IDYL IV.

THE POWER OF LOVE.

THE Muses fear not, but with heart-love true, Affect wild Eros, and his steps pursue.

And if one sings, with cold and loveless heart,
They shun him, and will never teach their art.
But if one sings Love's agitated thrall,

To him in flowing stream they hasten all.
Of this myself am proof; for whensoe'er
For some Immortal else, or mortal here
I would the glowing path of song explore,
Stammers my tongue, and sings not as before!
But glad and gushing flows the strain from me,
Whene'er I sing of Love or Clymene.

IDYL V.

LIFE TO BE ENJOYED.

IF sweet my songs, or these sufficient be
Which I have sung to give renown to me,
I know not; but it misbeseems to strain
At things we have not learned, and toil in vain.
If sweet these songs are not, what profit more
Have I to labour at them o'er and o'er?

If Saturn's son, and changeful Fate, assigned
A double life-time to our mortal kind,

That one in joys and one in woes be past,

Who had his woes first would have joys at last. But since Heaven wills one life to man should fall,

And this is very brief-too brief for all

We think to do, why should we fret and moil,
And vex ourselves with never-ending toil?
To what end waste we life, exhaust our health
On gainful arts and sigh for greater wealth?
We surely all forget our mortal state—

How brief the life allotted us by Fate!

IDYL VI.

CLEODAMUS AND MYRSON.

CLEODAMUS.

WHAT Sweet for you has Summer or the Spring, What joy does Autumn or the Winter bring? Which season do you hail with most delight? Summer whose fulness doth our toils requite? Or the sweet Autumn when but slight distress From hunger falls on mortal wretchedness?

Or lazy Winter-since but few are loath

To cheer themselves with fire-side ease and sloth? Or the Spring blushing with its bloom of flowers? Tell me your choice, since leisure-time is ours.

MYRSON.

For man to judge things heavenly is unmeet,
And all these seasons holy are and sweet.
But I to please you will indulge your ear,
And tell my favourite season of the year.

Not Summer-then I feel the scorching sun;
Nor Autumn-then their course diseases run;
And hard I find to bear the Winter frore,
The chilling snow I fear, and crystal hoar.
Of all the year the Spring delights me most,
Free from the scorching sun, and bitter frost,
All life-containing shapes conceive in Spring,
And all sweet things are sweetly blossoming;
And in that season of the year's delight
There is for men an equal day and night.

IDYL VII.

ACHILLES AND DEÏDAMIA.

MYRSON.

WILL you, my Lycidas, now sing for me
A soothing sweet Sicilian melody-

A love-song, such as once the Cyclops young
On the sea-shore to Galatea sung?

LYCIDAS.

I'll pipe or sing for you. What shall it be?

MYRSON.

The song of Scyros dearly pleases me,
Sweet love the pleasant life Pelides led-

His furtive kisses, and the furtive bed.

How he, a boy, put on a virgin's dress,

Assumed a virgin's mien, and seemed no less;

And how Deïdamia, maiden coy,

Found her girl bedmate was a wicked boy.