P. Sing, then, now that we are seated on the soft grass. It is the time when every field and every tree is yielding its fruit ; the time when the woods are in leaf, and the year is at its loveliest. Begin, Damotas; you follow him, Menalcas. You shall sing by turns; singing by turns is what the Muses love.

D. Jove shall be our first word, Muses. Jove is the filler of all things: he makes the earth fruitful, and he has a thought for verses like mine.

M. I am Phoebus's favourite. Phoebus always finds with me his own peculiar presents, the bay and the sweet ruddy hyacinth.

D. Galatea flings an apple at me, like a saucy girl, as she is, and then runs off to the willows, and would like to be seen first.

M. But I have my darling Amyntas, putting himself in my way unasked, so that my dogs have got to know him now as well as Delia.

D. I have got a present ready for my goddess. I have marked the spot with my own eyes where the wood-pigeons have been building up in the sky.

M. I have done my best for to-day; ten golden apples, picked from a tree in the orchard, I have sent my boy; tomorrow I will send as many more.

D. O the times Galatea has talked to me and the things she has said! Carry some of them, ye winds, to the ears of the gods!

M. What good is it that at heart you do not scorn me, Amyntas, if while you are following the boars, I am always watching the nets?

D. Send me Phyllis: it is my birthday, Iollas. When I sacrifice a heifer for the harvest, come yourself.

M. Phyliis is my own dearest love. Why, she wept on

parting from me, and dwelt long on the words, 'Farewell, farewell, my lovely Iollas!'

D. The bane of the folds is the wolf, of the ripe crops the rain, of the trees the sirocco-mine is Amaryllis's storms of passion. M. The joy of the young corn is moisture, of weaned kids the arbute, of breeding cattle the limber willow-mine is none but Amyntas.

D. Pollio loves my muse-country-bred though she be. Pierian goddesses, breed a heifer for your gentle reader.

M. Pollio writes fresh verses himself. Breed a bull old enough to butt with the horn and spurn the sand with the hoof.

D. The man that loves you, Pollio, let him arrive where he is glad to see you; for him let honey distil, and let the prickly thorn-bush bear spices.

M. The man that hates not Bavius, let him love your verses, Mævius; let him, moreover, plough with a team of foxes, and milk he-goats.

D. You who gather flowers and strawberries that grow on the ground, there is a cold snake-off with you, my boys!— lurking in this grass.

. M. Don't go on venturing too far, my sheep; the bank is not to be trusted. Why, the ram himself is just now drying his coat.

D. Tityrus, sling away those goats that are grazing there from the river. I'll wash them all myself in due time at the spring.

M. Get your sheep into the shade, my boys; if the heat steal a march on the milk, as it did the other day, it will be in vain that we shall tug at the udders.

D. Dear, dear, how lean my bull is among those fattening tares! it is the same love that wastes the cattle and the cattle's master.

M. These of mine certainly have not less the matter with them either-the flesh scarcely covers the bones; it must be some one's evil eye that bewitches such young lambs as mine

are.

D. Tell me in what country-and you shall be my grand Apollo-the horizon is no broader than three ells across.

M. Tell me in what country flowers grow with the names of kings written on them, and have Phyllis all to yourself.

P. I am not the man to settle a difference like this between you. You deserve the heifer, and so does he; and every one who shall either mistrust love's sweets or taste its bitters as you have done. Shut off the water now, my boys; the meadows have had enough to drink.

ECLOGUE IV.

POLLIO.

Muses of Sicily, let us strike a somewhat louder chord. It is not for all that plantations have charms, or groundling tamarisks. If we are to sing of the woodland, let the woodland rise to a consul's dignity.

The last era of the song of Cuma has come at length; the grand file of the ages is being born anew; at length the virgin is returning, returning too the reign of Saturn; at length a new generation is descending from heaven on high. Do but thou smile thy pure smile on the birth of the boy who shall at last bring the race of iron to an end, and bid the golden race spring up all the world over-thou, Lucina-thine own Apollo is at length on his throne. In thy consulship it is—in thine, Pollio-that this glorious time shall come on, and the mighty months begin their march. Under thy conduct, any remaining trace of our national guilt shall become void, and

release the world from the thraldom of perpetual fear. He shall have the life of the gods conferred on him, and shall see gods and heroes mixing together, and shall himself be seen of them, and with his father's virtues shall govern a world at peace.

For thee, sweet boy, the earth of her own unforced will shall pour forth a child's first presents-gadding ivy and foxglove everywhere, and Egyptian bean blending with the bright smiling acanthus. Of themselves, the goats shall carry home udders distended with milk; nor shall the herds fear huge lions in the way. Of itself, thy grassy cradle shall pour out flowers to caress thee. Death to the serpent, and to the treacherous plant of poisoned juice. Assyrian spices shall spring up by the wayside.

But soon as thou shalt be of an age to read at length of the glories of heroes and thy father's deeds, and to acquaint thyself with the nature of manly worth, the yellow of the waving corn shall steal gradually over the plain, and from briers, that know nought of culture, grapes shall hang in purple clusters, and the stubborn heart of oak shall exude dews of honey. Still, under all this show, some few traces shall remain of the sin and guile of old-such as may prompt men to defy the ocean goddess with their ships, to build towns with walls round them, to cleave furrows in the soil of earth. A second Tiphys shall there be in those days-a second Argo to convey the flower of chivalry; a second war of heroes, too, shall there be, and a second time shall Achilles be sent in his greatness to Troy.

Afterwards, when ripe years have at length made thee man, even the peaceful sailor shall leave the sea, nor shall the good ship of pine exchange merchandise-all lands shall produce all things; the ground shall not feel the harrow, nor the vineyard the pruning-hook; the sturdy ploughman, too, shall at

length set his bullocks free from the yoke; nor shall wool be taught to counterfeit varied hues, but of himself, as he feeds in the meadows, the ram shall transform his fleece, now into a lovely purple dye, now into saffron-yellow-of its own will, scarlet shall clothe the lambs as they graze. Ages like these, flow on!-so cried to their spindles the Fates, uttering in concert the fixed will of destiny.

Assume thine august dignities-the time is at length at hand-thou best-loved offspring of the gods, august scion of Jove! Look upon the world as it totters beneath the mass of its overhanging dome-earth and the expanse of sea and the deep of heaven-look how all are rejoicing in the age that is to be! O may my life's last days last long enough and breath be granted me enough to tell of thy deeds! I will be o'ermatched in song by none-not by Orpheus of Thrace, nor by Linus, though that were backed by his mother, and this by his father-Orpheus by Calliope, Linus by Apollo in his beauty. Were Pan himself, with Arcady looking on, to enter the lists with me, Pan himself, with Arcady looking on, should own himself vanquished.

Begin, sweet child, with a smile, to take notice of thy mother-that mother has had ten months of tedious sickness and loathing. Begin, sweet child-the babe on whom never parent smiled, never grew to deserve the table of a god or the bed of a goddess!

ECLOGUE V.

DAPHNIS.

Me. Why not sit down together, Mopsus, as we happen to have met, both good in our way-you at filling slender reeds with your breath, I at singing songs-here among this clump of elms and hazels ?