University of Virginia Library

Idyllium III. An ELEGY upon the Death of Bion.

Mourn all ye Groves, ye Dorick Streams deplore
The lovely Bion's Fate, who's now no more;
Ye Plants, a Tribute of your Sorrows shew;
Ye Flow'rs, for Grief put on a mournful Hue;
Ye Roses, and Anemonies, now wear
A deeper Red, that may your Woes declare;
Now Hyacinth, in your own Plaints bemoan,
The lovely tuneful Bard, that's dead and gone.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Ye Nightingales, which mourn in the thick Woods,
Tell the sad News to Arethusa's Floods;
Bion, the tuneful lovely Swain is dead;
With him his Song, and Dorick Muse, is fled.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Ye Silver Swans, as you in Strymon sail,
In melancholy Sounds his Death bewail;
In Elegiack mournful Notes bemoan
Bion's hard Fate, just as you sing your own;
In such melodious Notes, as the dear Swain
Sung with your Voice, whilst here he blest the Plain.
To the Oegarian Nymphs his Death relate,
Convey to Bistonis the Dorick Orpheus' Fate.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
He to the list'ning Herds no more, dear Swain,
Shall sing, extended on the verdant Plain;
He's gone down to the gloomy Shades below,
And there to Lethe's Banks reports his Woe.
His Voice no more upon the Mountain's heard,
Eccho no more answers the tuneful Bard.
The straggling Cows refuse to graze for Grief;
Nor can the lusty Bull procure Relief.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
When of thy Death, dear Swain, Apollo heard,
He veil'd his Head in Clouds, and disappear'd.
Satyrs, and Fawns, and all the rural Gods,
With sad Complaints fill all the Lawns and Woods.
And Pan, unmindful of his Syrinx now,
Devotes his Sorrow to your Song and You.
The Water-Nymphs their grievous Loss bewail,
To Tears they turn their Springs and Fountains all.
The vocal Nymph has with her Ecchos done,
She thinks none worth her Answer since thou'rt gone.
The Trees drop their untimely Fruit for you;
The Lillies fair refuse to flourish now;
The sweetest Flow'rs hang down their Heads and die;
They scorn to grow since you t'Elizium fly.
The bleating Ewes their Udders fill no more,
The buzzing Bees neglect the sweetest Flow'r.
All Sweets in Nature now are worthless grown,
Since thou art dead, all Sweets contain'd in One.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
The Dolphins ne'er before were known to moan,
The Seas forsaking, on the Shores alone.
Not half so much poor Philomela griev'd,
For all the Wrongs from Tereus she receiv'd.
The Swallows on the Summits of each Hill,
With sad Complaints declining Vallies fill.
Alcyone, for her lov'd Ceyx, ne'er
Fill'd with such doleful Plaints the yielding Air.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Cerylus before was never heard to moan,
Upon the Seas, as he of late has done.
The Birds, which from the Pile receiv'd their Breath,
Lament young Bion more than Memnon's Death.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
The Nightingales which perch'd upon the Sprays,
With an attentive Ear to learn his Lays,
With drooping Wings upon the Boughs remain,
And in sad Notes bemourn the absent Swain.
Ye Doves, forget not in sad Notes to coo,
For him who taught you how to love and woo.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Since, most lamented Bard, thou'st left the Plain,
Who shall presume to touch thy Pipe, dear Swain;
On which so lately you unrival'd play'd?
All, all, are of the vain Attempt afraid.
The Reeds, as yet, a whisp'ring Sound retain,
Of thy last Song, ne'er to be heard again.
I to th'Arcadian God thy Pipe will bear,
For he, (if any rightly) is the Heir;
Perhaps great Pan himself will fear to try,
He'll fear, perhaps, that you'll a Victor be.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Poor Galatea mourns the absent Swain,
Despairing ever to be charm'd again,
Since Bion, tuneful Bion's left the Plain.
How oft the Nymph has left her native Sea,
To sit and hear thy Song, and gaze on thee?
Not such as Polypheme's harsh Skreekings were,
But what's harmonious charm'd the Virgin's Ear.
The Fair, neglectful of her Marine Throng,
Drawn by the soft Remembrance of your Song,
Forsakes the Main, and lives upon the Shore,
There spends the tedious Day, too short before,
When lovely Bion sung, who sings no more.
With Pity she your mournful Herds beholds,
With Pity feeds your melancholy Folds.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
With you, dear Swain, the Muses Gifts are fled;
All youthful Sports are ceas'd, since thou art dead;
The once fond Virgins, in their Sorrows coy,
Fly the Embraces of each am'rous Boy.
The mournful Loves over thy Grave bewail,
With flutt'ring Wings thine early Funeral.
More of the Cyprian Goddess' Love you have,
Than the last Kiss that sweet Adonis gave.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Harmonious Streams, Meles, the first in Fame,
That gave the Bard his Birth, and gave his Name
Since Homer's Death you find but small Relief,
Now Bion's Fate demands a second Grief.
First when Calliope's Delight withdrew,
Call'd by remorseless Fate, himself from you;
Then Fame reports your Streams could scarce suffice
To feed the constant Tribute of your Eyes.
Great was your Grief for the lov'd Homer dead,
So great it o'er all Neptune's Kingdom spread;
And now, alass! afresh thy Sorrows flow,
For Bion's Death reiterates thy Woe.
Both to the sacred Fountains dear have been,
This largely drank of Arethusa's Stream;
The other of the Rills of Hippocrene.
One sung Atrides, and the Spartan Fair,
And Thetis' valiant Son renown'd in War.
This sung of Pan, of Swains; no Arms, nor Wars;
But such sweet Combats as are free from Scars.
His Pipe and Herd demanded all his Cares;
And as they graz'd he charm'd their ravish'd Ears.
On the soft Loves he oft' bestow'd his Praise,
Venus was oft' the Subject of his Lays.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
The Towns, and Villages, bewail thy Death,
All miss the Musick of thy tuneful Breath.
Th'Ascræan Bard's no more lamented, now
They drain the Fountains of their Eyes for you.
All the Bœotian Groves for thee alone,
For thee, dear Swain, instead of Pindar moan.
The Lesbians not half so much complain,
For their Alcæus, as for you dear Swain.
Ceos no more laments its Poet dead,
You've all its Grief since to the Shades you fled.
Archilocus no more the Parians grieve,
But, was such Force in Tears, they'd you retrieve.
Sappho no more charms Mitylenian Ears,
You now command Attention and their Tears.
Theocritus, the sweetest of the Swains
Of Syracuse, prepares his mournful Strains;
Whilst I, no Stranger to the rural Lay,
Chant out my Woes in the Ausonian Way.
To others let your Flocks and Herds belong,
To me you dying left your Pipe and Song.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Sweet Flow'rs, and all the worst of Weeds must dye,
Their Blossoms wither, and their Moisture dry;
But when the Year revolves again they grow,
Their Moisture enters, and their Blossoms blow:
But ah! sad Fate, the Wise, the Great, the Brave,
Must sleep, obsurely, in the silent Grave:
They dye but once, ne'er more regain their Breath,
But lye confin'd in the cold Chains of Death:
And you, alass! must go to your long Home,
And silent sleep in the Earth's darksome Womb.
But since relentless Fate will have it so,
And thus torment poor Mortals here below;
The loathsome Croakings of the Toad ne'er cease,
Its odious Noise shall ne'er my Envy raise.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Sent by a dire Disease, sweet Bion's gone,
His charming Lays, and tuneful Voice are flow'n.
Sweet Swain, you did the poys'nous Draught receive,
Ah! cruel Wretch, that cou'd the Potion give!
To whom, alass! could such a Crime belong?
Who was so weary of your Muse and Song?
But why persist I thus to vent my Hate?
The Wretch can't shun the Vengeance of his Fate.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
No End of Grief, no End of Woe, I find,
Since thou art gone, and left me here behind.
Could I, like Orpheus, or Ulysses, go,
Or like Alcides, to the Shades below;
I'd mind th'Amazement of th'infernal Ghosts,
Hear how you charm the Ruler of those Coasts.
Doubt not your Skill, doubt not your Art, dear Swain,
Play to the Virgin in the Dorick Strain;
For she e'erwhile upon Sicilian Strands,
Delighted there to sport, and chant those Strains;
Before a Rape she suffer'd by grim Pluto's Hands.
With Musick Orpheus charm'd the Elizium Queen,
By Musick got Euridice again.
Doubt not but by the Virtue of your Lays,
She'll you again unto the Hills release.
If I was skillful at the Pipe, I'd go,
And try to move the King of Hell for you.