"See while my last endeavours I delay, The walking ashes rise, and round our altars play! Run to the threshold, Amaryllis,--hark! Our Hylax opens, and begins to bark. Good heaven! may lovers what they wish believe? Or dream their wishes, and those dreams deceive? No more! my Daphnis comes! no more, my charms! He comes, he runs, he leaps, to my desiring arms."
[300] This Eighth Pastoral is copied by our author from two Bucolics of Theocritus. Spenser has followed both Virgil and Theocritus in the charms which he employs for curing Britomartis of her love. But he had also our poet's Ceiris in his eye; for there not only the enchantments are to be found, but also the very name of Britomartis.--DRYDEN.
_When Virgil, by the favour of Augustus, had recovered his patrimony near Mantua, and went in hope to take possession, he was in danger to be slain by Arius the centurion, to whom those lands were assigned by the Emperor, in reward of his service against Brutus and Cassius. This Pastoral therefore is filled with complaints of his hard usage; and the persons introduced are the bailiff of Virgil, Moeris, and his friend Lycidas._
Ho, Moeris! whither on thy way so fast? This leads to town.
O Lycidas! at last The time is come, I never thought to see, (Strange revolution for my farm and me!) When the grim captain in a surly tone Cries out, "Pack up, ye rascals, and be gone." Kicked out, we set the best face on't we could; } And these two kids, t'appease his angry mood, } I bear,--of which the Furies give him good! }
Your country friends were told another tale,-- That, from the sloping mountain to the vale, And doddered oak, and all the banks along, Menalcas saved his fortune with a song.
Such was the news, indeed; but songs and rhymes Prevail as much in these hard iron times, As would a plump of trembling fowl, that rise Against an eagle sousing from the skies. And, had not Phoebus warned me, by the croak Of an old raven from a hollow oak, To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain, And Moeris not survived him, to complain.
Now heaven defend! could barbarous rage induce The brutal son of Mars t'insult the sacred Muse? Who then should sing the nymphs? or who rehearse The waters gliding in a smoother verse? Or Amaryllis praise that heavenly lay, That shortened, as we went, our tedious way,-- "O Tityrus, tend my herd, and see them fed; To morning pastures, evening waters, led; And 'ware the Libyan ridgil's butting head."