Virgil (Vergilius): THE ECLOGUES, Alexim

Virgil (Vergilius)
(70BC – 19BC)
THE ECLOGUES

Alexim

Formosum pastor Corydon ardebat Alexim,
delicias domini, nec quid speraret habebat;
tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos
adsidue veniebat. Ibi haec incondita solus
montibus et silvis studio iactabat inani:
O crudelis Alexi, nihil mea carmina curas?
Nil nostri miserere? Mori me denique coges.
nunc etiam pecudes umbras et frigora captant;
nunc viridis etiam occultant spineta lacertos,
Thestylis et rapido fessis messoribus aestu
alia serpyllumque herbas contundit olentis.
at mecum raucis, tua dum vestigia lustro,
sole sub ardenti resonant arbusta cicadis.
Nonne fuit satius tristis Amaryllidis iras
atque superba pati fastidia, nonne Menalcan,
quam vis ille niger, quamvis tu candidus esses?
o formose puer, nimium ne crede colori!
alba ligustra cadunt, vaccinia nigra leguntur.
Despectus tibi sum, nec qui sim quaeris, Alexi,
quam dives pecoris, nivei quam lactis abundans.
mille meae Siculis errant in montibus agnae;
lac mihi non aestate novum, non frigore defit;
canto quae solitus, si quando armenta vocabat,
Amphion Dircaeus in Actaeo Aracimtho.
Nec sum adeo informis: nuper me in litore vidi,
cum placidum ventis staret mare; non ego Daphnim
iudice te metuam, si numquam fallit imago.
O tantum libeat mecum tibi sordida rura
atque humilis habitare casas, et figere cervos,
haedorumque gregem viridi compellere hibisco!
Mecum una in silvis imitabere Pana canendo.
Pan primus calamos cera coniungere pluris
instituit; Pan curat ovis oviumque magistros.
Nec te paeniteat calamo trivisse labellum:
haec eadem ut sciret, quid non faciebat Amyntas?
est mihi disparibus septem compacta cicutis
fistula, Damoetas dono mihi quam dedit olim,
et dixit moriens: ‘Te nunc habet ista secundum.’
dixit Damoetas, invidit stultus Amyntas.
Praeterea duo, nec tuta mihi valle reperti,
capreoli, sparsis etiam nunc pellibus albo,
bina die siccant ovis ubera; quos tibi servo:
iam pridem a me illos abducere Thestylis orat;
et faciet, quoniam sordent tibi munera nostra.
Huc ades, O formose puer: tibi lilia plenis
ecce ferunt Nymphae calathis; tibi candida Nais,
pallelltis violas et summa papavera carpens,
narcissum et florem iungit bene olentis anethi;
tum casia atque aliis intexens suavibus herbis,
mollia luteola pingit vaccinia calta.
Ipse ego cana legam tenera lanugine mala,
castaneasque nuces, mea quas Amaryllis amabat;
addam cerea pruna: honos erit huic quoque pomo;
et vos, O lauri, carpam, et te, proxima myrte,
sic positae quoniam suavis miscetis odores.
Rusticus es, Corydon: nec munera curat Alexis,
nec, si muneribus certes, concedat Iollas.
Heu, heu, quid volui misero mihi! Floribus austrum
perditus et liquidis inmisi fontibus apros.
Quem fugis, ah, demens? Habitarunt di quoque silvas,
Dardaniusque Paris. Pallas, quas condidit arces,
ipsa colat; nobis placeant ante omnia silvae.
Torva leaena lupum sequitur; lupus ipse capellam;
florentem cytisum sequitur lasciva capella;
te Corydon, o Alexi: trahit sua quemque voluptas.
Aspice, aratra iugo referunt suspensa iuvenci,
et sol crescentis decedens duplicat umbras:
me tamen urit amor; quis enim modus adsit amori?
Ah, Corydon, Corydon, quae te dementia cepit!
Semiputata tibi frondosa vitis in ulmo est;
quin tu aliquid saltem potius, quorum indiget usus,
viminibus mollique paras detexere iunco?
Invenies alium, si te hic fastidit, Alexim.

Alexis

The shepherd Corydon with love was fired
For fair Alexis, his own master’s joy:
No room for hope had he, yet, none the less,
The thick-leaved shadowy-soaring beech-tree grove
Still would he haunt, and there alone, as thus,
To woods and hills pour forth his artless strains.
“Cruel Alexis, heed you naught my songs?
Have you no pity? you’ll drive me to my death.
Now even the cattle court the cooling shade
And the green lizard hides him in the thorn:
Now for tired mowers, with the fierce heat spent,
Pounds Thestilis her mess of savoury herbs,
Wild thyme and garlic. I, with none beside,
Save hoarse cicalas shrilling through the brake,
Still track your footprints ‘neath the broiling sun.
Better have borne the petulant proud disdain
Of Amaryllis, or Menalcas wooed,
Albeit he was so dark, and you so fair!
Trust not too much to colour, beauteous boy;
White privets fall, dark hyacinths are culled.
You scorn me, Alexis, who or what I am
Care not to ask- how rich in flocks, or how
In snow-white milk abounding: yet for me
Roam on Sicilian hills a thousand lambs;
Summer or winter, still my milk-pails brim.
I sing as erst Amphion of Circe sang,
What time he went to call his cattle home
On Attic Aracynthus. Nor am I
So ill to look on: lately on the beach
I saw myself, when winds had stilled the sea,
And, if that mirror lie not, would not fear
Daphnis to challenge, though yourself were judge.
Ah! were you but content with me to dwell.
Some lowly cot in the rough fields our home,
Shoot down the stags, or with green osier-wand
Round up the straggling flock! There you with me
In silvan strains will learn to rival Pan.
Pan first with wax taught reed with reed to join;
For sheep alike and shepherd Pan hath care.
Nor with the reed’s edge fear you to make rough
Your dainty lip; such arts as these to learn
What did Amyntas do?- what did he not?
A pipe have I, of hemlock-stalks compact
In lessening lengths, Damoetas’ dying-gift:
‘Mine once,’ quoth he, ‘now yours, as heir to own.’
Foolish Amyntas heard and envied me.
Ay, and two fawns, I risked my neck to find
In a steep glen, with coats white-dappled still,
From a sheep’s udders suckled twice a day-
These still I keep for you; which Thestilis
Implores me oft to let her lead away;
And she shall have them, since my gifts you spurn.
Come hither, beauteous boy; for you the Nymphs
Bring baskets, see, with lilies brimmed; for you,
Plucking pale violets and poppy-heads,
Now the fair Naiad, of narcissus flower
And fragrant fennel, doth one posy twine-
With cassia then, and other scented herbs,
Blends them, and sets the tender hyacinth off
With yellow marigold. I too will pick
Quinces all silvered-o’er with hoary down,
Chestnuts, which Amaryllis wont to love,
And waxen plums withal: this fruit no less
Shall have its meed of honour; and I will pluck
You too, ye laurels, and you, ye myrtles, near,
For so your sweets ye mingle. Corydon,
You are a boor, nor heeds a whit your gifts
Alexis; no, nor would Iollas yield,
Should gifts decide the day. Alack! alack!
What misery have I brought upon my head!-
Loosed on the flowers Siroces to my bane,
And the wild boar upon my crystal springs!
Whom do you fly, infatuate? gods ere now,
And Dardan Paris, have made the woods their home.
Let Pallas keep the towers her hand hath built,
Us before all things let the woods delight.
The grim-eyed lioness pursues the wolf,
The wolf the she-goat, the she-goat herself
In wanton sport the flowering cytisus,
And Corydon Alexis, each led on
By their own longing. See, the ox comes home
With plough up-tilted, and the shadows grow
To twice their length with the departing sun,
Yet me love burns, for who can limit love?
Ah! Corydon, Corydon, what hath crazed your wit?
Your vine half-pruned hangs on the leafy elm;
Why haste you not to weave what need requires
Of pliant rush or osier? Scorned by this,
Elsewhere some new Alexis you will find.”

kempis poetry magazine

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