Vergils Eclogues

Virgils’ Eclogues
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Virgil's Eclogues. The Latin text with a verse translation and brief notes. ISBN Virgil's Eclogues are the first poetic collection of the greatest of all Roman poets, who went on to write the Georgics and Aeneid. The Eclogues were composed in the troubled years at the end of the Roman Republic, between B. Although on the surface they seem merely to present an escapist vision of an unreal pastoral world, at a deeper level they reflect the severe political and social tensions of contemporary Rome, and reveal a love and concern for the threatened life of the Italian countryside, which the author must have shared with his original audience.

Guy Lee was a powerful translator of Latin poetry. A poet and a classicist himself, the accuracy and verbal felicity of his versions are celebrated. Another of his many excellences springs from his fascination with the rhythms of the Latin and ability to represent them with an appropriate English metrical equivalent. For him may honey flow and the bramble bear spices!

Even now the ram is drying his fleece. How lean is my bull on taht fat vetch! The same love is fatal to the herd and to the master of the herd. Some evil eye bewitches my tender lambs.

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The Eclogues also called the Bucolics, is the first of the three major works of the Latin poet Virgil. Contents. 1 Background; 2 Structure and organization. The Eclogues by Virgil, part of the Internet Classics Archive.

You deserve the heifer, and so does he — and whoever shall fear the sweets or taste the bitters of love. Shut off the springs now, lads; the meadows have drunk enough. Not everyone do orchards and the lowly tamarisks delight. If your song is of the woodland, let the woods be worthy of a consul.

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Now the Virgin returns, the reign of Saturn returns; now a new generation descends from heaven on high. Only do you, pure Lucina, smile on the birth of the child, under whom the iron brood shall at last cease and a golden race spring up throughout the world! Your own Apollo now is king! Unbidden, the goats will bring home their udders swollen with milk, and the cattle will not fear huge lions. The serpent, too, will perish, and perish will the plant that hides its poison; Assyrian spice will spring up on every soil.

A second Tiphys will then arise, and a second Argo to carry chosen heroes; a second war will be fought, and great Achilles be sent again to Troy. Earth will not suffer the harrow, nor the vine the pruning hook; the sturdy ploughman, too, will now loose his oxen from the yoke. No more will wool be taught to put on varied hues, but of himself the ram in the meadows will change his fleece, now to sweetly blushing purple, now to a saffron yellow; and scarlet shall clothe the grazing lambs at will.

Virgil's Eclogues

See how all things rejoice in the age that is at hand! Then shall neither Thracian Orpheus nor Linus vanquish me in song, though mother give aid to the one and father to the other, Calliope to Orpheus, to Linus fair Apollo. Even were Pan to compete with me and Arcady be judge, then even Pan, with Arcady for judge, would own himself defeated. Begin, baby boy! The child who has not won a smile from his parents, no god ever honoured with his table, no goddess with her bed!

See how the wild vine with its stray clusters has overrun the cave. Tityrus will tend the grazing kids. Then you can bid Amyntas compete with me! Nay, say no more, lad; we have passed into the cave. On those days, Daphnis, none drove the pastured kine to the cool streams; no four-footed beast tasted the brook or touched a blade of grass.

Daphnis, the wild mountains and woods tell us that even African lions moaned over your death. As the vine gives glory to its trees, as the grape to the vines, as the bull to the herd, as the corn to rich fields, you alone give glory to your people. Since the Fates bore you off, even Pales has left our fields, and even Apollo. Often in the furrows, to which we entrusted the big barley grains, luckless darnel springs up and barren oat straws.

Instead of the soft violet, instead of the gleaming narcissus, the thistle rises up and the sharp-spiked thorn. Strew the turf with leaves, shepherds, curtain the springs with shade — such honours Daphnis charges you to pay him. Fair was my flock, but fairer I, their shepherd. MENALCAS [45] Your lay, heavenly bard, is to me even as sleep on the grass to the weary, as in summer heat the slaking of thirst in a dancing rill of sweet water.

Not with the pipe alone, but in voice do you match your master.

Happy lad! Still I will sing you in turn, poorly it may be, this strain of mine, and exalt your Daphnis to the stars.

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The vines on the island produce milk instead of wine; it has a temple dedicated to Galatea and is ruled by Queen Tyro. These songs are, quite seriously, so intoxicating, I cannot type a sober review of them. With English notes, critical and explanatory, and a metrical index,. Authors A-Z. For instance, Cairns believes that Ecl.

Daphnis I will exalt to the stars; me, too, Daphnis loved. Not only was the boy himself worthy to be sung, but long ago Stimichon praised to me those strains of yours. Therefore frolic glee seizes the woods and all the countryside, and Pan, and the shepherds, and the Dryad maids. The wolf plans no ambush for the flock, and nets no snare for the stag; kindly Daphnis loves peace.

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Lo here are four altars — two, see, for you, Daphnis; two for Phoebus! Two cups, foaming with fresh milk, will I year by year set up for you, and two bowls of rich olive oil; and, for my chief care, making the feast merry with wine — in winter, before the hearth; in harvest time, in the shade — I will pour from goblets fresh nectar of Chian wine. Damoetas and Lyctian Aegon shall sing for me, and Alphesiboeus mimic the dance of Satyrs. So long as the boar loves the mountaintops, and the fish the streams; so long as the bees feed on thyme and the cicadas on dew — so long shall your honour, name, and glory abide.

As to Bacchus and Ceres, so to you, year after year, shall the husbandmen pay their vows; you, too, shall hold them to their vows. Sweeter is it to me than the sound of the South Wind sighing, or the rollers thundering on the beach, or the splash of rivulets tumbling down through rocky glens. Is it Meliboeus? MOPSUS [88] And do you take this crook, Menalcas, which Antigenes won not, often as he begged it of me — and in those days he was worthy of my love — a goodly crook, with even knots and ring of bronze.

Varus, and build the story of grim war — now will I woo the rustic Muse on slender reed. To Phoebus no page is more welcome than that which bears on its front the name of Varus. The lads Chromis and Mnasyllos saw Silenus lying asleep in a cave, his veins swollen, as ever, with the wine of yesterday. Hard by lay the garlands, just fallen from his head, and his heavy tankard was hanging by its well-worn handle. Falling on him — for oft the aged one had cheated both of a promised song — they cast him into fetters made from his own garlands.

Aegle joins their company and seconds the timid pair — Aegle, fairest of the Naiads — and, as now his eyes open, paints his face and brows with crimson mulberries.

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Loose me, lads; enough that you have shown your power. Hear the songs you crave; you shall have your songs, she another kind of reward. Then indeed you might see Fauns and fierce beasts sporting in measured dance, and unbending oaks nodding their crests. Not so does the rock of Parnassus rejoice in Phoebus; not so do Rhodope and Ismarus marvel at their Orpheus. Ah, unhappy, girl, what a madness has gripped you! The daughters of Proetus filled the fields with feigned lowings, yet not one was led by so foul a love for beasts, though each had feared to find the yoke on her neck and often looked for horns on her smooth brow.

With these do you tell of the birth of the Grynean wood, that there may be no grove wherein Apollo glories more. The re-echoing valleys fling them again to the stars, till Vesper gave the word to fold the flocks and tell their tale, as he set forth over an unwilling sky. MELIBOEUS [1] Daphnis, it chanced had made his seat beneath a whispering ilex, while Corydon and Thyrsis had driven their flocks together — Thyrsis his sheep, Corydon his goats swollen with milk — both in the bloom of life, Arcadians both, ready in a singing match to start, ready to make reply.

To this place, while I sheltered my tender myrtles from the frost, my he-goat, the lord of the flock himself, had strayed; and I catch sight of Daphnis.

Hither your steers will of themselves come over the meadows to drink; here Mincius fringes his green banks with waving reeds, and from the hallowed oak swarm humming bees. I had no Alcippe or Phyllis to pen my new-weaned lambs at home; and the match — Corydon against Thyrsis — was a mighty one.

The Eclogues

Still, I counted their sport above my work. So in alternate verses the pair began to compete: alternate verses the Muses chose to recall. These Corydon, those Thyrsis sang in turn. If this fortune still abides, you shall stand full length in polished marble, your ankles bound high with purple buskins.

Now we have made you of marble for the time; but if births make full the flock, then you shall be of gold. THYRSIS [41] Nay, let me seem to you more bitter than Sardinian herbs, more rough than gorse, viler than upcast seaweed, if even now I find not this day longer than a whole year. Go home, my well-fed steers, for very shame, go home!

CORYDON [45] You mossy springs, and lawns softer than sleep, and the green arbute that shields you with scanty shade, ward the noontide heat from my flock.

The Eclogues

THYRSIS [49] With me you will find a hearth and pitchy brands; with me a good fire ever blazing and doorposts black with many a layer of soot. Here we care as much for the chill blasts of Boreas as the wolf for the number of sheep or rushing torrents for their banks. CORYDON [53] Here stand junipers and shaggy chestnuts; strewn beneath each tree lies its native fruit; now all nature smiles; but if fair Alexis should quit these hills you would see the very rivers dry.

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THYRSIS [57] The field is parched; the grass is athirst, dying in the tainted air; Bacchus has grudged the hills the shade of his vines: but at the coming of my Phyllis all the woodland will be green, and Jupiter, in his fullness, shall descend in gladsome showers. Phyllis loves hazels, and while Phyllis loves them, neither myrtle nor laurel of Phoebus shall outvie the hazels. THYRSIS [65] Fairest is the ash in the woodlands, the pine in the gardens, the poplar by rivers, the fir on mountaintops; but if you, lovely Lycidas, come often to me, the ash in the woodlands and the pine in the gardens would yield to you.

From that day Corydon is the one and only Corydon for us. Shall I be ever free to spread your songs throughout the world, that alone are worthy of the buskin of Sophocles? From you is my beginning; in your honour shall I end.