Jam neque Hamodryades rursum, nec carmina nobis Ipsa placent: ipsoe rursum concedite sylvae. Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores; Nec si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus, Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquosae: Nec si, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulmo AEthiopum versemus oves sub sidere Cancri. Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori. Ec. x. 62. But now again no more the woodland maids, Nor pastoral songs delight--Farewell, ye shades-- No toils of ours the cruel god can change, Tho' lost in frozen deserts we should range; Tho' we should drink where chilling Hebrus flows, Endure bleak winter blasts, and Thracian snows: Or on hot India's plains our flocks should feed, Where the parch'd elm declines his sickening head, Beneath fierce-glowing Cancer's fiery beams, Far from cool breezes and refreshing streams. Love over all maintains resistless sway, And let us love's all-conquering power obey. WARTON. But notwithstanding the excellence of the tenth pastoral, I cannot forbear to give the preference to the first, which is equally natural and more diversified. The complaint of the shepherd, who saw his old companion at ease in the shade, while himself was driving his little flock he knew not whither, is such as, with variation of circumstances, misery always utters at the sight of prosperity: Nos patriae fines, et dulcia linquimus arva; Nos patriam fugimus: Tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas. Ec. i. 3. We leave our country's bounds, our much-lov'd plains; We from our country fly, unhappy swains! You, Tit'rus, in the groves at leisure laid, Teach Amaryllis' name to every shade. WARTON. His account of the difficulties of his journey, gives a very tender image of pastoral distress: ------------En ipse capellas Protenus aeger ago: hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco: Hic inter densas corylos modo namque gemellos, Spem gregis, ah! silice in nuda connixa reliquit. Ec. i. 12. And lo! sad partner of the general care. Weary and faint I drive my goats afar! While scarcely this my leading hand sustains, Tired with the way, and recent from her pains; For 'mid yon tangled hazels as we past, On the bare flints her hapless twin she cast, The hopes and promise of my ruin'd fold! WARTON. The description of Virgil's happiness in his little farm, combines almost all the images of rural pleasure; and he, therefore, that can read it with indifference, has no sense of pastoral poetry: