Virgil: Ecologa Prima
Section four!
Tityrus
Ante leves ergo pascentur in aethere cervi
et freta destituent nudos in litore pisces, 60
ante pererratis amborum finibus exsul
aut Ararim Parthus bibet aut Germania Tigrim,
quam nostro illius labatur pectore vultus.
Meliboeus
At nos hinc alii sitientis ibimus Afros,
pars Scythiam et rapidum cretae veniemus Oaxen 65
et penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos.
en umquam patrios longo post tempore finis
pauperis et tuguri congestum caespite culmen,
post aliquot, mea regna, videns mirabor aristas?
impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit, 70
barbarus has segetes. en quo discordia civis
produxit miseros; his nos consevimus agros!
insere nunc, Meliboee, piros, pone ordine vites.
ite meae, felix quondam pecus, ite capellae.
non ego vos posthac viridi proiectus in antro 75
dumosa pendere procul de rupe videbo;
carmina nulla canam; non me pascente, capellae,
florentem cytisum et salices carpetis amaras.
Tityrus
Hic tamen hanc mecum poteras requiescere noctem
fronde super viridi. sunt nobis mitia poma, 80
castaneae molles et pressi copia lactis,
et iam summa procul villarum culmina fumant
maioresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae.
My translation:
Tityrus
So the deer will be grazed before on the air
and the seas will draw back leaving nude fish on the shore,
the exiled Parthian will drink the Arar, or the German the Tigris,
both exiled and wondering each other’s boundaries,
before which his face will waver from my heart.
Meliboeus
But we must go there, some to the thirsting Africans,
some come to Scythia and Crete’s swift oxen
and the far off Britons wholly separated from the united world.
Lo! Will I ever gaze on the shores of my country, after a long time,
and my poor cottage, roof crowded with grass,
after so much, will I gaze on corn?
An impious soldier will have these so cherished fields,
a barbarian will hae these crops. Lo! What discord creates
miserable countrymen; we sowed our fields for this?!
Now plant, Meliboeus, your pear-tree, plant your rows of vines.
Go, my once-lucky flock, go, my goats.
I’ll no longer see you, abandoned in a green hollow
at a distance depending on rocks overgrown with thorn;
I’ll sing no more songs; I will not graze you, my goats,
and you will chew the flowering clover and the bitter willows.
Tityrus
Here you may rest with me this night
on green leaves. There are ripe apples for us here,
tender chestnuts and plenty of pressed cheese,
and now near the high roofs of the rustic homes, smoking,
long shadows fall from the high mountains.
