To Varus

First my Thalia stooped in sportive moodTo Syracusan strains, nor blushed withinThe woods to house her. When I sought to tellOf battles and of kings, the Cynthian godPlucked at mine ear and warned me: "Tityrus,Beseems a shepherd-wight to feed fat sheep,But sing a slender song." Now, Varus, I-For lack there will not who would laud thy deeds,And treat of dolorous wars- will rather tuneTo the slim oaten reed my silvan lay.I sing but as vouchsafed me; yet even thisIf, if but one with ravished eyes should read,Of thee, O Varus, shall our tamarisksAnd all the woodland ring; nor can there beA page more dear to Phoebus, than the pageWhere, foremost writ, the name of Varus stands.

Speed ye, Pierian Maids! Within a caveYoung Chromis and Mnasyllos chanced to seeSilenus sleeping, flushed, as was his wont,With wine of yesterday. Not far aloof,Slipped from his head, the garlands lay, and thereBy its worn handle hung a ponderous cup.Approaching- for the old man many a timeHad balked them both of a long hoped-for song-Garlands to fetters turned, they bind him fast.Then Aegle, fairest of the Naiad-band,Aegle came up to the half-frightened boys,Came, and, as now with open eyes he lay,With juice of blood-red mulberries smeared him o'er,Both brow and temples. Laughing at their guile,And crying, "Why tie the fetters? loose me, boys;Enough for you to think you had the power;Now list the songs you wish for- songs for you,Another meed for her" -forthwith began.Then might you see the wild things of the wood,With Fauns in sportive frolic beat the time,And stubborn oaks their branchy summits bow.Not Phoebus doth the rude Parnassian cragSo ravish, nor Orpheus so entrance the heightsOf Rhodope or Ismarus: for he sangHow through the mighty void the seeds were drivenOf earth, air, ocean, and of liquid fire,How all that is from these beginnings grew,And the young world itself took solid shape,Then 'gan its crust to harden, and in the deepShut Nereus off, and mould the forms of thingsLittle by little; and how the earth amazedBeheld the new sun shining, and the showersFall, as the clouds soared higher, what time the woods'Gan first to rise, and living things to roamScattered among the hills that knew them not.Then sang he of the stones by Pyrrha cast,Of Saturn's reign, and of Prometheus' theft,And the Caucasian birds, and told withalNigh to what fountain by his comrades leftThe mariners cried on Hylas till the shore"Then Re-echoed "Hylas, Hylas! soothedPasiphae with the love of her white bull-Happy if cattle-kind had never been!-O ill-starred maid, what frenzy caught thy soulThe daughters too of Proetus filled the fieldsWith their feigned lowings, yet no one of themOf such unhallowed union e'er was fainAs with a beast to mate, though many a timeOn her smooth forehead she had sought for horns,And for her neck had feared the galling plough.O ill-starred maid! thou roamest now the hills,While on soft hyacinths he, his snowy sideReposing, under some dark ilex nowChews the pale herbage, or some heifer tracksAmid the crowding herd. Now close, ye Nymphs,Ye Nymphs of Dicte, close the forest-glades,If haply there may chance upon mine eyesThe white bull's wandering foot-prints: him belikeFollowing the herd, or by green pasture lured,Some kine may guide to the Gortynian stalls.Then sings he of the maid so wonder-struckWith the apples of the Hesperids, and thenWith moss-bound, bitter bark rings round the formsOf Phaethon's fair sisters, from the groundUp-towering into poplars. Next he singsOf Gallus wandering by Permessus' stream,And by a sister of the Muses ledTo the Aonian mountains, and how allThe choir of Phoebus rose to greet him; howThe shepherd Linus, singer of songs divine,Brow-bound with flowers and bitter parsley, spake:"These reeds the Muses give thee, take them thou,Erst to the aged bard of Ascra given,Wherewith in singing he was wont to drawTime-rooted ash-trees from the mountain heights.With these the birth of the Grynean groveBe voiced by thee, that of no grove besideApollo more may boast him." Wherefore speakOf Scylla, child of Nisus, who, 'tis said,Her fair white loins with barking monsters girtVexed the Dulichian ships, and, in the deepSwift-eddying whirlpool, with her sea-dogs toreThe trembling mariners? or how he toldOf the changed limbs of Tereus- what a feast,What gifts, to him by Philomel were given;How swift she sought the desert, with what wingsHovered in anguish o'er her ancient home?All that, of old, Eurotas, happy stream,Heard, as Apollo mused upon the lyre,And bade his laurels learn, Silenus sang;Till from Olympus, loth at his approach,Vesper, advancing, bade the shepherds tellTheir tale of sheep, and pen them in the fold.