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mphs will haunt Mount Maenalus, or hunt the keen wild boar. No frost so cold but I will hem with hounds thy forest-glades, parthenius. Even now, methinks, I range o'er rocks, through echoing groves, and joy to launch Cydonian arrows from a Parthian bow.— as if my madness could find healing thus, or that god soften at a mortal's grief! Now neither Hamadryads, no, nor songs delight me more: ye woods, away with you! No pangs of ours can change him; not though we in the mid-frost should drink of Hebrus' stream, and in wet winters face Sithonian snows, or, when the bark of the tall elm-tree bole of drought is dying, should, under Cancer's Sign, in Aethiopian deserts drive our flocks. Love conquers all things; yield we too to love!” These songs, Pierian Maids, shall it suffice your poet to have sung, the while he sat, and of slim mallow wove a basket fine: to Gallus ye will magnify their worth, Gallus, for whom my love grows hour by hour, as the green alder shoots in early Spring. Come, let
Parnassus (Greece) (search for this): poem 10
read. Who would not sing for Gallus? So, when thou beneath Sicanian billows glidest on, may Doris blend no bitter wave with thine, begin! The love of Gallus be our theme, and the shrewd pangs he suffered, while, hard by, the flat-nosed she-goats browse the tender brush. We sing not to deaf ears; no word of ours but the woods echo it. What groves or lawns held you, ye Dryad-maidens, when for love— love all unworthy of a loss so dear— Gallus lay dying? for neither did the slopes of Pindus or Parnassus stay you then, no, nor Aonian Aganippe. Him even the laurels and the tamarisks wept; for him, outstretched beneath a lonely rock, wept pine-clad Maenalus, and the flinty crags of cold Lycaeus. The sheep too stood around— of us they feel no shame, poet divine; nor of the flock be thou ashamed: even fair Adonis by the rivers fed his sheep— came shepherd too, and swine-herd footing slow, and, from the winter-acorns dripping-wet Menalcas. All with one accord exclaim: “From whence this love
e—what if swart Amyntas be? Dark is the violet, dark the hyacinth— among the willows, 'neath the limber vine, reclining would my love have lain with me, Phyllis plucked garlands, or Amyntas sung. Here are cool springs, soft mead and grove, Lycoris; here might our lives with time have worn away. But me mad love of the stern war-god holds armed amid weapons and opposing foes. Whilst thou—Ah! might I but believe it not!— alone without me, and from home afar, look'st upon Alpine snows and frozen Rhine. Ah! may the frost not hurt thee, may the sharp and jagged ice not wound thy tender feet! I will depart, re-tune the songs I framed in verse Chalcidian to the oaten reed of the Sicilian swain. Resolved am I in the woods, rather, with wild beasts to couch, and bear my doom, and character my love upon the tender tree-trunks: they will grow, and you, my love, grow with them. And meanwhile I with the Nymphs will haunt Mount Maenalus, or hunt the keen wild boar. No frost so cold but I will hem w