sithonian snows, "Nor yet, if when the scorching sun has dried "The bark on the tall elms, we drive our sheep "On Æthiopian plains—our toil is vain. "Love conquers all things—let us yield to love." Pierian goddesses, this shall suffice, Your poet sate, and wove the while he sang A basket of the slender mallow-shoots. You will prize Gallus all the more for this— Gallus, my love for whom grows day by day, As the green sprouts of Alders in the spring! Now let us rise; for singers it is ill To linger in the shade—to the young corn The junipers' deep shadow worketh harm; The evening star shines forth—now go, my goats, Ye may return, full fed, towards your home.