IMITATION OF THE IDYLLIUM OF MOSCHUS, ON THE DEATH OF BION. FROM THE GREEK. YE Doric Streams, that with poetic wave, Ye Groves, whose sacred haunts the Muses tread, B With more than wonted sadness learn to tell And make the strains in mournful measures flow. Ye Nightingales, whose melancholy song In saddest notes, the youthful Poet's fate ; Tell her the weeping Muse has left her shore. And make the strain in mournful measure flow. ye glide Ye sweet Strymonian Swans, where'er 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, Where foodless wander his forsaken flocks; 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 1; 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 Did the stream-haunting Halcyon complain, Or, round his sad sepulchre in the vale, Young BION's hapless, timeless death deplore. 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, Ev'n Pan, the task unequal would decline, 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, 1 And make the strains in mournful measure flow. With thee are lodg'd within the silent grave, |