# Eclogues of Virgil (1908)/Eclogue 7

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ECLOGUE VII.
MELIBŒUS.
Melibœus. Corydon. Thyrsis.
Melibœus.By chance, my Daphnis sat to rest awhile Under a rustling holm-oak, and his friends Thyrsis and Corydon their mingled flocks Had thither brought, Thyrsis his sheep—there too The she-goats, full of milk, of Corydon. Both swains were in the first flower of their youth, Both of Arcadian sort, equal in song And skilled in giving answer, verse by verse. Hither (whilst I, with careful zeal, did seek My tender myrtles from the cold to shield) The he-goat, father of my flock, had strayed. Soon I, and Daphnis, both each other spied, And he cried, "Melibœus, come with haste! Thy goat and kids are safe, so, if thou canst Cease from thy labour, rest here in the shade. O'er the fair meadows mays't thou see thy kine Come of their own free will, to slake their thirst, Green with soft rushes, here are Mincio's banks, Whilst swarming bees hum round the sacred oak." —What could I do? I owned no careful folk At home, to shut up all my weanling lambs, ​But, as this great match was by Corydon And Thyrsis planned, I must prefer their joy To my affairs. So both began the fray In verse alternate. Muses, lend your aid To 'mind me of the answering of their verse. These Corydon did say, and Thyrsis those. Corydon.Nymphs of Libethins, I your worshipper Now crave from you this boon, either to grant To me the gift of song, as once ye gave To Codrus, who strings verses that may rank Nearest to Phœbus' own—or, as indeed Not all of us may win, then will I hang My tuneful pipe upon your sacred pine. Thyrsis.Arcadian shepherds, deck with ivy wreaths Your rising poet, that with envy torn Codrus may burst, or, should he praise too much Then bind my brow with foxglove, that his tongue May work no evil to the future bard. Corydon.O Delia, at thy feet now lay I down An offering—this head of bristled boar; And the young Micon prays thee to accept The branching antlers of the long-lived stag. Had it been fitting, thou shouldst stand erect In polished marble shown, with buskins red. Thyrsis.A bowl of milk, Priapus, and these cakes, Thou, year by year, mayest look for, and no more. Of a poor garden, thou the keeper art. For the time being, marble is thy form, But, should the flock increase, 'twill be of gold. ​Corydon.Thou sea-nymph Galatea, who to me Sweeter than Hybla's thyme, and whiter far Than swans, and fairer art than ivory pale! Soon as the pastured bulls shall seek their stalls Come to thy Corydon, if thou care for him! Thyrsis.Now may I seem to thee bitter indeed, Worse than Sardinian herbs, rougher than broom And viler than the sea-weed cast ashore, If this one day does not appear to me Longer than twelve long months. Go home, my steers, For very shame go home, my grazing herd. Corydon.Ye mossy founts, 'midst herbage slumb'rous soft And the light shade of green arbutus boughs Shelter my flock from the midsummer heat! Now come the scorching days, now swell the buds In the luxuriant branches of the vine. Thyrsis.Here glows a ruddy hearth, with pitch pine logs Ever alight—and doorposts, black with smoke. We heed no more the northern cold, than does The wolf the flock, or flooded streams their banks. Corydon.Chestnuts and junipers in thick groves stand, And fallen apples lie beneath the trees; All things smile on us, but, Alexis fair, Should he desert these hills, why, e'en the streams Would dry up in their beds, for lack of him! Thyrsis.Now are the green fields parched; the withered grass Thirsts in the poisoned air, and Bacchus e'en Grudges our hills the shadow of his vines. But when our Phyllis comes, then every grove ​In richest verdure shall be clad, and Jove Shall on our land descend, in gladd'ning showers. Corydon.The poplar is the tree for Hercules; The vine belongs to Bacchus, and the fair Goddess of Beauty, claims her myrtle green; While Phœbus in the shining bay delights. But Phyllis loves the hazel, so whilst she Shall love, no myrtle, nor e'en Phœbus' bay Will e'er excel the humble hazel bush. Thyrsis.The glory of the ash is in the woods, The pine in gardens, poplar by the stream; On the high mountains stands the lonely fir But if, fair Lycidas, I can obtain Oftener thy company, nor slender ash Nor stately pine, for me will equal thee. Melibœus.These are the songs I call to mind, and how In vain for victory, vanquish'd Thyrsis strove And how from that time, Corydon is ours.