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THE EPITAPH ON BION
FROM MOSCHUS.
Mourn, Dorian stream, departed Bion mourn!
Pour the hoarse murmur from thy pallid urn!
Sigh, groves and lawns! Ye plants, in sorrow wave;
Ye flowers, breathe sickly sweets o'er Bion's grave!
Anemonies and roses, blush your grief;
Expand, pale hyacinth, thy letter'd leaf!
Thy marks of anguish more distinctly show—
Ah! well the tuneful herdsman claims your woe!
Pour the hoarse murmur from thy pallid urn!
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Ye flowers, breathe sickly sweets o'er Bion's grave!
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Expand, pale hyacinth, thy letter'd leaf!
Thy marks of anguish more distinctly show—
Ah! well the tuneful herdsman claims your woe!
Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Ye nightingales that soothe the shadowy vale,
Warble to Arethusa's streams the tale
Of Bion dead: lamenting nature's pride,
He sunk! Ah then the Dorian music died!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Ye nightingales that soothe the shadowy vale,
Warble to Arethusa's streams the tale
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He sunk! Ah then the Dorian music died!
Begin, &c.
Ye swans of Strymon, bid so sweet a note
As Bion breath'd along your green banks, float
O'er the still wave! and tell Bistonia's maids,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the glades.
Ye swans of Strymon, bid so sweet a note
As Bion breath'd along your green banks, float
O'er the still wave! and tell Bistonia's maids,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the glades.
Begin, &c.
Dear to the Muse, alas! no more he sings,
By yon' lone oak that shades the plashy springs.
He roams a spectre thro' the glooms of fear,
And chaunts the oblivious verse to Pluto's ear.
O'er the hush'd hills his pensive heifers rove,
Refuse their pasture, and forget their love!
Dear to the Muse, alas! no more he sings,
By yon' lone oak that shades the plashy springs.
He roams a spectre thro' the glooms of fear,
And chaunts the oblivious verse to Pluto's ear.
O'er the hush'd hills his pensive heifers rove,
Refuse their pasture, and forget their love!
Begin, &c.
Thee—thee, O Bion, snatch'd from earth away,
The satyrs wail'd, and ev'n the God of day!
Pan for thy numbers heav'd his sighing breast,
And sad Priapus mourn'd in sable vest.
The Naïds in despairing anguish stood,
And swell'd with briny tears their fountain-flood.
Mute Echo, as her mimic music dies,
Amidst her dreary rocks lamenting lies.
The trees resign'd their fruitage, at thy death,
And all the faded flowers, their scented breath.
The ewes no milk—the hives no honey gave:
But what avail'd it, the rich stores to save?
What, that the bee no balmy floret sips,
Extinct the sweeter honey of thy lips?
Thee—thee, O Bion, snatch'd from earth away,
The satyrs wail'd, and ev'n the God of day!
Pan for thy numbers heav'd his sighing breast,
And sad Priapus mourn'd in sable vest.
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And swell'd with briny tears their fountain-flood.
Mute Echo, as her mimic music dies,
Amidst her dreary rocks lamenting lies.
The trees resign'd their fruitage, at thy death,
And all the faded flowers, their scented breath.
The ewes no milk—the hives no honey gave:
But what avail'd it, the rich stores to save?
What, that the bee no balmy floret sips,
Extinct the sweeter honey of thy lips?
Begin, &c.
Not with such grief the dolphin fill'd the seas,
Or Philomela's plaint, the woodland breeze,
Or Progne's bitter woe, the mountains hoar,
Or wild Alcyone, the fatal shore;
Or faithful Cerylus, the cave where lies
His mate still breathing fondness as she dies;
Or Memnon's screaming birds, his orient tomb,
As now they utter at their Bion's doom!
Not with such grief the dolphin fill'd the seas,
Or Philomela's plaint, the woodland breeze,
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Or wild Alcyone, the fatal shore;
Or faithful Cerylus, the cave where lies
His mate still breathing fondness as she dies;
Or Memnon's screaming birds, his orient tomb,
As now they utter at their Bion's doom!
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Begin, &c.
The love-lorn nightingales that learnt his song,
The swallows twittering shrill, the boughs among,
Join their sad notes; the vocal groves reply—
Sigh too, ye turtles, for your Bion sigh!
The love-lorn nightingales that learnt his song,
The swallows twittering shrill, the boughs among,
Join their sad notes; the vocal groves reply—
Sigh too, ye turtles, for your Bion sigh!
Begin, &c.
Who now, regretted swain, thy pipe shall play;
Touch the fair stops, or trill the melting lay?
Faint from thy lips still breathe the mellow reeds;
Still on their dying sweetness Echo feeds:
To bear those melodies to Pan be mine;
Tho' he may fear to risk his fame with thine!
Who now, regretted swain, thy pipe shall play;
Touch the fair stops, or trill the melting lay?
Faint from thy lips still breathe the mellow reeds;
Still on their dying sweetness Echo feeds:
To bear those melodies to Pan be mine;
Tho' he may fear to risk his fame with thine!
Begin, &c.
And Galatea too bewails thy fate—
Fair nymph, who oft upon the sea-shore sat
Sooth'd by thy songs, and fled the Cyclops' arms—
Far other strains were thine! far other charms!
Now on the sand she sits—forgets the sea—
Yet feeds thy herds, and still remembers thee!
And Galatea too bewails thy fate—
Fair nymph, who oft upon the sea-shore sat
Sooth'd by thy songs, and fled the Cyclops' arms—
Far other strains were thine! far other charms!
Now on the sand she sits—forgets the sea—
Yet feeds thy herds, and still remembers thee!
203
Begin, &c.
With thee, O swain, expir'd the Muse's bliss—
The roseate bloom of youth, the roseate kiss!
The fluttering Cupids round thy ashes cry,
And fond—fond Venus mixes many a sigh!
She loves thee, as Adonis' parting breath—
As his last kisses so endear'd by death!
With thee, O swain, expir'd the Muse's bliss—
The roseate bloom of youth, the roseate kiss!
The fluttering Cupids round thy ashes cry,
And fond—fond Venus mixes many a sigh!
She loves thee, as Adonis' parting breath—
As his last kisses so endear'd by death!
Here—here, O Meles, musical in woe,
And for another son thy tide shall flow!
For thy first poet mourn'd thy plaintive wave;
Each murmur deepen'd at thy Homer's grave:
Another grief (melodious stream) appears!
Alas! another poet claims thy tears!
Dear to the fountains which inspire the Muse,
That drank of Helicon—this, Arethuse!
That bard his harp to beauteous Helen strung;
And the dire anger of Pelides sung:
[illeg.]—in his softer lay no wars display'd,
But chanted Pan all peaceful in the shade!
And fram'd his reeds, or milk'd his kine, or led
His herds to pasture, singing as they fed!
And oft, so dear to Venus, he carest
The little Cupid in his panting breast.
And for another son thy tide shall flow!
For thy first poet mourn'd thy plaintive wave;
Each murmur deepen'd at thy Homer's grave:
Another grief (melodious stream) appears!
Alas! another poet claims thy tears!
Dear to the fountains which inspire the Muse,
That drank of Helicon—this, Arethuse!
That bard his harp to beauteous Helen strung;
And the dire anger of Pelides sung:
[illeg.]—in his softer lay no wars display'd,
But chanted Pan all peaceful in the shade!
And fram'd his reeds, or milk'd his kine, or led
His herds to pasture, singing as they fed!
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The little Cupid in his panting breast.
Begin, &c.
The cities and the towns thy death deplore—
Than her own Hesiod Ascra mourns thee more!
Not thus her Pindar Hylæ's grief bemoans—
Not Lesbos thus Alcæus' manly tones!
Not Ceos, Paros, thus regret their bards—
And Mitylene yet thy reed regards
Beyond her Sappho's lyre; and every swain
Pipes thee, O Bion, on his native plain.
The Samian's gentle notes thy memory greet—
Philetas too—and Lycidas of Crete!
Now, breathing heavy sighs, each heart despairs,
Tho' erst full many a jocund revel theirs.
Thee too, dear Bard, Theocritus bewails,
The sweetest warbler of Sicilia's dales!
And I, who suit to sorrow's melting tone
The Ausonian verse, but mimic music own.
If e'er the charms of melody I knew,
'Tis to thy forming skill the praise is due.
Others may claim thy gold—the gold be theirs!
Our be the Doric Muse, thy wealthier heirs.
The cities and the towns thy death deplore—
Than her own Hesiod Ascra mourns thee more!
Not thus her Pindar Hylæ's grief bemoans—
Not Lesbos thus Alcæus' manly tones!
Not Ceos, Paros, thus regret their bards—
And Mitylene yet thy reed regards
Beyond her Sappho's lyre; and every swain
Pipes thee, O Bion, on his native plain.
The Samian's gentle notes thy memory greet—
Philetas too—and Lycidas of Crete!
Now, breathing heavy sighs, each heart despairs,
Tho' erst full many a jocund revel theirs.
Thee too, dear Bard, Theocritus bewails,
The sweetest warbler of Sicilia's dales!
And I, who suit to sorrow's melting tone
The Ausonian verse, but mimic music own.
If e'er the charms of melody I knew,
'Tis to thy forming skill the praise is due.
205
Our be the Doric Muse, thy wealthier heirs.
Begin, &c.
Tho' fade crisp anise, and the parsley's green,
And vivid mallows from the garden-scene,
The balmy breath of spring their life renews,
And bids them flourish in their former hues!
But we, the great, the valiant, and the wise,
When once the seal of death hath clos'd our eyes,
Lost in the hollow tomb obscure and deep,
Slumber, to wake no more, one long unbroken sleep!
Thou too, while many a scrannel reed I hear
Grating eternal harshness on my ear—
Thou too, thy charm of melting music o'er,
But in the silent earth, shalt rise no more!
Tho' fade crisp anise, and the parsley's green,
And vivid mallows from the garden-scene,
The balmy breath of spring their life renews,
And bids them flourish in their former hues!
But we, the great, the valiant, and the wise,
When once the seal of death hath clos'd our eyes,
Lost in the hollow tomb obscure and deep,
Slumber, to wake no more, one long unbroken sleep!
Thou too, while many a scrannel reed I hear
Grating eternal harshness on my ear—
Thou too, thy charm of melting music o'er,
But in the silent earth, shalt rise no more!
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Begin, &c.
'Twas poison gave thee to the grasp of death—
Ah! could not poison sweeten at thy breath?
Who for those lips of melody could dare
The venom'd chalice (murderous wretch) prepare?
Such wretches rove with vengeance at their heels;
While now at this drear hour my bosom feels
The bursting sigh! Like Orpheus could I go,
Or wise Ulysses, to the shades below;
To Pluto's dome my steps should strait repair,
To hear what numbers thou art chaunting there.
But sing, as in the genial realms of light,
Some sweet bucolic to the Queen of Night.
She once amid those golden meadows play'd,
And sung the Dorian song in Ætna's shade.
Thy music shall ascend with all the fire—
With all the strong effect of Orpheus' lyre!
Fair Proserpine shall listen to thy strain,
And, pitying, send thee to thy hills again.
O that, as Orpheus' lyre reclaim'd his wife,
My pipe had power to bring thy shade to life!
'Twas poison gave thee to the grasp of death—
Ah! could not poison sweeten at thy breath?
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The venom'd chalice (murderous wretch) prepare?
Such wretches rove with vengeance at their heels;
While now at this drear hour my bosom feels
The bursting sigh! Like Orpheus could I go,
Or wise Ulysses, to the shades below;
To Pluto's dome my steps should strait repair,
To hear what numbers thou art chaunting there.
But sing, as in the genial realms of light,
Some sweet bucolic to the Queen of Night.
She once amid those golden meadows play'd,
And sung the Dorian song in Ætna's shade.
Thy music shall ascend with all the fire—
With all the strong effect of Orpheus' lyre!
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And, pitying, send thee to thy hills again.
O that, as Orpheus' lyre reclaim'd his wife,
My pipe had power to bring thy shade to life!
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