cantando rigidas deducere montibus ornos. his tibi Grynei nemoris dicatur origo, ne quis sit lucus, quo se plus iactet Apollo.” Quid loquar, aut Scyllam Nisi, quam fama secuta est 75candida succinctam latrantibus inguina monstris Dulichias vexasse rates et gurgite in alto a! timidos nautas canibus lacerasse marinis; aut ut mutatos Terei narraverit artus, quas illi Philomela dapes, quae dona pararit, 80quo cursu deserta petiverit et quibus ante infelix sua tecta super volitaverit alis? Omnia quae Phoebo quondam meditante beatus audiit Eurotas iussitque ediscere lauros, ille canit (pulsae referunt ad sidera valles), 85cogere donec ovis stabulis numerumque referre iussit et invito processit Vesper Olympo.
mp Forte sub arguta consederat ilice Daphnis, compulerantque greges Corydon et Thyrsis in unum, Thyrsis ovis, Corydon distentas lacte capellas, ambo florentes aetatibus, Arcades ambo, 5et cantare pares et respondere parati. huc mihi, dum teneras defendo a frigore myrtos, vir gregis ipse caper deerraverat, atque ego Daphnin aspicio. ille ubi me contra videt, “ocius” inquit “huc ades, o Meliboee: caper tibi salvus et haedi;
- 74aut MP: ut R
wherewith, as he sang, he would draw the unyielding ash trees down the mountain sides. With these do you tell of the birth of the Grynean wood, that there may be no grove wherein Apollo glories more.”
Why tell how he sang of Scylla, daughter of Nisus, of whom is still told the story that, with howling monsters girt about her white waist, she harried the Ithacan barques, and in the swirling depths, alas! tore asunder the trembling sailors with her sea dogs? Or how he told of Tereus’ changed form, what feast, what gifts Philomela made ready for him, on what wise she sped to the desert, and with what wings, luckless one! she first hovered above her home?
All the songs that of old Phoebus rehearsed, while happy Eurotas listened and bade his laurels learn by heart—these Silenus sings. The re-echoing valleys fling them again to the stars, till Vesper gave the word to fold the flocks and tell their tale, as he set forth over an unwilling sky.
Daphnis, it chanced, had made his seat beneath a whispering ilex, while Corydon and Thyrsis had driven their flocks together—Thyrsis his sheep, Corydon his goats swollen with milk—both in the bloom of life, Arcadians both, ready in a singing match to start, ready to make reply. To this place, while I sheltered my tender myrtles from the frost, my he-goat, the lord of the flock himself, had strayed; and I catch sight of Daphnis. As he in turn saw me, “Quick,” he cries, “come hither, Meliboeus; your goat and kids are safe,