Some to parched Africa, to Scythia some
Or to Oaxes, the swift Cretan stream
Or distant Britain, cut off from the world.
Ah me! shall I, long hence, my native land
Revisit, and with wonder gaze upon
My poor turf-covered hut, by scanty corn
Surrounded? Shall these oft-tilled fields be then
By lawless soldiery possessed? these crops
Of waving corn shall the barbarians own?
Lo! what great misery has discord wrought
Amongst us all! Ah to what end have we
Patiently sown our fields—for others' gain!?
Ha! Melibœus, wilt thou graft thy trees
Or set thy vines along in order now?———
Go hence, my she-goats, my once happy flock
Never again may I, from distant cave
Gaze on your frolics, hanging from the rock
Midst the thick bushes; no more songs I sing
Nor can I watch you, O my goats, whilst ye
Crop flowering cytisus, or willows harsh!
Tityrus.Yet, for this night with me, thou mayst repose
On green leaves heaped; good store of fruit have we
Of mellow apples, chestnuts ripe, and milk
Fresh-curdled: thou canst see afar the smoke
Rise from farm-roofs, the lengthening shadows too
From the high hills are cast: the day is done.
8
