1Where are your feet taking you, Moeris? 1Is it into town, where the road leads? 2O Lycidas, we have lived to see the day when a stranger, owner of our little farm (a thing we never feared), could say: 'These are mine; 4be off, you old tenants!' 5now, beaten and sad, since Chance overturns everything, we are sending him these kids—and may it bring him no good! 7Surely I had heard that, from where the hills begin to draw back and let their ridge down in a gentle slope, as far as the water and the old beeches, their tops now broken, your Menalcas had saved everything by his songs.
11You had heard it, and so the story went; 11but our songs, Lycidas, avail as much among the weapons of Mars as they say Chaonian doves do when the eagle comes. 14Indeed, had not a crow on the left from a hollow holm-oak warned me beforehand to cut short the new quarrels however I could, neither your Moeris here nor Menalcas himself would be alive. 17Alas, can such a crime befall anyone? 17Alas, were your comforts nearly snatched from us, Menalcas, along with you? 19who would sing of the nymphs; 19who would strew the ground with flowering herbs, or cover the springs with green shade? 21or sing the songs which I quietly stole from you the other day, when you were making your way to Amaryllis, our darling?
23Tityrus, until I return—the way is short—feed the goats, and when they have fed, drive them to water, Tityrus, and while you drive them, take care not to get in the way of the he-goat: he butts with his horn. 26Or rather these, which he was singing to Varus, not yet finished: 'Varus, your name, if only Mantua is left to us—Mantua, alas, too near to wretched Cremona—singing swans shall carry aloft to the stars.' 30So may your swarms shun the yews of Corsica; 31so may your cows, fed on clover, swell their udders! 32Begin, if you have anything: the Pierian Muses have made me too a poet; 33I too have songs; 33the shepherds call me a bard as well, but I do not believe them.
35For I do not yet seem to sing anything worthy of Varius or of Cinna, but to cackle like a goose among melodious swans. 37That is just what I am doing, Lycidas, turning it over silently in my mind, to see if I can remember it; 38and it is no mean song: 'Come here, O Galatea; 39for what pleasure is there in the waves? Here is purple spring; 40here, around the rivers, the earth pours out varied flowers; 41here the white poplar leans over the cave, and the pliant vines weave shady bowers. 43Come here: let the mad waves beat upon the shores.' 44What of the song I had heard you singing alone on a clear night?
45I remember the tune, if only I could hold the words. 46'Daphnis, why do you gaze up at the ancient risings of the constellations? 47Look, the star of Caesar, descendant of Dione, has come forth, the star by which the cornfields would rejoice in their crops, and by which the grape would take on its colour on the sunny hills. 50Graft your pear-trees, Daphnis: your grandchildren will gather your fruit.' 51Age carries all things away, the mind too: often, I remember, as a boy I sang long days to their close: now so many songs are forgotten by me; 53even his voice itself now fails Moeris; 54the wolves saw Moeris first.
55But Menalcas will often repeat those songs to you fully enough. 56With your excuses you put off my longing for a long time: and now, see, the whole sea lies level and silent for you, and all the breezes of the gusty murmur have died away. 59From here, in fact, we are halfway along the road; 59for Bianor's tomb is beginning to come into view: here, where the farmers are stripping the thick leaves, here, Moeris, let us sing; 62set the kids down here: we shall reach the town even so. 63or if we fear that night may gather rain first, we may go on singing all the way (the road wearies less); 65so that we may go singing, I will relieve you of this bundle.
66Say no more, boy, and let us do what is now in hand: we shall sing songs better when he himself has come.