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| III. | IDYLLIUM III. ON THE DEATH OF BION.
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 | The works of Anacreon, Sappho, Bion, Moschus and Musæus |  |
IDYLLIUM III. ON THE DEATH OF BION.
Ye Woods, with Grief your waving Summits bow,
Ye Dorian Fountains, murmur as ye flow,
From weeping Urns your copious Sorrows shed,
And bid the Rivers mourn for Bion dead:
Ye shady Groves, in Robe of sable Hue
Bewail; ye Plants, in pearly Drops of Dew:
Ye drooping Flowers, diffuse a languid Breath,
And die with Sorrow at sweet Bion's Death:
Ye Roses change from red to sickly pale,
And, all ye bright Anemonies, bewail:
Now, Hyacinth, thy doleful Letters show
Inscrib'd in larger Characters of Woe
For Bion dead, the sweetest Shepherd Swain.
Ye Dorian Fountains, murmur as ye flow,
From weeping Urns your copious Sorrows shed,
And bid the Rivers mourn for Bion dead:
Ye shady Groves, in Robe of sable Hue
Bewail; ye Plants, in pearly Drops of Dew:
260
And die with Sorrow at sweet Bion's Death:
Ye Roses change from red to sickly pale,
And, all ye bright Anemonies, bewail:
Now, Hyacinth, thy doleful Letters show
Inscrib'd in larger Characters of Woe
For Bion dead, the sweetest Shepherd Swain.
Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strain!
Ye Nightingales, that perch among the Sprays,
Tune to melodious Elegy your Lays,
And bid the Streams of Arethuse deplore
Bion's sad Fate; lov'd Bion is no more:
Nor Verse nor Music could his Life prolong,
He died, and with him died the Doric Song.
Ye Nightingales, that perch among the Sprays,
Tune to melodious Elegy your Lays,
And bid the Streams of Arethuse deplore
Bion's sad Fate; lov'd Bion is no more:
Nor Verse nor Music could his Life prolong,
He died, and with him died the Doric Song.
261
Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strain!
Ye Swans of Strymon, in loud Notes complain,
Pensive, yet sweet, and droop the sickly Wing,
As when your own sad Elegy ye sing.
All the fair Damsels of Oëagria tell,
And all the Nymphs that in Bistonia dwell,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the Plains.
Ye Swans of Strymon, in loud Notes complain,
Pensive, yet sweet, and droop the sickly Wing,
As when your own sad Elegy ye sing.
All the fair Damsels of Oëagria tell,
And all the Nymphs that in Bistonia dwell,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the Plains.
Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strains!
No more he sooths his Oxen at the Yoke,
No more he chants beneath the lonely Oak.
Compell'd, alas! a doleful Dirge to sing
To the grim God, the deaf Tartarean King.
And now each straggling Heifer strays alone,
And to the silent Mountains makes her Moan;
The Bulls loud bellowing o'er the Forests rove,
Forsake their Pasture, and forget their Love.
No more he sooths his Oxen at the Yoke,
No more he chants beneath the lonely Oak.
Compell'd, alas! a doleful Dirge to sing
To the grim God, the deaf Tartarean King.
And now each straggling Heifer strays alone,
And to the silent Mountains makes her Moan;
262
Forsake their Pasture, and forget their Love.
Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
Thy Fate, O Bion, wept the God of Day;
Pan griev'd; the dancing Satyrs and the Fauns
March'd slow and sad, and sigh'd along the Lawns:
Then wail'd the Nymphs that o'er the Streams preside,
Fast flow'd their Tears, and swell'd the chrystal Tide,
Mute Echo now laments the Rocks among,
Griev'd she no more can imitate thy Song.
The Flow'rets fade, and wither'd are the Trees,
Those lose their Beauty, and their Verdure these.
The Ewes no more with milky Udders thrive,
No more drops Honey from the fragrant Hive;
The Bees, alas! have lost their little Store,
And what avails it now to work for more,
When from thy Lips the Honey's stol'n away?
Thy Fate, O Bion, wept the God of Day;
Pan griev'd; the dancing Satyrs and the Fauns
March'd slow and sad, and sigh'd along the Lawns:
Then wail'd the Nymphs that o'er the Streams preside,
Fast flow'd their Tears, and swell'd the chrystal Tide,
Mute Echo now laments the Rocks among,
Griev'd she no more can imitate thy Song.
The Flow'rets fade, and wither'd are the Trees,
Those lose their Beauty, and their Verdure these.
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No more drops Honey from the fragrant Hive;
The Bees, alas! have lost their little Store,
And what avails it now to work for more,
When from thy Lips the Honey's stol'n away?
Begin, Sicilian, Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
Ne'er did the Dolphin on the azure Main
In such pathetic Energy complain;
Nor Philomel with such melodious Woe
E'er wail'd, nor Swallow on the Mountain's Brow:
Nor did Alcyone transform'd deplore
So loud her Lover dash'd upon the Shore.
Not Memnon's Birds such Signs of Sorrow gave,
When, screaming round, they hover'd o'er his Grave:
As now in melancholy Mood they shed
Their plaintive Tears, lamenting Bion dead.
Ne'er did the Dolphin on the azure Main
In such pathetic Energy complain;
Nor Philomel with such melodious Woe
E'er wail'd, nor Swallow on the Mountain's Brow:
Nor did Alcyone transform'd deplore
So loud her Lover dash'd upon the Shore.
264
When, screaming round, they hover'd o'er his Grave:
As now in melancholy Mood they shed
Their plaintive Tears, lamenting Bion dead.
Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
The Nightingales, that perch upon the Spray,
The Swallows shrill, and all the feather'd Throng,
Whom Bion taught, and ravish'd with his Song,
Now sunk in Grief their pensive Music ply,
And strive to sing their Master's Elegy;
And all the Birds in all the Groves around
Strain their sweet Throats to emulate the Sound:
Ye turtles too, the gentle Bard deplore,
And with deep Murmurs fill the sounding Shore.
The Nightingales, that perch upon the Spray,
The Swallows shrill, and all the feather'd Throng,
Whom Bion taught, and ravish'd with his Song,
Now sunk in Grief their pensive Music ply,
And strive to sing their Master's Elegy;
And all the Birds in all the Groves around
Strain their sweet Throats to emulate the Sound:
Ye turtles too, the gentle Bard deplore,
And with deep Murmurs fill the sounding Shore.
265
Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
Who now, lov'd Shepherd, on thy Pipe shall play?
Still, still, methinks, the melting Notes I hear,
But, ah! more faint they die upon my Ear.
Echo, still listening, roves the Meads along,
Or near the Rocks still meditates thy Song.
To Pan I'll give thy tuneful Pipe, though he
Will fear, perchance, to be surpass'd by thee.
Who now, lov'd Shepherd, on thy Pipe shall play?
Still, still, methinks, the melting Notes I hear,
But, ah! more faint they die upon my Ear.
Echo, still listening, roves the Meads along,
Or near the Rocks still meditates thy Song.
To Pan I'll give thy tuneful Pipe, though he
Will fear, perchance, to be surpass'd by thee.
Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strain!
Thee Galatea weeps, sweet Shepherd-swain;
For oft thy graceful Form her Bosom warm'd,
Thy Song delighted, and thy Music charm'd:
She shunn'd the Cyclops, and his Numbers rude,
But thee with ardent Love the Nymph pursu'd:
She left the Sea, her Element, and feeds,
Forlorn, thy Cattle on the flowery Meads.
Thee Galatea weeps, sweet Shepherd-swain;
For oft thy graceful Form her Bosom warm'd,
Thy Song delighted, and thy Music charm'd:
She shunn'd the Cyclops, and his Numbers rude,
But thee with ardent Love the Nymph pursu'd:
She left the Sea, her Element, and feeds,
Forlorn, thy Cattle on the flowery Meads.
Begin, Sicilian, Muse, the mournful Lay!
Alas! the Muses will no longer stay,
No longer on these lonely Coasts abide;
With thee they warbled, and with thee they died:
With Bion perish'd all the Grace of Song,
And all the Kisses of the Fair and Young.
The little Loves, lamenting at his Doom,
Strike their fair Breasts, and weep around his Tomb.
See Venus too her beauteous Bosom beat!
She lov'd her Shepherd more than Kisses sweet,
More than those last dear Kisses, which in Death
She gave Adonis, and imbib'd his Breath.
Meles! of Streams in Melody the chief,
Now heaves thy Bosom with another Grief;
Thy Homer died, great Master of the Song,
Thy Homer died, the Muses sweetest Tongue:
Then did thy Waves in plaintive Murmurs weep,
And roll'd thy swelling Sorrows to the Deep:
Another Son demands the Meed of Woe,
Again thy Waters weep in long-drawn Murmurs slow.
Dear to the Fountains was each tuneful Son,
This drank of Arethuse, that Helicon:
He sung Atrides' and Achilles' Ire,
And the fair Dame that set the World on Fire:
This form'd his Numbers on a softer Plan,
And chaunted Shepherds Loves, and peaceful Pan;
His Flock he tended on the flowery Meads,
And milk'd his Kine, or join'd with Wax the Reeds;
Oft in his Bosom he would Cupid take,
And Venus lov'd him for her Cupid's Sake.
Alas! the Muses will no longer stay,
No longer on these lonely Coasts abide;
With thee they warbled, and with thee they died:
266
And all the Kisses of the Fair and Young.
The little Loves, lamenting at his Doom,
Strike their fair Breasts, and weep around his Tomb.
See Venus too her beauteous Bosom beat!
She lov'd her Shepherd more than Kisses sweet,
More than those last dear Kisses, which in Death
She gave Adonis, and imbib'd his Breath.
Meles! of Streams in Melody the chief,
Now heaves thy Bosom with another Grief;
Thy Homer died, great Master of the Song,
Thy Homer died, the Muses sweetest Tongue:
Then did thy Waves in plaintive Murmurs weep,
And roll'd thy swelling Sorrows to the Deep:
Another Son demands the Meed of Woe,
Again thy Waters weep in long-drawn Murmurs slow.
267
This drank of Arethuse, that Helicon:
He sung Atrides' and Achilles' Ire,
And the fair Dame that set the World on Fire:
This form'd his Numbers on a softer Plan,
And chaunted Shepherds Loves, and peaceful Pan;
His Flock he tended on the flowery Meads,
And milk'd his Kine, or join'd with Wax the Reeds;
Oft in his Bosom he would Cupid take,
And Venus lov'd him for her Cupid's Sake.
Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strains!
Thee all the Cities of the Hills and Plains,
Illustrious Bard, in silent Grief deplore;
Ascra for Hesiod ne'er lamented more;
Not thus Bœotia mourn'd her Theban Swan,
Nor thus the Tears for bold Alcæus ran;
Not Ceos for Simonides, nor thus
Griev'd Paros for her Bard Archilocus:
The Shepherds of the Lesbian Isle have long
Neglected Sappho's for thy sweeter Song:
And all that breathe the past'ral Reed rehearse
Thy Fate, O Bion, in harmonious Verse.
Sicelidas, the Samian Shepherd sweet,
And Lycidas, the blythest Bard of Crete,
Whose sprightly Looks erst spoke their Hearts elate,
Now sorrowing mourn thy sad untimely Fate;
Mourns too Philetas' elegiac Muse,
And sweet Theocritus of Syracuse:
I too, with Tears, from Italy have brought
Such plain Bucolics as my Master taught;
Which, if at all with tuneful Ease they flow,
To thy learn'd Precepts and thy Art I owe.
To other Heirs thy Riches may belong,
I claim thy past'ral Pipe and Doric Song;
In Doric Song my pensive Boon I pay:
Thee all the Cities of the Hills and Plains,
Illustrious Bard, in silent Grief deplore;
Ascra for Hesiod ne'er lamented more;
Not thus Bœotia mourn'd her Theban Swan,
Nor thus the Tears for bold Alcæus ran;
Not Ceos for Simonides, nor thus
Griev'd Paros for her Bard Archilocus:
268
Neglected Sappho's for thy sweeter Song:
And all that breathe the past'ral Reed rehearse
Thy Fate, O Bion, in harmonious Verse.
Sicelidas, the Samian Shepherd sweet,
And Lycidas, the blythest Bard of Crete,
Whose sprightly Looks erst spoke their Hearts elate,
Now sorrowing mourn thy sad untimely Fate;
Mourns too Philetas' elegiac Muse,
And sweet Theocritus of Syracuse:
I too, with Tears, from Italy have brought
Such plain Bucolics as my Master taught;
Which, if at all with tuneful Ease they flow,
To thy learn'd Precepts and thy Art I owe.
To other Heirs thy Riches may belong,
I claim thy past'ral Pipe and Doric Song;
269
Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
Alas! the meanest Flowers which Gardens yield,
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,
Which dead in wintry Sepulchres appear,
Revive in Spring, and bloom another Year:
But We, the Great, the Brave, the Learn'd, the Wise,
Soon as the Hand of Death has clos'd our Eyes,
In Tombs forgotten lie, no Suns restore,
We sleep, for ever sleep, to wake no more.
Thou too liest buried with the silent dead:
Fate spares the Witlings, but thy vital Thread
Snapp'd cruel Chance! and now 'tis my hard Lot
To hear the dull Bards (but I envy not)
Grate their harsh Sonnets, flashy, rude, and vain:
Alas! the meanest Flowers which Gardens yield,
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,
270
Revive in Spring, and bloom another Year:
But We, the Great, the Brave, the Learn'd, the Wise,
Soon as the Hand of Death has clos'd our Eyes,
In Tombs forgotten lie, no Suns restore,
We sleep, for ever sleep, to wake no more.
Thou too liest buried with the silent dead:
Fate spares the Witlings, but thy vital Thread
Snapp'd cruel Chance! and now 'tis my hard Lot
To hear the dull Bards (but I envy not)
Grate their harsh Sonnets, flashy, rude, and vain:
Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strain!
O hapless Bion! Poison was thy Fate;
The baneful Potion circumscrib'd thy Date:
How could fell Poison cause Effect so strange,
Touch thy sweet Lips, and not to Honey change?
How could the savage Wretch, that mix'd the Draught,
Hear heavenly Music with a murderous Thought?
Could not thy Songs his hellish Purpose sway?
O hapless Bion! Poison was thy Fate;
The baneful Potion circumscrib'd thy Date:
How could fell Poison cause Effect so strange,
Touch thy sweet Lips, and not to Honey change?
How could the savage Wretch, that mix'd the Draught,
Hear heavenly Music with a murderous Thought?
271
Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
But soon just Vengeance will his Crime pursue,
While I with pious Tears thy Tomb bedew.
Could I like Orpheus, as old Poets tell,
Or mighty Hercules, descend to Hell;
To Pluto's dreary Mansion I would go,
To hear what Music Bion plays below.
List to my Counsel, gentle Shepherd-swain,
And softly warble some Sicilian Strain,
(Such as, when living, gave divine Delight)
To sooth the Empress of the Realms of Night;
For she, ere Pluto seiz'd the trembling Maid,
Sung Dorian Lays, and in these Meadows play'd.
Nor unrewarded shall thy Numbers prove,
The Dame will pity, though she cannot love;
As once she heard the Thracian's tuneful Prayer,
And gave him back Eurydice the fair,
She'll pity now thy more melodious Strain,
And send thee to thy Hills and Woods again.
Could I in powerful Harmony excell,
For thee my Pipe should charm the rigid King of Hell.
But soon just Vengeance will his Crime pursue,
While I with pious Tears thy Tomb bedew.
Could I like Orpheus, as old Poets tell,
Or mighty Hercules, descend to Hell;
To Pluto's dreary Mansion I would go,
To hear what Music Bion plays below.
List to my Counsel, gentle Shepherd-swain,
And softly warble some Sicilian Strain,
(Such as, when living, gave divine Delight)
To sooth the Empress of the Realms of Night;
For she, ere Pluto seiz'd the trembling Maid,
Sung Dorian Lays, and in these Meadows play'd.
272
The Dame will pity, though she cannot love;
As once she heard the Thracian's tuneful Prayer,
And gave him back Eurydice the fair,
She'll pity now thy more melodious Strain,
And send thee to thy Hills and Woods again.
Could I in powerful Harmony excell,
For thee my Pipe should charm the rigid King of Hell.
| The works of Anacreon, Sappho, Bion, Moschus and Musæus | |