Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ECLOGUE 2. CORYDON, by PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ECLOGUE 2. CORYDON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: For one fair face - his master's idol - burned
Last Line: Thou'lt find another love, if scorned by this.
Alternate Author Name(s): Virgil; Vergil


FOR one fair face -- his master's idol -- burned
The shepherd Corydon; and hope had none.
Day after day he came ('twas all he could)
Where, piles of shadow, thick the beeches rose:
There, all alone, his unwrought phrases flung,
Bootless as passionate, to copse and crag.
"Hardhearted! Naught car'st thou for all my songs,
Naught pitiest. I shall die, one day, for thee.
The very cattle court cool shadows now,
Now the green lizard hides beneath the thorn:
And for the reaper, faint with driving heat,
The handmaids mix the garlic-salad strong.
My only mates, the crickets -- as I track
'Neath the fierce sun thy steps -- make shrill the woods.
Better to endure the passion and the pride
Of Amaryllis: better to endure
Menalcas -- dark albeit as thou art fair.
Put not, oh fair, in difference of hue
Faith overmuch: the white May-blossoms drop
And die; the hyacinth swart, men gather it.
Thy scorn am I: thou ask'st not whence I am,
How rich in snowy flocks, how stored with milk.
O'er Sicily's green hills a thousand lambs
Wander, all mine: my new milk fails me not
In summer or in snow. Then I can sing
All songs Amphion the Dircaean sang,
Piping his flocks from Attic Aracynth.
Nor am I all uncouth. For yesterday,
When winds had laid the seas, I, from the shore,
Beheld my image. Little need I fear
Daphnis, though thou wert judge, or mirrors lie.
-- Oh! be content to haunt ungentle fields,
A cottager, with me; bring down the stag,
And with green switch drive home thy flocks of kids:
Like mine, thy woodland songs shall rival Pan's!
-- 'Twas Pan first taught us reed on reed to fit
With wax: Pan watches herd and herdsman too.
-- Nor blush that reeds should chafe thy pretty lip.
What pains Amyntas took, this skill to gain!
I have a pipe -- seven stalks of different lengths
Compose it -- which Damoetas gave me once.
Dying he said, "At last 'tis all thine own."
The fool Amyntas heard, and grudged, the praise.
Two fawns moreover (perilous was the gorge
Down which I tracked them!) -- dappled still each skin --
Drain daily two ewe-udders; all for thee.
Long Thestylis has cried to make them hers.
Hers be they -- since to thee my gifts are dross.

Be mine, oh fairest! See! for thee the Nymphs
Bear baskets lily-laden: Naiads bright
For thee crop poppy-crests and violets pale,
With daffodil and fragrant fennel-bloom:
Then, weaving casia in and all sweet things,
Soft hyacinth paint with yellow marigold.
Apples I'll bring thee, hoar with tender bloom,
And chestnuts -- which my Amaryllis loved,
And waxen plums: let plums too have their day.
And thee I'll pluck, oh bay, and, myrtle, thee
Its neighbour: neighboured thus your sweets shall mix.
-- Pooh! Thou'rt a yokel, Corydon. Thy love
Laughs at thy gifts: if gifts must win the day,
Rich is Iolas. What thing have I,
Poor I, been asking -- while the winds and boars
Ran riot in my pools and o'er my flowers?

-- Yet, fool, whom fliest thou? Gods have dwelt in woods,
And Dardan Paris. Citadels let her
Who built them, Pallas, haunt: green woods for me.
Grim lions hunt the wolf, and wolves the kid,
And kids at play the clover-bloom. I hunt
Thee only: each one drawn to what he loves.
See! trailing from their necks the kine bring home
The plough, and, as he sinks, the sun draws out
To twice their length the shadows. Still I burn
With love. For what can end or alter love?

Thou'rt raving, simply raving, Corydon.
Clings to thy leafy elm thy half-pruned vine.
Why not begin, at least, to plait with twigs
And limber reeds some useful homely thing?
Thou'lt find another love, if scorned by this.





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