Eclogues
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- upon your mountains,” sadly he replied—
- “Arcadians, that alone have skill to sing.
- O then how softly would my ashes rest,
- if of my love, one day, your flutes should tell!
- And would that I, of your own fellowship,
- or dresser of the ripening grape had been,
- 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 holds
- armed 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.