The thousand sorrows, the pain
And aching of my heart.

When thou away didst go,

Away from this tree of ours, The withering winds did blow, And dried up all the flowers.

Dark grew the brilliant sky,

Cloudy and dark and drear; They were breaking the snow on high, And winter was drawing near.

From Varaca's rocky wall,

From the rock of Varaca unrolled, The snow came and covered all,

And the green meadow was cold.

O Stork, our garden with snow
Was hidden away and lost,
And, the rose-trees that in it grow
Were withered by snow and frost.

FROM THE LATIN

VIRGIL'S FIRST ECLOGUE

MELIBUS.

TITYRUS, thou in the shade of a spreading beech tree reclining Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the woodlands.