"To Mitylene sails my heart-dear love :

Safe be the way, and fair the voyage prove,

E'en when the south the moist wave dashes high on

The setting Kids, and tempest-veiled Orion

Places his feet on ocean; and, returned,

My love be kind to me by Cypris burned;

For hot love burns me: may the Halcyons smooth
The swell o' the sea, the south and east winds soothe,
That from the lowest deep the sea-weed stir-
Best Halcyons! whom of all the birds that skir
The waves for prey, the Nereids love the most.
Safe may my loved one reach the Lesbian coast,
And on the way be wind and weather fair!
With dill or roses will I twine my hair,
Or on my head will put a coronet,
Wreathed with the fragrance of the violet.

I by the fire will quaff the Ptelean wine,
And one shall roast me beans, while I recline
Luxurious, lying on a fragrant heap

Of asphodel and parsley, elbow-deep;

And mindful of my love the goblet clip,

Until the last lees trickle to my lip.

Two swains shall play the flute; and Tityrus sing

How love for Xenea did our Daphnis sting,

How on the mountain he was wont to stray,
How wailed for him the oaks of Himera,
When he, dissolving, passed away from us,
Like snow on Hæmus, or far Caucasus,
Athos or Rhodope: or in his song
Recite, how by his master's cruel wrong
The Swain was in a cedar ark shut up,
While quick-and how from many a flower-cup
The flat-nosed bees to his sweet prison flew,
And there sustained him with the honey-dew,
For that the Muse into his lip distilled
Sweet nectar: blest Comatas! that fulfilled

A whole spring, feeding on the bag o' the bee,
Shut in an ark! How had it gladdened me,
(Would only thou wert of the living now!)
To tend thy goats along the mountain's brow,
And hear thee sweetly sing, O bard divine!
Lying at leisure under oak or pine!"

He ceased: I in my turn: "Dear Lycidas! Whilst on the highlands with my herd I pass, The Nymphs have taught me precious ditties oft, Which haply Fame has borne to Zeus aloft.

I choose for you the very best I know;

Now listen, since the Muses love you so :

The Loves, ill omen! sneezed on me, who dote

On lovely Myrtis, as on spring the goat.
Aratus, whom of men I love the best,

Loves a sweet girl. Aristis, minstrel blest,

And worthiest man, whom his own tripod near
Phoebus himself would not disdain to hear

Sing to the harp, knows that Aratus feels

This scorching flame. Pan! whose rich music peals On Homolus, place in his longing arms

Of her own will the blushing bloom of charms.

So may the youth of Arcady forbear

With squills thy shoulders and thy side to tear,
When fails the chase. If thou wilt not, then weep,

By nails all mangled, and on nettles sleep!
Where Hebrus flows, in frost-time of the year
Dwell on the mountains 'neath the polar bear;
In summer with swart Æthiop, at the pile
Of Blemyan rocks, beyond the springs of Nile!
Ye loves from Hyetis and Byblis flown,
Who make Dione's lofty seat your own;

Ye loves that are to blushing apples like,
The blooming Phyllis with your arrows strike-
Strike her, because she pities not my friend;
Though softer than a pear, her bloom shall end:
Ah, Phyllis Phyllis! now the bachelors say,
Behold thy flower of beauty drops away!

Let us, my
friend Aratus! pace no more,
Nor keep our painful watch beside her door;
Let Chanticleer, that crows at dawn, behold
Some other lover there benumbed with cold:
Such watch be Molon's, and be his alone;
But rest be ours and eke a friendly crone,

Who may by spitting and by magic skill
Quick disenchant us from fore-shadowed ill."

Ended my song, he smiling as before

The friendly muse-gift gave-the crook he bore;
Then turning to the left pursued the way
To Pyxa; speeding, presently we lay,

Where Phrasidamus dwelt, on loosened sheaves
Of lentisk, and the vine's new-gathered leaves.
Near by, a fountain murmured from its bed,
A cavern of the Nymphs: elms overhead,

And poplars rustled; and the summer-keen
Cicada sung aloft amid the green;

Afar the tree-frog in the thorn-bush cried;
Nor larks nor goldfinches their song denied;
The yellow bees around the fountains flew ;
And the lone turtle-dove was heard to coo:

Of golden summer all was redolent,

And of brown autumn; boughs with damsons bent,
We had; and pears were scattered at our feet,

And by our side a heap of apples sweet.

A four-year cask was broached. Ye Nymphs excelling

Of Castaly, on high Parnassus dwelling,

Did ever Chiron in the Centaur's cave

Give draught so rich to Hercules the brave?
Thro' Polypheme did such sweet nectar glance,
That made the shepherd of Anapus dance,
The huge rock-hurler-as the generous foam,
Which, Nymphs, ye tempered at that harvest-home?

O be it mine again her feast to keep,

And fix the fan in good Damater's heap;

And may she sweetly smile, while spikes of corn

And up-torn poppies either hand adorn!