[In this essay, Hart discusses the influences on Camões' Seventh Eclogue, including the impact of Neoplatonism on the poet's thought. He also focuses on Camões' atypical, ambiguous use of the satyr figure.]

Camões' Seventh Eclogue, traditionally known as the Égloga dos Faunos, is perhaps the one in which he moves farthest from the models provided by his immediate predecessors, Garcilaso and Sannazaro. There are, I believe, good reasons for considering it the finest of the eight eclogues generally accepted as authentic by modern editors. In it Camões treats a number of themes which will recur repeatedly in his most mature works, notably the transience of happiness and the power of love to transform the lover. He does so, moreover, with a wealth of sensual detail and a marvellous evocation of landscape which anticipate the brilliant depiction of the Ilha de Amores in Canto IX of The Lusiads.¹ The eclogue has, however, received almost no critical attention.² I know of no full-scale attempt to deal with it other than the extensive commentary by Camões' seventeenth-century admirer, Manuel de Faria y Sousa.³ Faria offers a good deal of useful information, especially in pointing out sources and analogues of Camões' poem, but he is writing a series of annotations to the text, not a critical interpretation of it.

Two features of the Seventh Eclogue which distinguish it from Camões' other works in this form are its setting on the slopes of Mount Parnassus and the fact that its two principal figures are not shepherds but satyrs. Faria has a great deal to say about the first point and, indeed, makes it the basis for his interpretation of the whole poem; he has surprisingly little to say about the second. His interpretation is surely mistaken and yet both what he says and what he refrains from saying may help us to arrive at a more satisfactory understanding of Camões' text.

The Seventh Eclogue begins, after a statement of the poet's purpose and a dedication to a Dom António whom Faria, after some hesitation, identifies with Dom António de Noronha, with an elaborate description of Mount Parnassus (lines 37-66).⁴ For Faria, the setting on Mount Parnassus, coupled with the fact that the company of nymphs which soon appears on the scene numbers precisely nine members, is enough to identify the nymphs with the muses and to conclude further that the satyrs' appeal to them to return their love is to be understood allegorically as the poet's appeal to the muses to favour him with the gift of song. Not just any poet: Faria insists that one of the satyrs—he does not say which one—is to be identified with Camões himself and the other with a friend and fellow-poet, perhaps that same António de Noronha to whom the eclogue, according to Faria, is dedicated. He further speculates that the nymphs may represent, not just the muses, but also, on another level, nine ladies of the court of Portugal. He is not quite sure what to do with Camões' statement that two of the nymphs come from the Tagus (lines 106-07), observing that this may mean either that two of them were Portuguese and the rest foreigners, or—a view he considers more likely—that ‘vindas do Tejo’ may refer to the part of the Tagus which flows through Spain, making the two who came from there Spanish and the rest Portuguese. Here one can only agree with Faria that ‘todo esto es discurrir sobre lo que pudo ser’—though not necessarily with his further statement that one can be sure only that ‘estas Ninfas en este Poema representan las Musas’ (V, 307).

About the poet's decision to make the central figures of his eclogue satyrs rather than shepherds, Faria remarks only, in his comments on lines 4-6, ‘… se os amôres / A os silvestres Deuses maltrataram, / Já ficam desculpados os pastôres’, that the poet ‘quiere dezir, que si son arrebatados de la amorosa passion unos irracionales brutos, no es mucho lo sean Pastores, enteramète humanos, dotados de razon, y entendimiento’ (V, 301). It is clear, nevertheless, that Faria is perfectly aware of the satyr's traditional association with lust; he informs us that Solinus tells of a type of monkey called satyrs and adds that ‘en lo que es lascivia son [los monos] muy parecidos a los Satiros’ (V, 301). This trait of the creatures whom Sannazaro calls ‘i lascivi satiri’ (Arcadia, prose 5) would, of course, have been well known to Faria's contemporaries, and it is quite possible that he says no more about the matter for this reason alone. Perhaps, however, his failure to develop this point reflects a reluctance to concede that the love sung by the satyrs in the Seventh Eclogue may be less spiritual than Faria would like it to be: in his commentary on the lyrics, he repeatedly asserts that Camões' love was firmly based on Neoplatonic thought and thus ultimately not love of a woman but of God.

That some of Camões' works show a real commitment to Neoplatonism is, of course, beyond question. One stanza of the first satyr's plea to the fleeing nymphs in the Seventh Eclogue (lines 232-44) has been cited by more than one writer as evidence of Camões' Neoplatonism.⁵ But the content of the satyr's speech as a whole is hardly what most people would think of as Neoplatonic. Certainly it is very different from that of Camões' most comprehensive reference to Neoplatonism, in the ode Sôbolos rios (lines 201-50). The Christian elements so prominent there are quite absent from the satyr's speech, as is any reference to the notion that love, if it is to be worthy of the name, must rise ‘da sombra ao real, / Da particular beleza / Pera a beleza geral’. The Satyr's plea contains no hint whatever of the lover's ascent from one kind of love to another, morally superior, kind; it makes no reference to the distinction, so important to Renaissance Neoplatonists, between love and desire. The stress is not on the gradual moral perfection of the lover who should attempt to direct his love toward a succession of goals, each further removed than the last from the realm of the senses, but rather on the power of love itself, seen as an all-pervading force from which no one can hope to escape. All this, of course, is perfectly consonant with the satyr's own immediate aim, that of persuading the nymph to yield to him.

M. J. Woods' paraphrase of Salicio's address to the absent Galatea in Garcilaso's First Eclogue will serve also for Camões' satyr: ‘In effect Salicio is saying to Galatea: “You know it is right to follow nature. I can show you that you are going against nature in rejecting me. Therefore, you are wrong to reject me.”’⁶ But Camões' satyr goes a step beyond Garcilaso's shepherd by suggesting that resistance to love is not only unnatural but ultimately impossible. Sooner or later the nymph is sure to fall in love but her love will not be returned, a delicate allusion to the motive of the Liebeskette so frequent in the pastoral novel, nicely summed up in Alanio's song ‘Amor loco, amor loco / yo por vos y vos por otro’ in Book I of Montemayor's Diana. For all its elaborate politeness, the first satyr's speech thus ends with a threat. By doing so it provides a transition to the rather different tone of the speech of the second satyr, who, as Faria observes, ‘no se mostró … tan politico, y tierno, como el primero’ (V, 318).

The second satyr begins with a whole stanza of invective in which he takes up the theme, already announced by the first, that the nymphs' behaviour is unnatural. His demonstration will, however, be ‘historical’ rather than ‘philosophical’. That is, he will not discuss love as a force which governs the whole universe. Rather, he will invite the nymphs to consider specific past instances of the power of love. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that his demonstration is ‘geographical’ rather than ‘historical’. He will argue that it is the nymphs' nature to love because they live in a world in which everything that exists has been transformed from another shape and given its present one by the power of love:

Se vós fôstes criadas na espessura,
Onde não houve cousa que se achasse,
Animal, erva verde ou pedra dura,
Que em seu tempo passado não amasse,
Nem a quem a afeição suave e pura
Nessa presente forma não mudasse;
Por que não deixareis também memória
De vós, em namorada e longa história?

(lines 292-99)

It is, in short, the world of Ovid's Metamorphoses, from which the satyr will draw almost all of his more than two dozen examples of the transformations wrought by love.

Here we may have the reason for Camões' decision to place his eclogue on Mount Parnassus, a detail which, as we have seen, prompted Faria—who needed little prompting, in any case—to see the nymphs as the muses and the satyrs as Camões himself and a poet-friend. On Parnassus, in a world peopled by nymphs and satyrs, the metamorphoses caused by love need not be understood simply as metaphorical ways of referring to ‘real’ events which may ‘really’ be repeated. In Garcilaso's ‘Ode ad Florem Gnidi’ the story of Anaxarate is only a figurative way of warning Donna Violante Sanseverino of the possible consequences of rejecting the love of Mario Galeota: their world is the world of contemporary Naples. In Camões' eclogue the principals are a nymph and a satyr who live in a world in which everything they see bears witness to the existence of just such transformations, a point made explicitly by the satyr in the passage already quoted and again in lines 412-19:

Trago-vos estas cousas à lembrança,
Por que se estranhe mais vossa crueza
Com ver que a criação e a longa usança
Vos não perverte e muda a natureza.
Dou as lágrimas minhas em fiança
Que, em tudo quanto está na redondeza,
Cousa de Amor isenta, se atentais,
Enquanto vos não virdes, não vejais.

Nothing in the poem, moreover, suggests that such events belong only to the remote past. In this sort of world, the story of Anaxarate, briefly alluded to by the second satyr in lines 324-25, has an entirely different ontological status.

The second satyr's speech, more than twice as long as the first's, is, however, not just a statement about the rôle of love in the imaginative world of the poem and, by implication, in the real world of men. Rather, it is, like the discourse of the first satyr, an appeal by one individual to another to view the world in a certain way and to adjust her behaviour accordingly. The movement of the second satyr's speech is rapid, much more rapid than, say, Garcilaso's treatment of the stories reproduced in the nymphs' needlework in the Third Eclogue. There, Garcilaso gives three octavas reales to each of his three classical myths; Camões, by contrast, often treats two myths in a single stanza (e.g., lines 300-16). He can do this because his satyr is not telling stories—strictly speaking, Garcilaso, of course, is describing pictures which tell a story—but attempting to persuade the nymph to yield to him. The stories serve him only as exempla; his allusion to the story of Anaxarete and Iphis begins with the words ‘tomai exemplo’ (line 324) and his narrative will be limited to a few hints, those most likely to convince the nymph. Moreover, he is, as we have already remarked, telling her of a world which is perfectly familiar to her, ‘Onde não houve cousa que se achasse / … / Que em seu tempo passado não amasse’. Thus, the satyr will often omit the names of the figures to whom he refers. Anaxarete is not named but is called only ‘aquela / Por quem Ífis no laço pôs a vida’ (lines 324-25); her fate is summed up in the single word ‘também’ which introduces the immediately following story of Echo, similarly told without reference to the name of the protagonist: ‘Também vereis em pedra a Ninfa bela / Cuja voz foi por Juno consumida, / E, se queixar-se quer de sua estrêla / a voz extrema só lhe é concedida’ (lines 326-29). Elsewhere, the technique is reversed; instead of telling the story without naming the protagonist, the satyr gives the name with only the briefest reference to some aspect of his story, as in his allusion to Picus' transformation into a woodpecker: ‘E Pico, a quem ficaram ainda as côres / Da púrpura real, que ter soía’ (lines 444-45). The satyr's stress is always on the transformation itself, and on those enduring features of the natural world which continue to bear witness to its having occurred, not on the events which led up to it.

Appropriately so, since not all the satyr's examples deal with the punishment of those who have refused to love. Just as in the Metamorphoses, transformation is sometimes a means of escape, as in the case of Daphne, sometimes a punishment, as in that of Anaxarete, sometimes a result of pure chance, as in the case of Actaeon. The first satyr had presented love as an irresistible force which governs everything in the natural world and to which sooner or later the nymphs must inevitably give in. The second stresses rather the insecurity of life in a world in which the only immutable law is the law of mutability itself, symbolized in the transformations to which everything in the natural world is subject. In such a world love can offer a promise of happiness but it is a happiness whose continued existence can never be taken for granted. Love is equally a force which introduces violence and disorder into the world, one which, moreover, suffers no restraint by accepted canons of morality—which may be one of the reasons Camões chose to make his spokesman a satyr rather than a shepherd. The satyr's list of those who have been forced to surrender to the power of love includes both Myrrha, who loved her father (lines 348-51), and Byblis, who loved her brother (lines 312-15). And he does not hesitate to mention also the homosexual passion of Apollo for Cyparissus (lines 354-55), a subject which Faria obviously found extremely distasteful.⁷

The second satyr acknowledges that one may refuse to love. Many of his Ovidian examples did precisely that and at the end of his speech he seems to have little hope that his nymph will yield to him. But a refusal to love will not free one from the vicissitudes of Fortune. The satyr's warning that ‘Nenhum alegre estado permanece / Que são do mundo os gostos mentirosos’ (lines 408-09) suggests, in its use of the word mundo, somewhat incongruously placed in the mouth of a satyr, that blending of Stoic and Christian perspectives so familiar in the writings of the Humanists—and of Camões' much-admired model, Garcilaso. It is, of course, a motif found in much of Camões' work—for example, in Lusíadas, 4:51 ef, ‘Quem viu sempre um estado deleitoso? / Ou quem viu em Fortuna haver firmeza?’—, and forms an important element of that dolorido sentir which Luis Rosales has seen as the link between the poetry of Garcilaso and that of Camões and also between them and certain seventeenth-century Spanish poets.⁸

But the satyr is not giving a lesson in philosophy. He is attempting, with all the learning and the rhetorical power at his command, to persuade his nymph to return the love he feels for her. What is the nature of his love? Before attempting to answer this question, it may be helpful to ask another: why did Camões choose in this eclogue to make his actors satyrs rather than shepherds or fishermen? One possible answer is that he is using his satyrs to play a rôle usually assigned to the wild man.

Every student of the Renaissance is familiar with the sharp distinction drawn by the Neoplatonists between love and desire. For Ficino, as Nesca Robb observes, ‘sensual appetites are not love, but a madness that drags the mind toward deformity and deflects it from its proper state’.⁹ These sensual appetites Ficino calls ‘bestial love’ (amor ferinus). Nothing is more natural than to symbolize such a love by embodying it in figures who are in some sense intermediary between beasts and men. This is doubtless the rôle of the caballeros salvajes who attempt unsuccessfully to carry off the nymphs in Montemayor's Diana, an incident whose function, as J. B. Avalle-Arce has pointed out, is to heighten the contrast between the physical desire which drives the salvajes to attack the nymphs and the Neoplatonic love which reigns elsewhere in the book.¹⁰

Whether Camões was familiar with La Diana when he wrote his Seventh Eclogue is uncertain. The first edition of Montemayor's novel probably appeared in 1559, while Camões' eclogues were not published until 1595, fifteen years after his death. The dates of composition of the eclogues are unknown; Roger Bismut has argued that they are youthful works and, if this is true, they may very well have been written before the publication of La Diana.¹¹ But the point is not really of much importance. The rôle Montemayor assigns to his salvajes is that traditionally given the wild man, and that tradition is so widely attested in Spanish literature of the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance that it can hardly have been unknown to Camões. He would surely have seen in the wild man a conventional symbol of physical desire, the flesh unable or unwilling to force itself to conform to the ideal of a spiritualized and therefore chaste love.¹² We have already remarked that the satyr, too, is conventionally associated with lust. Now, as Richard Bernheimer has demonstrated, there existed a long tradition of identifying satyrs with wild men.¹³ Both Greek and Roman writers equate the two, as do a number of Christian writers, among them St Jerome, St Augustine, and St Isidore of Seville, who stress the insatiable lasciviousness of the satyri and homines silvestres. That Faria was acquainted with this tradition is revealed by his referring to St Jerome in the passage to which we have already referred (V, 301); it is not unlikely that Camões, too, was acquainted with it.

I suggest, then, that sixteenth-century readers, familiar with the traditional rôle of both wild men and satyrs as symbols of lust, might have seen the episode from Montemayor's novel and Camões' Seventh Eclogue as two variations on a single theme. They might also have noticed that Camões' treatment of the theme differs in some respects from Montemayor's and, indeed, from most other treatments of the motif known to me.¹⁴ Montemayor's salvajes are given nothing to say; neither is Boiardo's salvaggio in the Orlando Innamorato who carries off Fiordiligi and is finally killed by Brandimarte (Book I, cantos 22-23). The satyrs in Sannazaro's Latin poem Salices, which Faria—I think without sufficient reason—proposes as the immediate source of the Seventh Eclogue, are given a few lines in which they invite the nymphs to come closer to them and assure them that they have nothing to fear, but their speech is only a prelude to the main action of the poem, their attempt to rape the nymphs and the escape of the latter by being transformed into willows. Camões, however, gives more than two-thirds of his poem to the satyrs' attempt to persuade the nymphs to return their love, a fact which has prompted Dr Busnardo-Neto to suggest that the satyrs offer a counterpart to the shepherd Almeno of the Third Eclogue, whom she sees as embodying the tension, found in many Renaissance works, between the ardent lover and his too-chaste mistress, a member of the company of Diana.¹⁵

Camões' poem, moreover, offers nothing comparable to the contrast between the values represented by salvajes and those of knights or shepherds, which Montemayor symbolizes by the fight between wild men and shepherds in La Diana. On the contrary, we are told that shepherds are forbidden to enter the forests of Mount Parnassus: ‘Não se verão a o redor pisadas / De fera ou de pastor que ali chegasse, / Porque do espesso monte são vedadas’ (lines 49-51). Here, as in the fact that the satyrs are given an opportunity to present their appeal to the nymphs at such great length, one may see a hint that their conception of love is to be taken less negatively than that usually associated with the wild man. But, of course, it would be qualified by the traditional associations of the satyr with lust.

We observed earlier that from a Neoplatonic perspective the view of love presented by the satyrs—most explicitly by the first—is incomplete and, of course, morally unacceptable. But we should perhaps not be too quick to judge the matter in these terms. Popular expositions of Neoplatonic thought were quite willing to concede the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of overcoming one's sensual desires before one had attained old age. Camões' own account, in Sôbolos rios, of his decision to turn away from sensual love and to embrace the love of God, conceived in Neoplatonic terms, is presented as, in part at least, the result of the increased wisdom which comes with age: ‘Acha a tenra mocidade, / Prazeres acomodados, / E logo a maior idade / Já sente por pouquidade / Aquêles gostos passados’ (lines 86-90). The Neoplatonists' love of the ideal, moreover, is not granted to everyone but only to those who are in some way superior. For most men, the Neoplatonists' aspirations are no more than empty words, as they are for Duriano in his reproach to Filodemo in Camões' play:

Todos vós outros os que amais pela passiva, dizeis que o amor fino como melão não há de querer mais de sua dama que amá-la; e virá logo o vosso Petrarca, e o vosso Petro Bembo, atoado a trezentos Platões, mais safado que as luvas de um pajem de arte, mostrando razões verisímeis e aparentes, pera não quererdes mais de vossa dama que vê-la; e ao mais até falar com ela.

Pois inda achareis outros escodrinhadores de amor mais especulativos, que defenderão a justa por não emprenhar o desejo; e eu faço-vos voto solene, se a qualquer dêstes lhe entregassem sua dama tosada e aparelhada entre dous pratos, eu fico que não ficasse pedra sôbre pedra.

(ed. Salgado, p. 711)

Camões' satyrs in the Seventh Eclogue may perhaps represent the same disabused notion of love, especially if we bear in mind their traditional rôle as symbols of lasciviousness.

Sixteenth-century poetic theorists often refer to pastoral as a genus dramaticum, a view also set forth, with his usual enthusiasm for any idea once he had made it his own, by Faria.¹⁶ This view of pastoral as an inherently dramatic form is doubtless related to the poet's attitude of detachment toward his material which has often been considered a salient feature of the genre. Thomas G. Rosenmeyer observes that ‘it is probable that the pastoral was popular in the Renaissance because the rules of the genre permitted the poet to disregard, or virtually to refashion, his own feelings, and to disappear as a person behind the artifact of the poem’.¹⁷ I think it possible that in the Seventh Eclogue Camões is doing something of this kind, though one may question whether he is ‘disregarding’ his own feelings or presenting them in such a way that the reader will not attribute them too readily to the poet himself. His eclogue is a superb exemplification of Renato Poggioli's view that ‘in its extreme form pastoral happiness is conceived as an absolute acceptance of the law of instinct, with no sense of guilt nor any regard for its consequences’.¹⁸ The satyrs enable Camões to distance himself from his material and, perhaps, to present a plea for physical love untouched by moral or philosophical considerations which he might have hesitated to present in his own person or even in that of a shepherd, more likely, one supposes, than a satyr to be identified with the poet himself. But the traditional associations of satyrs with wild men make his presentation tantalizingly ambiguous.

Notes

1. The relationship between the Ilha de Amores episode and the Seventh Eclogue is discussed by Roger Bismut, La lyrique de Camões (Paris 1974), 221-29.

2. The most complete study of Camões' eclogues is the fourth chapter of JoAnne McCaffrey Busnardo-Neto's unpublished doctoral dissertation ‘The Eclogue in Sixteenth-Century Portugal’ (University of Michigan, 1974). I am grateful to Professors Charles F. Fraker, Jr., and Monroe Z. Hafter of the University of Michigan for calling my attention to this work and for making a copy available to me. Dr Busnardo-Neto, however, discusses the Seventh Eclogue only in passing.

3. Rimas varias de Luís de Camões … comentadas por Manuel de Faria y Sousa. I-II (Lisbon 1685). III-V (Lisbon 1689). Subsequent references will be incorporated into my text. Faria's critical principles are discussed by Edward Glaser, ‘La critica de las Églogas de Garcilaso de la Vega hecha por Manuel de Faria e Sousa a la luz de su teoría de la pastoral’, in his Estudios hispano-portugueses (Valencia 1957), 3-57, and in my article ‘The literary criticism of Manuel de Farie e Sousa,’ Kentucky Romance Quarterly, XXI (1974), 31-41.

4. Citations are to Antônio Salgado Júnior's edition of Camões' Obra Completa (Rio de Janeiro 1963). Salgado does not print the eclogues in the traditional order but in an alphabetical order based on the first word of each poem; the Seventh Eclogue thus becomes Salgado's Fifth Eclogue.

5. See Hernâni Cidade, Luís de Camões. O Lírico, 3rd ed. (Lisbon 1967), 210 and José Filgueira Valverde, Camoens (Barcelona 1958), 90-91. One might apply to the Seventh Eclogue—not, of course, to some of Camões' other works—Colin Smith's perceptive remarks about Góngora's Fábula de Polifemo y Galatea: ‘Naturally Góngora was acquainted with and inevitably influenced by the Neoplatonic ideas of his period. But at most he makes a selection from them so partial and unrepresentative that he is false to the central doctrines of Plato and his followers. Góngora sees some harmony and much beauty in the natural scene, but at no point does he relate that harmony and beauty to the Idea, and his thoughts are not carried up to the divine beauty. Polyphemus, given an opportunity to see in Galathea a moral beauty and a reflection of divine splendour, as hundreds of Renaissance poets had done in their loved ones, does not do so’ (‘An approach to Gongóra's Polifemo’, BHS, XLII [1965], 235). The influence of Camões on Góngora has often been remarked by scholars.

6. M. J. Woods, ‘Rhetoric in Garcilaso's First Eclogue’, MLN, LXXXIV (1969), 150.

7. ‘Era Cipariso un mozo, de los que sirven de mugeres a muchos presumidos de Apolos: muerto de un pesar fue convertido en Cipres, que me admira sea arbol oloroso, y incorruptible, siendo tumulo de cuerpo tan hediondo, y tan corrupto’ (V, 323).

8. ‘La poesía cortesana’, in Studia philologica. Homenaje ofrecido a Dámaso Alonso por sus amigos y discípulos con ocasión de su 60.° aniversario, III (Madrid 1963), 287-335; reprinted, with some additions, in Rosales' El sentimiento del desengaño en la poesía barroca (Madrid 1966).

9. Neoplatonism of the Italian Renaissance (London 1935), 77. See also the very helpful discussion of Ficino's conception of love in Erwin Panofsky, Studies in Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance (1939; rpt. New York 1962), 141-48.

10. La novela pastoril española (Madrid 1959), 74-75.

11. Bismut, 221.

12. See, for example, A. A. Parker, ‘An Age of Gold: Expansion and Scholarship in Spain’, in Denys Hay, ed., The Age of the Renaissance (London 1967), 241, and Alan D. Deyermond, ‘El hombre salvaje en la novela sentimental’, Filología, X (1964), 97-111.

13. Wild Men in the Middle Ages: A Study in Art, Sentiment and Demonology (Cambridge, Mass. 1952), 93-98.

14. Not all wild men are alike. The caballero salvaje Camilote in Gil Vicente's Tragicomedia de Don Duardos, like his counterpart Monderigón who plays a still more important rôle in Vicente's Comédia sobre a divisa da cidade de Coimbra, seems to come from a rather different tradition, that of the sentimental novel, in which, as Alan Deyermond observes, the wild man may appear, not as the enemy of courtly values, but as the embodiment of them. Both of Vicente's plays were first published, so far as we know, in the Copilaçam of 1562; there is no evidence that Camões was acquainted with either of them. The motif of the wild man in these plays is discussed by Alice R. Clemente, ‘Comédia sobre a divisa da cidade de Coimbra: fantasía caballeresca’, Homenaje al Profesor William L. Fichter (Madrid 1971), 161-74.

15. Busnardo-Neto, 353.

16. Glaser, Estudios hispano-portugueses, 29.

17. The Green Cabinet: Theocritus and the European Pastoral Lyric (Berkeley 1969), 15.

18. The Oaten Flute: Essays on Pastoral Poetry and the Pastoral Ideal (Cambridge, Mass. 1975), 14. The title essay, from which this quotation is taken, first appeared in Harvard Library Bulletin, XI (1957).