MENALCUS But now a mad passion for the stern god of war keeps me in arms, amid clashing steel and fronting foes; while you, far from your native soil – O that I could but disbelieve such a tale!  Your pleas merely increase my longing. The Eclogues has been divided into the following sections: Eclogue I [15k] Eclogue II [14k] Eclogue III [20k] Eclogue IV [14k] Eclogue V [16k] Eclogue VI [16k] Eclogue VII [15k] Eclogue VIII [18k] Eclogue IX [14k] Eclogue X [14k] 682 ff. Still Menalcas will repeat you your songs. “Close, Nymphs, Nymphs of Dicte, close now the forest glades, if so, perchance, the bull’s truant footsteps may meet my eyes; it may be that, tempted by a green meadow or following the herd, he will be led home by some cows to our Cretan stalls.”,  Then he sings of the maid [Atalanta] who marvelled at the apples of the Hesperides; then he encircles Phaëthon’s sisters in moss of bitter bark, and raises them from the ground as lofty alders. Men.PhÅbus loves me, For – yes, I must confess – while Galatea ruled me, I had neither hope of freedom nor though of savings. The sheep, too, stand around – they think no shame of us, and think you no shame of the flock, heavenly poet; even fair Adonis fed sheep beside the streams. Shut off the springs now, lads; the meadows have drunk enough. Every field, every tree is now budding; now the woods are green, now the year is at its lovelies.  O Melibeous, it is a god who gave us this peace – for a god he shall ever be to me; often shall a tender lamb from our folds stain his altar. Well I know that in the woods, amid wild beasts’ dens, it is better to suffer and carve my love on the young trees. The white privets fall, the dark hyacinths are culled! Menalcas and Mopsus praise Daphnis out of compassion but also out of obligation.  Sooner, then, shall the nimble stag graze in air, and the seas leave their fish bare on the strand – sooner, each wandering over the other’s frontiers, shall the Parthian in exile drink the Arar, and Germany the Tigris, than that look of his shall fade from my heart. Of his grace my kine roam, as you see, and I, their master, play what I will on my rustic pipe. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. DAMOETAS Here, Meliboeus, I saw the youth for whom our altars smoke twice six days a year. well, love has wrought the same The shade is oft perilous to the singer – perilous the juniper’s shade, hurtful the shade even to the crops. If this fortune still abides, you shall stand full length in polished marble, your ankles bound high with purple buskins.  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. DAMOETAS Are plenteous gifts provided; I have marked 5:16. Aeneid I: Aeneid II: Aeneid III: Aeneid IV: Aeneid V: Aeneid VI: Aeneid VII: Aeneid VIII Aegon the other day turned it over to me. In which flowers bloom, printed with names of kings, Publius Vergilius Maro was a classical Roman poet, best known for three major works—the Bucolics (or Eclogues), the Georgics, and the Aeneid—although several minor poems are also attributed to him.  I pray that the twilight of a long life may then be vouchsafed me, and inspiration enough to hymn your deeds!  Shepherds of Arcady, crown with ivy your rising bard, that Codrus’ sides may burst with envy; or, should he praise me unduly, wreathe my brow with foxglove, lest his evil tongue harm the bard that is to be. and to the kids  Why not these lines, still unfinished, which he sang to Varus: “Varus, your name, let but Mantua be spared us – Mantua, alas! Vergil’s ten eclogues made their young author a renowned figure when they were first made public in approximately 39 b.c.e. If, when you glide beneath Sicilian waves, you would not have briny Doris blend her stream with yours, begin!  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. Wasn’t it you, you dunce, that at the crossroads used to murder a sorry tune on a scrannel straw? Let honey flow amain, let brambles balsam yield. In due time, in the pool will wash them all. MENALCAS Loud tho' the sheep-dog barked! 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