IDYL II.

EROS AND THE FOWLER.

HUNTING the birds within a bosky grove,
A birder, yet a boy, saw winged Love
Perched on a box-tree branch; rejoicing saw
What seemed a large bird, and began to draw
His rods together, and he thought to snare
Love, that kept ever hopping here and there.
Then fretting that he could not gain his end,
Casting his rods down, sought his aged friend,
Who taught him bird-catching—his story told,
And shewed Love perching. Smiled the ploughman old,
And shook his head, replying to the boy:
"Against this bird do not your rods employ;

It is an evil creature; shun him-flee;

Until you take him, happy will you be.

But if you ever come to manhood's day,

He that now flies you and still bounds away,
Will of himself, by no persuasion led,
Come suddenly and sit upon your head."

IDYL III.

THE TEACHER TAUGHT.

By me in my fresh prime did Cypris stand,
Leading the child Love in her lovely hand;

He kept his eyes fixt, downcast on the ground, While in mine ears his mother's words did sound:"Dear herdsman, take and teach for me, I pray,

Eros to sing;" she said, and went her way.
Him, as one fain to learn, without ado

I then began to teach whate'er I knew

Fool that I was! how first great Pan did suit
With numerous tones his new-invented flute;
Athene wise the straight pipe's reedy hollow;
Hermes his shell; his cithern sweet Apollo.
I taught him this; he heeded not my lore,
But sang me his love-ditties evermore

His mother's doings-how Immortals yearn

With fond desires, and how poor mortals burn.

All I taught Eros I have quite forgot;

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.