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Not so the swallow over the far downs,

Not so Ceyx called for his Halcyone, }
Not so in the eastern vallies Memnon's bird
Screamed o'er his sepulchre for the Morning's son,
As all have mourned for the departed Bion.

Raise, raise the dirge, Muses of Sicily.
Ye nightingales and swallows every one
Whom he once charmed and taught to sing at will,
Plain to each other midst the green tree boughs,
With other birds o'erhead. Mourn too, ye doves.

Raise, raise the dirge, Muses of Sicily.
Who now shall play thy pipe, oh most desired one!
Who lay his lip against thy reeds? who dare it?
For still they breathe of thee and of thy mouth,
And Echo comes to seek her voices there.

Pan's be they; and ev'n he shall fear perhaps
To sound them, lest he be not first hereafter.

Raise, raise the dirge, Muses of Sicily.
And Galatea weeps, who loved to hear thee,
Sitting beside thee on the calm sea-shore;
For thou did'st play far better than the Cyclops,
And him the fair one shunned: but thee, but thee,
She used to look at sweetly from the water.
But now forgetful of the deep, she sits
On the lone sands, and feeds thy herd for thee.

Raise, raise the dirge, Muses of Sicily.
The Muse's gifts all died with thee, O shepherd,
Men's admiration, and sweet women's kisses.
The loves about thy sepulchre weep sadly,
For Venus loved thee, much more than the kiss

With which of late she kissed Adonis, dying.
Thou too, O Meles, sweetest-voiced of rivers,
Thou too hast undergone a second grief;
For Homer first, that sweet mouth of Calliope,
Was taken from thee; and they say thou mourned'st
For thy great son with many-sobbing streams,
Filling the far-seen ocean with a voice.
And now, again, thou weepest for a son,
Melting away in misery. Both of them
Were favorites of the fountain-nymphs; one drank
The Pegasean fount, and one his cup
Filled out of Arethuse; the former sang
The bright Tyndarid lass, and the great son
Of Thetis, and Atrides Menelaus ;
But he, the other, not of wars or tears
Told us, but intermixed the pipe he played
With songs of herds, and as he sung he fed them;

And he made pipes, and milked the gentle heifer, And taught us how to kiss, and cherished love Within his bosom, and was worthy of Venus.

Raise, raise the dirge, Muses of Sicily.
Every renowned city and every town
Mourns for thee, Bion ;-Ascra weeps thee more

Than her own Hesiod; the Bæotian woods

Ask not for Pindar so; nor patriot Lesbos
For her Alcæus ; nor th' Ægean isle
Her poet; nor does Paros so wish back
Archilocus; and Mitylene now,
Instead of Sappho's verses, rings with thine.
All the sweet pastoral poets, who of late
Carried such happy looks, are sad for thee,
Sicelidas the Samian, Lycidas
With his sweet lip, and frank Theocritus,

All in their several dialects: and I,

I too, no stranger to the pastoral song,
Sing thee a dirge Ausonian, such as thou
Taughtest thy scholars, honouring us as all
Heirs of the Dorian Muse. Thou didst bequeath
Thy store to others, but to me thy song.

Raise, raise the dirge, Muses of Sicily.
Alas, when mallows in the garden die,
Green parsley, or the crisp luxuriant dill,
They live again, and flower another year;
But we, how great soe'er, or strong, or wise,
When once we die, sleep in the senseless earth
A long, an endless, unawakeable sleep.
Thou too in earth must be laid silently :
But the nymphs please to let the frog sing on ;
Nor envy I, for what he sings is worthless.

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