And bade Porsenna dread the Roman name.

With these Flaminius, heir of endless praise,

Who boldly rush’d amid the fatal blaze.

Here faithful Curius: here those heroes dwell,

By whom the walls of Libyan Carthage fell.

Wide o’er the plain the valiant bands extend,

And round their brows perpetual laurels bend.

Ah wretched fate! compell’d to seek my way,

Mid regions banish’d from the smiles of day:

Where Hell’s grim lakes the mazy paths enclose,

And burning floods my fearful steps oppose.

Here mighty Minos high enthron’d appears,

And ev’ry shade from him it’s sentence hears.

Around the judge th’ infernal furies stand,

My life’s whole tenor and my death demand.

But you, the cause of all my sorrows here,

Nor grace my shade; nor pay the fun’ral tear;

While endless griefs within my bosom burn,

Fate calls me hence, and Fate forbids return.

Shepherd, farewell! enjoy your peaceful seats,

Your cooling fountains, and your green retreats.

Still live content, mid flow’ry fields reclin’d,

While these sad words are lost in empty wind.

Thus to the swain the gnat lamenting said,

Then from his sight in silent sorrow fled.—

Now, long by slumber’s galling chains oppress’d,

The shepherd rose, grief heavy at his breast.

Fresh in his mind the gnat’s pale form he view’d,

And his long tale of endless wo renew’d.

Now with what strength his aged limbs retain’d,

(Which o’er the Hydra’s force victorious reign’d,)

To clear a spot the mindful swain began,

Where mid the grove a secret river ran.

To raise the turf an iron haft he found,

And drew an orb’s fair figure on the ground.

Still on his task intent, the ground he rear’d,

Till the fair mound in symmetry appear’d.

Next round the spot a marble line he drew,

And sow’d the place with flowr’s of various hue.

Here the red rose and rough acanthus bloom,

And fragrant vi’lets flourish round the tomb.

With these the myrtle noble Sparta yields;

And golden crocus of Cilician fields.

Here hyacinths and sacred laurels grow;

And here Nonacria’s sweetest odors blow.

Here the chrysanthus and buphthalmus spring,

And Bocchus, mindful still of Libya’s king.

Here ivies twine; here grows that flow’r of fire,

Whose beauteous form inflam’d with self-desire.

Here amaranths and flow’ring pines appear,

And each fair season spreads it’s odor here.

Last o’er the tomb a stone the shepherd rear’d,

Where rudely grav’d these silent lines appear’d.

Poor little gnat, these funeral rites receive,

What thou deserv’st, and all the swain can give.

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Georgics, Book IV

Virgil

Translated by James Rhoades, 1881