Eclogue IX (by Virgil, translated by Seamus Heaney) Lycidas: Where are you headed, Moeris? Into town? Moeris: The things we have lived to see...The last thing You could’ve imagined happening has happened. An outsider lands and says he has the rights To our bit of ground. “Out, old hands,” he says, “This place is mine.” And these kid-goats in the creel— Bad cess to him—these kids are his. All’s changed. Lycidas: The story I heard was about Menalcas, How your song-man’s singing saved the place, Starting from where the hills go doubling back\ And the ridge keeps sloping gently to the water, Right down to those old scraggy-headed beech trees. Moeris: That’s what you would have heard. But songs and tunes Can no more hold out against brute force than doves When eagles swoop. The truth is, Lycidas, If I hadn’t heard the crow caw on my left In our hollow oak, I’d have kept on arguing And that would’ve been the end of the road, for me That’s talking to you, and for Menalcas even. Lycidas: Shocking times. Our very music, our one consolation, Confiscated, all but. And Menalcas himself Nearly one of the missing. Who would there be to sing Praise songs to the nymph? Who hymn the earth To grow wild flowers and grass, and shade the wells With overhanging green? Who sing the song I listened by heart as you went warbling it, Off to the Amaryllis we all love? The one that goes, “O herd my goats for me, Tityrus, till I come back. I won’t be long. Graze them and then water them, and watch The boyo with the horns doesn’t go for you.” Moeris: And then there was that one he never finished. Addressed to Varus, about a choir of swans Chanting his name to the stars, “should Mantua Survive, Mantua too close to sad Cremona.” Lycidas: If you’ve any song to sing, then sing it now So that your bees may swerve off past the yew trees, Your cows in clover thrive with canted teats And tightening udders. The Pierian Muses Made me a poet too, I too have songs, And people in the country calls me bard, But I’m not sure: I have done nothing yet That Varius or Cinna would take note of. I’m a squawking goose among sweet-throated swans. Moeris: I’m quiet because I’m trying to piece together As best I can a song I think you’d know: “Galatea,” it goes, “come here to me. What’s in the sea and the waves that keeps you spellbound? Here earth breaks out in wildflowers, she rills and rolls The streams in waterweed, here poplars bend Where the bank is undermined and vines in thickets Are meshing shade with light. Come here to me. Let the mad white horses paw and pound the shore.” Lycidas: There was something I heard you singing by yourself One night when the sky was clear. I have the air So maybe I’ll get the words. “Daphnis, Daphnis, why Do you concentrate your gaze on the old stars? Look for the star of Caesar, rising now, Star of corn in the fields and hay in haggards Of clustered grapes gone purple in the heat On hillsides facing south. Daphnis, now is the time To plant the pear slips for your children’s children.” Moeris: Age robs us of everything, of our very mind. Many a time I remember as a boy Serenading the slow sun down to rest, But nowadays I’m forgetting song after song And my voice is going: maybe the wolves have blinked it But Menalcas will keep singing and keep the songs. Lycidas: Come on, don’t make excuses, I want to hear you And now’s your chance, now this hush has fallen Everywhere—look—on the plain, and every breeze Has calmed and quietened. We’ve come half-way. Already you can see Bianor’s tomb Just up ahead. Here where they’ve trimmed and faced The old green hedge, here’s where we’re going to sing. Set that creel and those kid-goats on the ground. We’ll make it into town in all good time. Or if it looks like rain when it’s getting dark, Singing shortens the road, so we’ll walk and sing. Walk then, Moeris, and sing. I’ll take the kids. Moeris: That’s enough of that, my boy. We’ve a job to do. When the real singer comes, we’ll sing in earnest. --

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