expect to see? Matches will be made by this between griffins and horses, and in the age to come hounds will accompany timid does to their draught. Mopsus, cut fresh brands for to-night; it is to you they are bringing home a wife. Fling about nuts as a bridegroom should; it is for you that Hesperus is leaving his rest on Eta. Take up with me, my pipe, the song of Mænalus.

O worthy mate of a worthy lord! There as you look down on all the world, and are disgusted at my pipe and my goats, and my shaggy brow, and this beard that I let grow, and do not believe that any god cares aught for the things of men. Take up with me, my pipe, the song of Mænalus.

It was in our enclosure I saw you gathering apples with the dew on them. I myself showed you the way, in company with my mother-my twelfth year had just bidden me enter on it. I could just reach from the ground to the boughs that snapped so easily. What a sight! what ruin to me! what a fatal frenzy swept me away! Take up with me, my pipe, the song of Mænalus.

Now know I what love is; it is among savage rocks that he is produced by Tmarus, or Rhodope, or the Garamantes at earth's end; no child of lineage or blood like ours. Take up with me, my pipe, the song of Mænalus.

Love, the cruel one, taught the mother to embrue her hands in her children's blood; hard too was thy heart, mother. Was the mother's heart harder, or the boy god's malice more wanton? Wanton was the boy god's malice; hard too thy heart, mother. Take up with me, my pipe, the song of Mænalus.

Aye, now let the wolf even run away from the sheep; let golden apples grow out of the tough heart of oak; let narcissus blossom on the alder; let the tamarisk's bark sweat rich drops of amber; rivalry let there be between swans and screech-owls;

let Tityrus become Orpheus-Orpheus in the woodland, Arion among the dolphins. Take up with me, my pipe, the song of Mænalus.

Nay, let all be changed to the deep sea. Farewell, ye woods! Headlong from the airy mountain's watchtower I will plunge into the waves; let this come to her as the last gift of the dying. Cease, my pipe, cease at length the song of Mænalus.

Thus far Damon; for the reply of Alphesibous, do ye recite it, Pierian maids; it is not for all of us to have command of all. Bring out water and bind the altars here with a soft woollen fillet, and burn twigs full of sap and male frankincense, that I may try the effect of magic rites in turning my husband's mind from its soberness; there is nothing but charms wanting here. Bring me home from the town, my charms, bring me my Daphnis.

Charms have power even to draw the moon down from heaven; by charms Circe transformed the companions of Ulysses; the cold snake as he lies in the fields is burst asunder by chanting charms. Bring me home from the town, my charms, bring me my Daphnis.

These three threads distinct with three colours I wind round thee first, and thrice draw the image round the altar thus; heaven delights in an uneven number. Twine in three knots, Amaryllis, the three colours; twine them, Amaryllis, do, and say, 'I am twining the bonds of Love.' Bring me home from the town, my charms, bring me my Daphnis.

Just as this clay is hardened, and this wax melted, by one and the same fire, so may my love act doubly on Daphnis. Crumble the salt cake, and kindle the crackling bay leaves with bitumen. Daphnis, the wretch, is setting me on fire; I am setting this bay on fire about Daphnis. Bring me home from the town, my charms, bring me my Daphnis.

May such be Daphnis' passion, like a heifer's, when, weary of looking for her mate through groves and tall forests, she throws herself down by a stream of water on the green sedge, all undone, and forgets to rise and make way for the fargone night-may such be his enthralling passion, nor let me have a mind to relieve it. Bring me home from the town, my charms, bring me my Daphnis.

These cast-off relics that faithless one left me days ago, precious pledges for himself, them I now entrust to thee, Earth, burying them even on the threshold; they are bound as pledges to give me back Daphnis. Bring me home from the town, my charms, bring me my Daphnis.

These plants and these poisons culled from Pontus I had from Moris' own hand. They grow in plenty at Pontus. By the strength of these often I have seen Moris turn to a wolf and plunge into the forest, often call up spirits from the bottom of the tomb, and remove standing crops from one field to another. Bring me home from the town, my charms, bring me my Daphnis.

Carry the embers out of doors, Amaryllis, and fling them into the running stream over your head; and do not look behind you. This shall be my device against Daphnis. As for gods or charms, he cares for none of them. Bring me home from the town, my charms, bring me my Daphnis.

Look, look! the flickering flame has caught the altar of its own accord, shot up from the embers, before I have had time to take them up, all of themselves. Good luck, I trust! .. Yes, there is something, I am sure . . . and Hylax is barking at the gate. Can I trust myself? or is it that lovers make their own dreams? Stop, he is coming from town; stop now, charms, my Daphnis !

ECLOGUE IX.

MORIS.

L. Whither away on foot, Moris; following the road to the town?

...

M. O Lycidas! we have been kept on alive, to hear a stranger... what our fears never looked for now, owner of our little farm, say to us, 'I am master here; you old tenants, take yourselves away;' and so now, beaten and cowed, since Fortune's wheel is on the roll everywhere, we are carrying him these kids, with a mischief to him.

L. Why, surely I had heard that all the land from where the hills begin to draw themselves up from the plain, and then let down the ridge with a gentle slope, on to the water, and those old beeches with their battered tops, your Menalcas had succeeded in saving by his songs.

M. Aye, so you had, and so the story went; but our songs, I can tell you, Lycidas, have as much power in the clatter of weapons of war as the doves of Chaonia, they say, have when the eagle is coming. So if I had not been warned before hand anyhow to cut this new quarrel short by the raven on the left from the hollow holm-oak, you would not have seen your servant Maris here, nor Menalcas himself alive.

L. Alas! could any one be guilty of such a crime ? alas ! were we so nearly losing all the comfort you give us, along with yourself, Menalcas? Who would there be to sing of the nymphs Who to sow the turf with flowers and herbage, and embower the springs in green shade? Or who would give us songs like that I caught slily from you the other day when you were making your way to that darling Amaryllis of ours — Tityrus, whilst I come back-it will not be longfeed my goats for me; and when fed drive them to water,

Tityrus, and in driving them don't come across the he-goat-he has a trick of butting, beware.'

M. Or this, you might have said, the song he was making for Varus and had not finished :- Varus, thy name-only let Mantua be spared us; Mantua, too near a neighbour, alas! to ill-starred Cremona-our swans in their songs shall carry aloft to the stars.'

L. If you would have your swarms fail to light on the yews of Corsica, and your heifers swell their udders with milk from browsing on lucerne, begin with anything you have in your mind. I, too, have been made a poet by the Muses, and have verses, too, of my own. I am called a bard myself by the shepherds, but I have no mind to trust them; for as yet I cannot think my singing worthy of Varius or of Cinna; no, it is the mere cackling of a goose among the melody of swans.

M. That is what I am trying to do, turning over in my mind, Lycidas, while you have been speaking, in the hope of being able to recollect; for it is no vulgar song. Hither to me, Galatea! why, what sport can there be in the water? Here are the glorious hues of spring, here is the ground pouring forth flowers of all dyes on the river-bank, here is the fair white poplar stooping over the cave, and the limber vines weaving a bower of shelter. Hither to me, and let the mad waves beat the shore as they please.'

L. What of the song I heard you singing that clear night all alone? I remember the tune if I could but get the words. M. Daphnis, why that upturned look at the old constellations rising? See, the star of Cæsar, Dione's darling, has begun its march—a star to make the corn-fields glad with produce, and the colour deepen on the grape in the sunny hills. Graft your pears, Daphnis, and spare not; the fruit you grow will be gathered by the next generation.' Everything goes with time, the brain among the rest. Many were the long