An Eclogue From Virgil
(The
exile
Meliboeus
finds
Tityrus
in
possession
of
his
own
farm,
restored
to
him
by
the
emperor
Augustus,
and
a
conversation
ensues.
The
poem
is
in
praise
of
Augustus,
peace
and
pastoral
life.)
_Meliboeus_--
Tityrus,
all
in
the
shade
of
the
wide-spreading
beech
tree
reclining,
Sweet
is
that
music
you've
made
on
your
pipe
that
is
oaten
and
slender;
Exiles
from
home,
you
beguile
our
hearts
from
their
hopeless
repining,
As
you
sing
Amaryllis
the
while
in
pastorals
tuneful
and
tender.
_Tityrus_--
A
god--yes,
a
god,
I
declare--vouchsafes
me
these
pleasant
conditions,
And
often
I
gayly
repair
with
a
tender
white
lamb
to
his
altar,
He
gives
me
the
leisure
to
play
my
greatly
admired
compositions,
While
my
heifers
go
browsing
all
day,
unhampered
of
bell
and
halter.
_Meliboeus_--
I
do
not
begrudge
you
repose;
I
simply
admit
I'm
confounded
To
find
you
unscathed
of
the
woes
of
pillage
and
tumult
and
battle;
To
exile
and
hardship
devote
and
by
merciless
enemies
hounded,
I
drag
at
this
wretched
old
goat
and
coax
on
my
famishing
cattle.
Oh,
often
the
omens
presaged
the
horrors
which
now
overwhelm
me--
But,
come,
if
not
elsewise
engaged,
who
is
this
good
deity,
tell
me!
_Tityrus_
(reminiscently)--
The
city--the
city
called
Rome,
with,
my
head
full
of
herding
and
tillage,
I
used
to
compare
with
my
home,
these
pastures
wherein
you
now
wander;
But
I
didn't
take
long
to
find
out
that
the
city
surpasses
the
village
As
the
cypress
surpasses
the
sprout
that
thrives
in
the
thicket
out
yonder.
_Meliboeus_--
Tell
me,
good
gossip,
I
pray,
what
led
you
to
visit
the
city?
_Tityrus_--
Liberty!
which
on
a
day
regarded
my
lot
with
compassion
My
age
and
distresses,
forsooth,
compelled
that
proud
mistress
to
pity,
That
had
snubbed
the
attentions
of
youth
in
most
reprehensible
fashion.
Oh,
happy,
thrice
happy,
the
day
when
the
cold
Galatea
forsook
me,
And
equally
happy,
I
say,
the
hour
when
that
other
girl
took
me!
_Meliboeus_
(slyly,
as
if
addressing
the
damsel)--
So
now,
Amaryllis
the
truth
of
your
ill-disguised
grief
I
discover!
You
pined
for
a
favorite
youth
with
cityfied
damsels
hobnobbing.
And
soon
your
surroundings
partook
of
your
grief
for
your
recusant
lover--
The
pine
trees,
the
copse
and
the
brook
for
Tityrus
ever
went
sobbing.
_Tityrus_--
Meliboeus,
what
else
could
I
do?
Fate
doled
me
no
morsel
of
pity;
My
toil
was
all
in
vain
the
year
through,
no
matter
how
earnest
or
clever,
Till,
at
last,
came
that
god
among
men--that
king
from
that
wonderful
city,
And
quoth:
"Take
your
homesteads
again--they
are
yours
and
your
assigns
forever!"
_Meliboeus_--
Happy,
oh,
happy
old
man!
rich
in
what's
better
than
money--
Rich
in
contentment,
you
can
gather
sweet
peace
by
mere
listening;
Bees
with
soft
murmurings
go
hither
and
thither
for
honey.
Cattle
all
gratefully
low
in
pastures
where
fountains
are
glistening--
Hark!
in
the
shade
of
that
rock
the
pruner
with
singing
rejoices--
The
dove
in
the
elm
and
the
flock
of
wood-pigeons
hoarsely
repining,
The
plash
of
the
sacred
cascade--ah,
restful,
indeed,
are
these
voices,
Tityrus,
all
in
the
shade
of
your
wide-spreading
beech-tree
reclining!
_Tityrus_--
And
he
who
insures
this
to
me--oh,
craven
I
were
not
to
love
him!
Nay,
rather
the
fish
of
the
sea
shall
vacate
the
water
they
swim
in,
The
stag
quit
his
bountiful
grove
to
graze
in
the
ether
above
him.
While
folk
antipodean
rove
along
with
their
children
and
women!
_Meliboeus_
(suddenly
recalling
his
own
misery)--
But
we
who
are
exiled
must
go;
and
whither--ah,
whither--God
knoweth!
Some
into
those
regions
of
snow
or
of
desert
where
Death
reigneth
only;
Some
off
to
the
country
of
Crete,
where
rapid
Oaxes
down
floweth.
And
desperate
others
retreat
to
Britain,
the
bleak
isle
and
lonely.
Dear
land
of
my
birth!
shall
I
see
the
horde
of
invaders
oppress
thee?
Shall
the
wealth
that
outspringeth
from
thee
by
the
hand
of
the
alien
be
squandered?
Dear
cottage
wherein
I
was
born!
shall
another
in
conquest
possess
thee--
Another
demolish
in
scorn
the
fields
and
the
groves
where
I've
wandered?
My
flock!
never
more
shall
you
graze
on
that
furze-covered
hillside
above
me--
Gone,
gone
are
the
halcyon
days
when
my
reed
piped
defiance
to
sorrow!
Nevermore
in
the
vine-covered
grot
shall
I
sing
of
the
loved
ones
that
love
me--
Let
yesterday's
peace
be
forgot
in
dread
of
the
stormy
to-morrow!
_Tityrus_--
But
rest
you
this
night
with
me
here;
my
bed--we
will
share
it
together,
As
soon
as
you've
tasted
my
cheer,
my
apples
and
chestnuts
and
cheeses;
The
evening
a'ready
is
nigh--the
shadows
creep
over
the
heather,
And
the
smoke
is
rocked
up
to
the
sky
to
the
lullaby
song
of
the
breezes.
Eugene Field
Known for his lyrical and long-form verse, Percy Bysshe Shelley was a prominent English Romantic poet and was one of the most highly regarded and influential poets of the 19th century. Born on August 4, 1792—the year of the Terror in France—Percy Bysshe Shelley (the “Bysshe” from his grandfather, a peer of the realm) was the son of Timothy and Elizabeth Shelley. As the elder son among one brother, John, and four sisters, Elizabeth, Mary, Margaret, and Hellen, Percy stood in line not only to inherit his grandfather’s considerable estate but also to sit in Parliament one day. In his position as oldest male child, young Percy was beloved and admired by his sisters, his parents, and even the servants in his early reign as young lord of Field Place, the family home near Horsham, Sussex. Playful and imaginative, he devised games to play with his sisters and told ghost stories to an enrapt and willing-to-be-thrilled audience.