IMITATION

OF THE

IDYLLIUM OF MOSCHUS,

ON THE

DEATH OF BION.

FROM THE GREEK.

YE Doric Streams, that with poetic wave,
Sicilia's verdant hills and forests lave;

Ye Groves, whose sacred haunts the Muses tread,
Come mourn with me the gentle BioN dead.
Ye Flow'rs no more perfume the vernal gale,
Ye Vi'lets wither, Roses turn to pale,
And thou sweet Hyacinth, whose letter'd leaf,
So long has worn the bloody marks of grief,

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With more than wonted sadness learn to tell
How, wept by all, the tuneful Shepherd fell.
Sicilian Muse, begin the song of woe,

And make the strains in mournful measures flow.

Ye Nightingales, whose melancholy song
So sweetly breathes her blooming banks along,
To Arethusa's wandering wave relate,

In saddest notes, the youthful Poet's fate ;
Tell her the Doric strains shall sound no more,

Tell her the weeping Muse has left her shore.
Sicilian Muse, begin the song of woe,

And make the strain in mournful measure flow.

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Ye sweet Strymonian Swans, where'er
On the smooth bosom of the silver tide,
O! pour the doleful tale in ev'ry ear,
Tell it in sounds that he himself might hear,
To each Ægrian, each Bystonian maid,
That low in earth their Orpheus now is laid.
Sicilian Muse, begin the song of woe,

Dear to his flock, no more the matchless swain Directs their wanderings o'er the sunny plain; No more, far floating on the balmy gale, His voice is heard along the flow'ry vale;

For now, alas! by Styx's current drear,
He pours his song in Pluto's ruthless ear.
For ever silent are his native rocks,

Where foodless wander his forsaken flocks;
Robb'd of his cheering voice, his tender care,
They fill with doleful bleatings all the air.
Sicilian Muse, begin the song of woe,

And make the strains in mournful measure flow.

Deep mourn'd the Muses round their fav'rite's bier,

Nor spared Apollo's self the sigh sincere;

Pan and Sylvanus, with the Satyrs sad,

Wail'd o'er thy tomb in sable vesture clad ;

The flow'ry-kirtled Naiads, as they led

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Their murm'ring currents through the verdant mead Where wrap'd in Fancy's dream thou lov'dst to lie,

Wept thy sad fate till all their urns were dry;

While Echo, wont thy tuneful notes to swell,

Pin'd for thy loss within her silent cell.

Ev'n Spring in sorrow check'd her genial breath,

And all her verdure wither'd at thy death.

The luscious streams the flocks no more brought home,

No longer flow'd the honey from the comb,

But in her waxen cell expired the Bee

In pining grief, for where, deprived of thee,

Where could she find, the flow'riest banks among,

Honey, to match the sweetness of thy song?

Sicilian Muse, begin the song of woe,

And make the strains in mournful measure flow.

Ne'er did the Dolphin sound so sad before
His doleful mournings round the sea-beat shore;
Beneath the shade, with half so sad a note,
Ne'er tun'd sweet Philomel her warbling throat;
Nor, skimming low the lonely hills along,
Did e'er the Swallow twitter forth her song;
Never in such a melancholy strain

Did the stream-haunting Halcyon complain,
Never along the Ocean's glassy breast
Sung gentle Cerylus so sore distrest;

Or, round his sad sepulchre in the vale,
Did Memnon's bird his master's fate bewail;
As did ye all, on this unhappy shore,

Young BION's hapless, timeless death deplore.
Sicilian Muse, begin the song of woe,

And bid the strains in mournful measure flow.

The feather'd songsters on the bloomy spray, To which he fondly taught his melting lay, Were heard to mourn in sad alternate strain, And all day long of BION's loss complain. Sicilian Muse, begin the song of woe,

And bid the strain in mournful measure flow.

While fond remembrance draws the tender tear,
While sound thy heav'nly strains in Fancy's ear,
What daring shepherd on thy pipe shall try
To imitate thy matchless melody?

Ev'n Pan, the task unequal would decline,
Ev'n Pan himself, by shepherds held divine,
Sicilian Muse, begin the song
of woe,
And bid the strain in mournful measure flow.

Forlorn and wand'ring on her sea-girt shores Fair Galatea still thy death deplores, For well she lov'd thee, and with ravish'd ear Would sit the live-long day thy voice to hear, Thy voice unlike to Polypheme's rude strain, From whom she trembling hid beneath the main. Now sadly leaving the Cerulean flood, She seeks thee weeping thro' the silent wood; In ev'ry dream thy much-lov'd form she sees, Her fancy hears thy song in every breeze; By night she dwells with thy deserted flock, Or lies despairing on the flinty rock.

Sicilian Muse, begin the song of woe,

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And make the strains in mournful measure flow.

With thee are lodg'd within the silent grave,
Each brighter boon the Muses ever gave;
No more the virgin's melting bosom inove
The sigh of rapture and the wish of love;