or guardian of the flock! for surely then,let Phyllis, or Amyntas, or who else,bewitch me—what if swart Amyntas be?Dark is the violet, dark the hyacinth—among the willows, 'neath the limber vine,reclining would my love have lain with me,Phyllis plucked garlands, or Amyntas sung.Here are cool springs, soft mead and grove, Lycoris;here might our lives with time have worn away.But me mad love of the stern war-god holdsarmed amid weapons and opposing foes.Whilst thou—Ah! might I but believe it not!—alone without me, and from home afar,look'st upon Alpine snows and frozen Rhine.Ah! may the frost not hurt thee, may the sharpand jagged ice not wound thy tender feet!I will depart, re-tune the songs I framed