Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ECLOGUE 9, by PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ECLOGUE 9, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Moeris, on foot? And on the road to town
Last Line: Then sing our best, when comes the master home.
Alternate Author Name(s): Virgil; Vergil


LYCIDAS. MOERIS.

L.

MOERIS, on foot? and on the road to town?
M. Oh Lycidas! -- we live to tell -- how one --
(Who dreamed of this?) -- a stranger -- holds our farm,
And says, "'Tis mine: its ancient lords, begone!"
Beaten, cast down -- for Chance is lord of all --
We send him -- bootlessly mayhap -- these kids.
L. Yet all, I heard, from where we lose yon hills,
With gradual bend down-sloping to the brook,
And those old beeches, broken columns now,
Had your Menalcas rescued by his songs.
M. Thou heardst. Fame said so. But our songs avail,
Moeris, no more 'mid warspears than, they say,
Dodona's doves may, when the eagle stoops.
A boding raven from a rifted oak
Warned me, by this means or by that to nip
This strange strife in the bud: or dead were now
Thy Moeris; dead were great Menalcas too.
L. Could such curse fall on man? Had we so near
Lost thee, Menalcas, and thy pleasantries?
Who then would sing the nymphs? Who strow with flowers
The ground, or train green darkness o'er the springs?
And oh! that song, which I (saying ne'er a word)
Copied one day -- (while thou wert off to see
My darling, Amaryllis,) -- from thy notes:
"Feed, while I journey but a few short steps,
Tityrus, my goats: and, Tityrus, when they've fed,
Lead them to drink: and cross not by the way
The he-goat's path: his horns are dangerous."
M. But that to Varus, that unfinished one!
"Varus! thy name, if Mantua still be ours --
(Mantua! to poor Cremona all too near,) --
Shall tuneful swans exalt unto the stars."
L. Begin, if in thee's aught. So may not yews
Of Cyrnus lure thy bees: so, clover-fed,
Thy cattle teem with milk. Me too the muse
Hath made a minstrel: I have songs; and me
The swains call 'poet." But I heed them not.
For scarce yet sing I as the great ones sing,
But, a goose, cackle among piping swans.
M. Indeed, I am busy turning o'er and o'er --
In hopes to recollect it -- in my brain
A song, and not a mean one, Lycidas.
"Come, Galatea! sport'st thou in the waves?
Here spring is purpling; thick by river-banks
Bloom the gay flowers; white poplar climbs above
The caves, and young vines plait a roof between.
Come! and let mad seas beat against the shore."
L. What were those lines that once I heard thee sing,
All uncompanioned on a summer night --
I know the music, if I had the words.
M. "Daphnis! why watch those old-world planets rise?
Lo! onward marches sacred Caesar's star,
The star that made the valleys laugh with corn,
And grapes grow ruddier upon sunny hills.
Sow, Daphnis, pears, whereof thy sons shall eat."
-- Time carries all -- our memories e'en -- away.
Well I remember how my boyish songs
Would oft outlast the livelong summer day.
And now they're all forgot. His very voice
Hath Moeris lost: on Moeris wolves have looked.
-- But oft thou'lt hear them from Menalcas yet.
L. Thy pleas but draw my passion out. And lo!
All hushed to listen is the wide sea-floor,
And laid the murmurings of the soughing winds.
And now we're half-way there. I can descry
Bianor's grave. Here, Moeris, where the swains
Are raking off the thick leaves, let us sing.
Or, if we fear lest night meanwhile bring up
The rain clouds, singing let us journey on --
(The way will seem less tedious) -- journey on
Singing: and I will ease thee of thy load.
M. Cease, lad. We'll do what lies before us now:
Then sing our best, when comes the Master home.





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