Classic Poem

THE TENTH PASTORAL

OR, GALLUS

Thy sacred succor, Arethusa, bring,
To crown my labor ('t is the last I sing),
Which proud Lycoris may with pity view:
The Muse is mournful, tho' the numbers few.
Refuse me not a verse, to grief and Gallus due:
So may thy silver streams beneath the tide,
Unmix'd with briny seas, securely glide.
Sing then my Gallus, and his hopeless vows;
Sing, while my cattle crop the tender browse.
The vocal grove shall answer to the sound,
And echo, from the vales, the tuneful voice rebound.
What lawns or woods withheld you from his aid,
Ye nymphs, when Gallus was to love betray'd;
To love, unpitied by the cruel maid?
Not steepy Pindus could retard your course,
Nor cleft Parnassus, nor th' Aonian source:
Nothing that owns the Muses could suspend
Your aid to Gallus — Gallus is their friend.
For him the lofty laurel stands in tears,
And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears.
Maenalian pines the godlike swain bemoan,
When, spread beneath a rock, he sigh'd alone;
And cold Lycaeus wept from every dropping stone.
The sheep surround their shepherd, as he lies:
Blush not, sweet poet, nor the name despise —
Along the streams, his flock Adonis fed;
And yet the Queen of Beauty bless'd his bed.
The swains and tardy neatherds came, and last,
Menalcas, wet with beating winter mast.
Wond'ring, they ask'd from whence arose thy flame;
Yet more amaz'd, thy own Apollo came.
Flush'd were his cheeks, and glowing were his eyes:
" Is she thy care? is she thy care? " he cries.
" Thy false Lycoris flies thy love and thee,
And, for thy rival, tempts the raging sea,
The forms of horrid war, and heav'n's inclemency. "
Silvanus came: his brows a country crown
Of fennel, and of nodding lilies, drown.
Great Pan arriv'd; and we beheld him too,
His cheeks and temples of vermilion hue.
" Why, Gallus, this immod'rate grief? " he cried.
" Think'st thou that love with tears is satisfied?
The meads are sooner drunk with morning dews,
The bees with flow'ry shrubs, the goats with browse. "
Unmov'd, and with dejected eyes, he mourn'd:
He paus'd, and then these broken words return'd:
" 'T is past; and pity gives me no relief;
But you, Arcadian swains, shall sing my grief,
And on your hills my last complaints renew:
So sad a song is only worthy you.
How light would lie the turf upon my breast.
If you my suff'rings in your songs express'd!
Ah! that your birth and bus'ness had been mine;
To pen the sheep, and press the swelling vine!
Had Phyllis or Amyntas caus'd my pain,
Or any nymph, or shepherd on the plain,
(Tho' Phyllis brown, tho' black Amyntas were,
Are violets not sweet, because not fair?)
Beneath the sallows, and the shady vine,
My loves had mix'd their pliant limbs with mine:
Phyllis with myrtle wreaths had crown'd my hair,
And soft Amyntas sung away my care.
Come, see what pleasures in our plains abound;
The woods, the fountains, and the flow'ry ground.
As you are beauteous, were you half so true,
Here could I live, and love, and die with only you.
Now I to fighting fields am sent afar,
And strive in winter camps with toils of war;
While you, (alas, that I should find it so!)
To shun my sight, your native soil forego,
And climb the frozen Alps, and tread th' eternal snow.
Ye frosts and snows, her tender body spare!
Those are not limbs for icicles to tear.
For me, the wilds and desarts are my choice;
The Muses, once my care; my once harmonious voice.
There will I sing, forsaken and alone:
The rocks and hollow caves shall echo to my moan.
The rind of ev'ry plant her name shall know;
And, as the rind extends, the love shall grow.
Then on Arcadian mountains will I chase
(Mix'd with the woodland nymphs) the savage race;
Nor cold shall hinder me, with horns and hounds
To thrid the thickets, or to leap the mounds.
And now methinks o'er steepy rocks I go,
And rush thro' sounding woods, and bend the Parthian bow;
As if with sports my sufferings I could ease,
Or by my pains the God of Love appease.
My frenzy changes; I delight no more
On mountain tops to chase the tusky boar:
No game but hopeless love my thoughts pursue —
Once more, ye nymphs, and songs, and sounding woods, adieu!
Love alters not for us his hard decrees,
Not tho' beneath the Thracian clime we freeze,
Or Italy's indulgent heav'n forego,
And in midwinter tread Sithonian snow;
Or, when the barks of elms are scorch'd, we keep
On Meroe's burning plains the Libyan sheep.
In hell, and earth, and seas, and heav'n above,
Love conquers all; and we must yield to Love. "
My Muses, here your sacred raptures end:
The verse was what I ow'd my suff'ring friend.
This while I sung, my sorrows I deceiv'd,
And bending osiers into baskets weav'd.
The song, because inspir'd by you, shall shine;
And Gallus will approve, because 't is mine —
Gallus, for whom my holy flames renew
Each hour, and ev'ry moment rise in view;
As alders, in the spring, their boles extend,
And heave so fiercely that the bark they rend.
Now let us rise; for hoarseness oft invades
The singer's voice, who sings beneath the shades.
From juniper unwholesome dews distil,
That blast the sooty corn, the with'ring herbage kill.
Away, my goats, away! for you have brows'd your fill.