Classic Poem

THE NINTH PASTORAL

OR, LYCIDAS AND MoeRIS

L YCIDAS

H O , Maeris! whether on thy way so fast?
This leads to town.

M oeRIS

O Lycidas, at last
The time is come I never thought to see,
(Strange revolution for my farm and me!)
When the grim captain in a surly tone
Cries out: " Pack up, ye rascals, and be gone. "
Kick'd out, we set the best face on 't we could;
And these two kids, t' appease his angry mood,
I bear — of which the Furies give him good!

L YCIDAS

Your country friends were told another tale;
That, from the sloping mountain to the vale,
And dodder'd oak, and all the banks along,
Menalcas sav'd his fortune with a song.

M oeRIS

Such was the news, indeed; but songs and rhymes
Prevail as much in these hard iron times,
As would a plump of trembling fowl, that rise
Against an eagle sousing from the skies.
And, had not Phaebus warn'd me, by the croak
Of an old raven from a hollow oak,
To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain,
And Maeris not surviv'd him, to complain.

L YCIDAS

Now Heav'n defend! Could barb'rous rage induce
The brutal son of Mars t' insult the sacred Muse!
Who then should sing the nymphs, or who rehearse
The waters gliding in a smoother verse!
Or Amaryllis praise — that heav'nly lay,
That shorten'd, as we went, our tedious way:
" O Tit'rus, tend my herd, and see them fed;
To morning pastures, evening waters, led;
And 'ware the Libyan ridgil's butting head. "

M oeRIS

Or what unfinish'd he to Varus read:
" Thy name, O Varus, (if the kinder pow'rs
Preserve our plains, and shield the Mantuan tow'rs,
Obnoxious by Cremona's neighb'ring crime,)
The wings of swans, and stronger-pinion'd rhyme,
Shall raise aloft, and soaring bear above,
Th' immortal gift of gratitude to Jove. "

L YCIDAS

Sing on, sing on; for I can ne'er be cloy'd:
So may thy swarms the baleful yew avoid;
So may thy cows their burden'd bags distend,
And trees to goats their willing branches bend.
Mean as I am, yet have the Muses made
Me free, a member of the tuneful trade:
At least the shepherds seem to like my lays;
But I discern their flatt'ry from their praise:
I nor to Cinna's ears, nor Varus', dare aspire,
But gabble, like a goose, amidst the swanlike choir.

M oeRIS

'T is what I have been conning in my mind;
Nor are they verses of a vulgar kind.
" Come, Galatea, come, the seas forsake:
What pleasures can the tides with their hoarse murmurs make?
See, on the shore inhabits purple spring,
Where nightingales their love-sick ditty sing:
See, meads with purling streams, with flow'rs the ground,
The grottoes cool, with shady poplars crown'd;
And creeping vines on arbors weav'd around.
Come then, and leave the waves' tumultuous roar;
Let the wild surges vainly beat the shore. "

L YCIDAS

Or that sweet song I heard with such delight;
The same you sung alone one starry night.
The tune I still retain, but not the words.

M oeRIS

" Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old records,
To know the seasons when the stars arise?
See, Caesar's lamp is lighted in the skies:
The star whose rays the blushing grapes adorn,
And swell the kindly ripening ears of corn.
Under this influence, graft the tender shoot:
Thy children's children shall enjoy the fruit. "
The rest I have forgot; for cares and time
Change all things, and untune my soul to rhyme.
I could have once sung down a summer's sun;
But now the chime of poetry is done:
My voice grows hoarse; I feel the notes decay,
As if the wolves had seen me first to-day.
But these, and more than I to mind can bring,
Menalcas has not yet forgot to sing.

L YCIDAS

Thy faint excuses but inflame me more:
And now the waves roll silent to the shore;
Hush'd winds the topmost branches scarcely bend,
As if thy tuneful song they did attend:
Already we have half our way o'ercome;
Far off I can discern Bianor's tomb.
Here, where the laborer's hands have form'd a bow'r
Of wreathing trees, in singing waste an hour.
Rest here thy weary limbs; thy kids lay down:
We've day before us yet to reach the town;
Or if, ere night, the gath'ring clouds we fear,
A song will help the beating storm to bear.
And, that thou may'st not be too late abroad,
Sing, and I 'll ease thy shoulders of thy load.

M oeRIS

Cease to request me; let us mind our way:
Another song requires another day.
When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice,
And find a friend at court, I 'll find a voice.L YCIDAS

Thy faint excuses but inflame me more:
And now the waves roll silent to the shore;
Hush'd winds the topmost branches scarcely bend,
As if thy tuneful song they did attend:
Already we have half our way o'ercome;
Far off I can discern Bianor's tomb.
Here, where the laborer's hands have form'd a bow'r
Of wreathing trees, in singing waste an hour.
Rest here thy weary limbs; thy kids lay down:
We've day before us yet to reach the town;
Or if, ere night, the gath'ring clouds we fear,
A song will help the beating storm to bear.
And, that thou may'st not be too late abroad,
Sing, and I 'll ease thy shoulders of thy load.

M oeRIS

Cease to request me; let us mind our way:
Another song requires another day.
When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice,
And find a friend at court, I 'll find a voice.