Eclogues
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- 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.
- Ah! may the frost not hurt thee, may the sharp
- and jagged ice not wound thy tender feet!
- I will depart, re-tune the songs I framed
- in verse Chalcidian to the oaten reed
- of the Sicilian swain. Resolved am I
- in the woods, rather, with wild beasts to couch,
- and bear my doom, and character my love
- upon the tender tree-trunks: they will grow,
- and you, my love, grow with them. And meanwhile
- I with the Nymphs will haunt Mount Maenalus,
- or hunt the keen wild boar. No frost so cold
- but I will hem with hounds thy forest-glades,
- parthenius. Even now, methinks, I range
- o'er rocks, through echoing groves, and joy to launch