Since you with skill can touch the tuneful reed, Since few my verses or my voice exceed: In this refreshing shade shall we recline, Where hazels with the lofty elms combine?
Your riper age a due respect requires, ‘ Tis mine to yield to what my friend desires; Whether you choose the zephyr's fanning breeze, That shakes the wavering shadows of the trees;
Or the deep-shaded grotto's cool retreat:— And see yon cave screen'd from the scorching heat, Where the wild vine its curling tendrils weaves, Whose grapes glow ruddy through the quivering leaves.
Of all the swains that to our hills belong, Amyntas only vies with you in song. What, though with me that haughty shepherd vie, Who proudly dares Apollo's self defy?
Begin: let Alcon's praise inspire your strains, Or Codrus’ death, or Phyllis’ amorous pains; Begin, whatever theme your Muse prefer. To feed the kids be, Tityrus, thy care.
I rather will repeat that mournful song, Which late I carv'd the verdant beech along; ( I carv'd and trill'd by turns the labour'd lay ) And let Amyntas match me if he may.
As slender willows where the olive grows, Or sordid shrubs when near the scarlet rose, Such ( if the judgment I have form'd be true ) Such is Amyntas when compar'd with you.
No more, Menalcas; we delay too long, The grot's dim shade invites my promis'd song. When Daphnis fell by fate's remorseless blow, The weeping nymphs pour'd wild the plaint of woe;
Witness, O hazel-grove, and winding stream, For all your echoes caught the mournful theme. In agony of grief his mother prest The clay cold carcass to her throbbing breast,
Frantic with anguish wail'd his hapless fate, Rav'd at the stars, and Heaven's relentless hate. ‘ Twas then the swains in deep despair forsook Their pining flocks, nor led them to the brook;
The pining flocks for him their pastures slight, Nor grassy plains, nor cooling streams invite. The doleful tidings reach'd the Libyan shores, And lions mourn'd in deep repeated roars.
His cruel doom the woodlands wild bewail, And plaintive hills repeat the melancholy tale. ‘ Twas he, who first Armenia's tigers broke, And tam'd their stubborn natures to the yoke;
He first with ivy wrapt the thyrsus round, And made the hills with Bacchus’ rites resound. As vines adorn the trees which they entwine, As purple clusters beautify the vine,
As bulls the herd, as corns the fertile plains, The godlike Daphnis dignified the swains. When Daphnis from our eager hopes was torn, Phoebus and Pales left the plains to mourn.
Now weeds and wretched tares the crop subdue, Where store of generous wheat but lately grew. Narcissus’ lovely flower no more is seen, No more the velvet violet decks the green;
Thistles for these the blasted meadow yields, And thorns and frizzled burs deform the fields. Swains, shade the springs, and let the ground be drest With verdant leaves;‘ Twas Daphnis’ last request.
Erect a tomb in honour to his name Mark'd with this verse to celebrate his fame. “The swains with Daphnis’ name this tomb adorn, Whose high renown above the skies is borne;
Fair was his flock, he fairest on the plain, The pride, the glory of the sylvan reign.” Sweeter, O bard divine, thy numbers seem, Than to the scorched swain the cooling stream,
Or soft on fragrant flowerets to recline, And the tir'd limbs to balmy sleep resign. Blest youth! whose voice and pipe demand the praise Due but to thine, and to thy master's lays.
I in return the darling theme will choose, And Daphnis’ praises shall inspire my Muse; He in my song shall high as Heaven ascend, High as the Heavens, for Daphnis was my friend.
His virtues sure our noblest numbers claim; Nought can delight me more than such a theme, Which in your song new dignity obtains; Oft has our Stimichon extoll'd the strains.
Now Daphnis shines, among the gods a god, Struck with the splendours of his new abode. Beneath his footstool far remote appear The clouds slow-sailing, and the starry sphere.
Hence lawns and groves with gladsome raptures ring, The swains, the nymphs, and Pan in concert sing. The wolves to murder are no more inclin'd, No guileful nets ensnare the wandering hind,
Deceit and violence and rapine cease, For Daphnis loves the gentle arts of peace. From savage mountains shouts of transport rise, Borne in triumphant echoes to the skies:
The rocks and shrubs emit melodious sounds, Through nature's vast extent the god, the god rebounds. Be gracious still, still present to our prayer; Four altars, lo! we build with pious care.
Two for th’ inspiring god of song divine, And two, propitious Daphnis, shall be thine. Two bowls white-foaming with their milky store, Of generous oil two brimming goblets more,
Each year we shall present before thy shrine, And cheer the feast with liberal draughts of wine; Before the fire when winter-storms invade, In summer's heat beneath the breezy shade:
The hallow'd bowls with wine of Chios crown'd, Shall pour their sparkling nectar to the ground. Damoetas shall with LyctianAEgon play, And celebrate with festive strains the day.
Alphesiboeus to the sprightly song Shall like the dancing Satyrs trip along. These rites shall still be paid, so justly due, Both when the nymphs receive our annual vow,
And when with solemn songs, and victims crown'd, Our lands in long procession we surround, While fishes love the streams and briny deep, And savage boars the mountain's rocky steep,
While grasshoppers their dewy food delights, While balmy thyme the busy bee invites; So long shall last thine honours and thy fame, So long the shepherds shall resound thy name.
Such rites to thee shall husbandmen ordain, As Ceres and the god of wine obtain. Thou to our prayers propitiously inclin'd Thy grateful suppliants to their vows shall bind.
What boon, dear shepherd, can your song requite? For nought in nature yields so sweet delight. Not the soft sighing of the southern gale, That faintly breathes along the flowery vale;
Nor, when light breezes curl the liquid plain, To tread the margin of the murmuring main; Nor melody of streams, that roll away Through rocky dales, delights me as your lay.
No mean reward, my friend, your verses claim; Take then this flute that breath'd the plaintive theme Of Corydon;when proud Damoetastried To match my skill, it dash'd his hasty pride.
And let this sheepcrook by my friend be worn, Which brazen studs in beamy rows adorn; This fair Antigenes oft begg'd to gain, But all his beauty, all his prayers were vain.
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