The Eclogues of Virgil

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Henry Frowde, Publisher to the University of Oxford, 1897 - 48 pages
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Page xii - Thy lofty tragic scenes, thy labour'd verse; The world another Sophocles in thee, Another Homer should behold in me. Amidst thy laurels let this ivy twine: Thine was my earliest muse; my latest shall be thine.
Page xi - Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, and the Rome of freemen holds her place, I, from out the Northern Island sunder'd once from all the human race, I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved thee since my day began, Wielder of the stateliest measure ever moulded by the lips of man.
Page 24 - How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around: Every shade and hallowed fountain Murmured deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Page 46 - ... whether my Phyllis were here, or whether Amyntas, Which'of my loves, I care not — (oh, what of the dusky Amyntas ? Is not the violet dark, and dark the hyacinth also ?) Lying with me in the shade of the sinewy vine by the willows ; Phyllis would gather me flowers, Amyntas a melody chant me. Cold is the fountain's wave and soft is the meadow, Lycoris ! Shady the grove ! Here with thee I would die of old age in the green shade. Mad is the lust of war, that now in the heart of the battle Chains...
Page 33 - Moss-grown fountains and sward more soft than the softest of slumbers, Arbutus tree that flings over both its flickering shadows, Shelter my flock from the sun. Already the summer is onus, Summer that scorches up all ! See the bud on the glad vine is swelling.
Page 47 - ... the fountain's wave and soft is the meadow, Lycoris ! Shady the grove ! Here with thee I would die of old age in the greenwood. Mad is the lust of war, that now in the heart of the battle Chains me, where darts fall fast and the charge of the foeman is fiercest. Far, far away from your home-— oh, would that I might not believe it ! Lost amid Alpine snows or the frozen desolate Rhineland, Lonely without me you wander...
Page 12 - farewell, a long farewell, my lollas " Dam. Deadly the wolf to the fold, to the mellow cornfield the deluge! Deadly the blast to the tree, to me Amaryllis's anger. Hen. Sweet is the shower to the blade, to the newly weaned kid the arbutus ; Sweet to tbe ewes is the willow, but sweeter to me, my Amyntas.
Page 17 - Hercules; but there is neither sense nor skill, and something very like a serious grammatical error, in "Who knows not the smile of a parent, Neither the board of a god nor the bed of a goddess is worthy.
Page 10 - Over whose side the vine, by a touch of the graving tool added, Mantles its clustering grapes in the paler leaves of the ivy.
Page 22 - Sweeter to me that song than the rising breath of the South wind, Sweeter than music made by the wave-beaten shores of the ocean, Sweeter than pebbly streams through rock-built valleys descending.

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