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I must admit to finding these poems, or indeed their translations, tedious in the large. I am not entirely opposed to bucolic tales of farmers musing while the world in far-background crashes into dismay – that is, in fact, hugely interesting as a premise – but I find the verse here so lofty, so distant from the texture that it so headily depicts. These singing landworkers with their perfect diction and spirited holiness; they reside far from the wit and travesty that Ovid lends to the great and the glorious. A few strike me as good: I enjoy the fourth Eclogue in its accidental Christian imagery – all of which very stirring; I think the eighth yearns and writhes with genuine poise; the ninth contains ample pathos and a little humour. But the imagery Virgil himself is so capable in the Aeneid seems a truly distant feat; there he conjures tragedy and excitement and precise detail all with lilting melody. Perhaps the style here is, as some have supposed, a little facetious; perhaps it is uptight with meagre nod to mockery. I did not see it, or at the very least, did not feel it.