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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=479698" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Eclogue 10: Gallus</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This now, the very latest of my toils,<br>Vouchsafe me, Arethusa! needs must I<br>Sing a brief song to Gallus- brief, but yet<br>Such as Lycoris' self may fitly read.<br>Who would not sing for Gallus? So, when thou<br>Beneath Sicanian billows glidest on,<br>May Doris blend no bitter wave with thine,<br>Begin! The love of Gallus be our theme,<br>And the shrewd pangs he suffered, while, hard by,<br>The flat-nosed she-goats browse the tender brush.<br>We sing not to deaf ears; no word of ours<br>But the woods echo it. What groves or lawns<br>Held you, ye Dryad-maidens, when for love-<br>Love all unworthy of a loss so dear-<br>Gallus lay dying? for neither did the slopes<br>Of Pindus or Parnassus stay you then,<br>No, nor Aonian Aganippe. Him<br>Even the laurels and the tamarisks wept;<br>For him, outstretched beneath a lonely rock,<br>Wept pine-clad Maenalus, and the flinty crags<br>Of cold Lycaeus. The sheep too stood around-<br>Of us they feel no shame, poet divine;<br>Nor of the flock be thou ashamed: even fair<br>Adonis by the rivers fed his sheep-<br>Came shepherd too, and swine-herd footing slow,<br>And, from the winter-acorns dripping-wet<br>Menalcas. All with one accord exclaim:<br>'From whence this love of thine?' Apollo came;<br>'Gallus, art mad?' he cried, 'thy bosom's care<br>Another love is following.'Therewithal<br>Silvanus came, with rural honours crowned;<br>The flowering fennels and tall lilies shook<br>Before him. Yea, and our own eyes beheld<br>Pan, god of Arcady, with blood-red juice<br>Of the elder-berry, and with vermilion, dyed.<br>'Wilt ever make an end?' quoth he, 'behold<br>Love recks not aught of it: his heart no more<br>With tears is sated than with streams the grass,<br>Bees with the cytisus, or goats with leaves.'<br>'Yet will ye sing, Arcadians, of my woes<br>Upon your mountains,' sadly he replied-<br>'Arcadians, that alone have skill to sing.<br>O then how softly would my ashes rest,<br>If of my love, one day, your flutes should tell!<br>And would that I, of your own fellowship,<br>Or dresser of the ripening grape had been,<br>Or guardian of the flock! for surely then,<br>Let Phyllis, or Amyntas, or who else,<br>Bewitch me- what if swart Amyntas be?<br>Dark is the violet, dark the hyacinth-<br>Among the willows, 'neath the limber vine,<br>Reclining would my love have lain with me,<br>Phyllis plucked garlands, or Amyntas sung.<br>Here are cool springs, soft mead and grove, Lycoris;<br>Here might our lives with time have worn away.<br>But me mad love of the stern war-god holds<br>Armed amid weapons and opposing foes.<br>Whilst thou- Ah! might I but believe it not!-<br>Alone without me, and from home afar,<br>Look'st upon Alpine snows and frozen Rhine.<br>Ah! may the frost not hurt thee, may the sharp<br>And jagged ice not wound thy tender feet!<br>I will depart, re-tune the songs I framed<br>In verse Chalcidian to the oaten reed<br>Of the Sicilian swain. Resolved am I<br>In the woods, rather, with wild beasts to couch,<br>And bear my doom, and character my love<br>Upon the tender tree-trunks: they will grow,<br>And you, my love, grow with them. And meanwhile<br>I with the Nymphs will haunt Mount Maenalus,<br>Or hunt the keen wild boar. No frost so cold<br>But I will hem with hounds thy forest-glades,<br>Parthenius. Even now, methinks, I range<br>O'er rocks, through echoing groves, and joy to launch<br>Cydonian arrows from a Parthian bow.-<br>As if my madness could find healing thus,<br>Or that god soften at a mortal's grief!<br>Now neither Hamadryads, no, nor songs<br>Delight me more: ye woods, away with you!<br>No pangs of ours can change him; not though we<br>In the mid-frost should drink of Hebrus' stream,<br>And in wet winters face Sithonian snows,<br>Or, when the bark of the tall elm-tree bole<br>Of drought is dying, should, under Cancer's Sign,<br>In Aethiopian deserts drive our flocks.<br>Love conquers all things; yield we too to love!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These songs, Pierian Maids, shall it suffice<br>Your poet to have sung, the while he sat,<br>And of slim mallow wove a basket fine:<br>To Gallus ye will magnify their worth,<br>Gallus, for whom my love grows hour by hour,<br>As the green alder shoots in early Spring.<br>Come, let us rise: the shade is wont to be<br>Baneful to singers; baneful is the shade<br>Cast by the juniper, crops sicken too<br>In shade. Now homeward, having fed your fill-<br>Eve's star is rising-go, my she-goats, go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Publius+Vergilius+Maro">Publius Vergilius Maro</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=479698" data-title="Eclogue 10: Gallus de Publius Vergilius Maro" data-description="This now, the very latest of my toils,
Vouchsafe me, Arethusa! needs must I
Sing a brief song to Gallus- brief, but yet
Such as Lycoris' self may fitly read.
Who would not sing for Gallus? So, when thou
Beneath Sicanian billows glidest on,
May Dor..."></div>
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