  Young Corydon for fair Alexis pin'd, But hope ne'er gladden'd his desponding mind; Nor vows nor tears the scornful boy could move, Distinguish'd by his wealthier master's love. Pensive and sad this hapless shepherd stray'd; There told in artless verse his tender pain To echoing hills and groves, but all in vain. In vain the flute's complaining lays I try; But am I doom'd, unpitying boy, to die? Now to faint flocks the grove a shade supplies, And in the thorny brake the lizard lies; Now Thestylis with herbs of savoury taste Prepares the weary harvest-man's repast; And all is still, save where the buzzing sound Of chirping grasshoppers is heard around; While I expos'd to all the rage of heat Wander the wilds in search of thy retreat. I felt from Amaryllis' fierce disdain? Easier Menalcas' cold neglect to bear, Black though he was, though thou art blooming fair? Yet be relenting, nor too much presume, O beauteous boy, on thy celestial bloom; The sable violet While useless on the field the withering lilies lie. Ah, cruel boy! my love is all in vain, No thoughts of thine regard thy wretched swain. How rich my flock thou carest not to know, Nor how my pails with generous milk o'erflow. With bleat of thousand lambs my hills resound, And all the year my milky stores abound. Not Amphion's lays were sweeter than my song, Those lays that led the listening herds along. And if the face be true I lately view'd, Where calm and clear th' uncurling ocean stood, I lack not beauty, nor could'st thou deny, That even with Daphnis I may dare to vie. O deign at last amid these lonely fields To taste the pleasures which the country yields; With me to dwell in cottages resign'd, To roam the woods, to shoot the bounding hind; With me the weanling kids from home to guide To the green mallows on the mountain side; And emulate even Pan's celestial lays. Pan taught the jointed reed its tuneful strain, Pan guards the tender flock, and shepherd swain. Nor grudge, Alexis, that the rural pipe So oft has stain'd the roses of thy lip: How did Amyntas strive thy skill to gain! How grieve at last to find his labour vain! Of seven unequal reeds a pipe I have, The precious gift which good Damoetas gave; "Take this," the dying shepherd said, "for none Inherits all my skill but thou alone." He said; Amyntas murmurs at my praise, And with an envious eye the gift surveys. Besides, as presents for my soul's delight, Two beauteous kids I keep bestreak'd with white, Nourish'd with care, nor purchas'd without pain; An ewe's full udder twice a day they drain. These to obtain oft Thestylis hath tried Each winning art, while I her suit denied; But I at last shall yield what she requests, Since thy relentless pride my gifts detests. Come, beauteous boy, and bless my rural bowers, For thee the nymphs collect the choicest flowers; Fair Nais culls amid the bloomy dale The drooping poppy, and the violet pale, To marygolds the hyacinth applies, Shading the glossy with the tawny dyes: Narcissus' flower with daffodil entwin'd, And cassia's breathing sweets to these are join'd. And all to form a garland for my love. Myself with sweetest fruits will crown thy feast; The luscious peach shall gratify thy taste, And, chestnut brown (once high in my regard, For Amaryllis this to all preferr'd; But if the blushing plum thy choice thou make, The plum shall more be valued for thy sake.) The myrtle wreath'd with laurel shall exhale A blended fragrance to delight thy smell. Ah Corydon! thou rustic, simple swain! Thyself, thy prayers, thy offers all are vain. How few, compar'd with rich Iolas' store, Thy boasted gifts, and all thy wealth how poor! Wretch that I am! while thus I pine forlorn, And all the livelong day inactive mourn, The boars have laid my silver fountains waste, My flowers are fading in the southern blast.— Fly'st thou, ah foolish boy, the lonesome grove? Yet gods for this have left the realms above. Paris with scorn the pomp of Troy survey'd, And sought th' IdÆan bowers and peaceful shade, In her proud palaces let Pallas shine; The lowly woods, and rural life be mine. The lioness all dreadful in her course Pursues the wolf, and he with headlong force Flies at the wanton goat, that loves to climb The cliff's steep side, and crop the flowering thyme; Thee Corydon pursues, O beauteous boy: Thus each is drawn along by some peculiar joy. From field the weary oxen bear the plough. The setting Sun now beams more mildly bright, The shadows lengthening with the level light. While with love's flame my restless bosom glows. For love no interval of ease allows. Ah Corydon! to weak complaints a prey! What madness thus to waste the fleeting day! Be rous'd at length; thy half-prun'd vines demand The needful culture of thy curbing hand. Haste, lingering swain, the flexile willows weave, And with thy wonted care thy wants relieve. O tantum libeat libeat——— O deign at last amid these lonely fields, &c. It appears to have been no other than that friendship, which was encouraged by the wisest legislators of ancient Greece, as a noble incentive to virtue, and recommended by the example even of Agesilaus, Pericles, and Socrates: an affection wholly distinct from the infamous attachments that prevailed among the licentious. The reader will find a full and satisfying account of this generous passion in Dr. Potter's Antiquities of Greece, B. iv. chap. 9. Mons. Bayle, in his Dictionary at the article Virgile, has at great length vindicated our poet from the charge of immorality which the critics have grounded upon this pastoral. The scene of this pastoral is a grove interspersed with beech-trees; the season, harvest. |
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