Nor dolphins quit the deep, nor bulls the shore;
Thou rovest o'er earth and sea: each hoof an oar!
Alas! who knows but flying thou wilt bear
Thy burden (like a bird) through azure air!
Ah me! thus heedless, how could I forego
My own dear home, and plunge myself in woe?
Lo! through my fond simplicity betray'd,
I rove this waste, a solitary maid!

But thou, O Neptune, whom the deeps obey,
Propitious come, and speed my destined way!
O let my heavenly guide unveil'd appear;
For not without a god I wander here!'

Courage, dear nymph (the broad-horn'd bull
replied),

Nor fear the fancied perils of the tide.
Know, though a bull I seem to mortal eyes!
I'm Jove himself—the ruler of the skies.
And thus (I can assume what shape I please),
Fired by thy charms, I brave this length of seas!
But Crete now waits (fair isle, the nurse of Jove)
To crown with Hymen's rites my fervid love:
And from thy womb while sons illustrious spring,
The subject earth shall hail each son a king.'

Scarce had he spoke-confirming all he said, When Crete rose misty o'er its watery bed! Straight in another form the Thunderer shone, And loosed, with ardent haste, her virgin zone! The Horæ smooth'd their couch, and led to love; And fair Europa blush'd-the bride of JoveErelong to triumph, from the god's embrace, The happy mother of a sceptred race!

IDYLLIUM III.

The Epitaph on Bion.

MOURN, Dorian stream, departed Bion mourn
Pour the hoarse murmur from thy pallid urn!
Sigh,groves and lawns! ye plants,in sorrow wave;
Ye flowers, breathe sickly sweets o'er Bion's grave!
Anemonies and roses, blush your grief;
Expand, pale hyacinth, thy letter'd leaf!

Thy marks of anguish more distinctly show-
Ah! well the tuneful herdsman claims your woe!
Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Ye nightingales, that sooth the shadowy vale,
Warble to Arethusa's streams the tale
Of Bion dead. Lamenting Nature's pride,
He sunk! ah, then the Dorian music died!

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain!
Sicilian Muse! begin the mournful strain!
Ye swans of Strymon, bid so sweet a note
As Bion breathed along your green banks, float
O'er the still wave! and tell Bistonia's maids,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the glades.
Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Dear to the Muse, alas! no more he sings
By yon lone oak that shades the plashy springs.
He roams a spectre through the glooms of fear,
And chants the' oblivious verse to Pluto's ear.
O'er the hush'd hills his pensive heifers rove,,
Refuse their pasture, and forget their love!

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain! Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain! Thee-thee, O Bion, snatch'd from earth away, The Satyrs wail'd, and e'en the god of day! Pan for thy numbers heaved his sighing breast, And sad Priapus mourn'd in sable vest. The Naïds in despairing anguish stood, And swell'd with briny tears their fountain-flood. Mute Echo, as her mimic music dies, Amidst her dreary rocks lamenting lies. The trees resign'd their fruitage at thy death, And all the faded flowers, their scented breath. The ewes no milk-the hives no honey gave; But what avail'd it the rich stores to save? What, that the bee no balmy floweret sips, Extinct the sweeter honey of thy lips?

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Not with such grief the Dolphin fill'd the seas,
Or Philomela's plaint the woodland breeze,
Or Progne's bitter woe the mountains hoar,
Or wild Alcyoné the fatal shore;

Or faithful Cerylus the cave, where lies
His mate, still breathing fondness as she dies;
Or Memnon's screaming birds his orient tomb,
As now they utter, at their Bion's doom!

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain! Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain! The lovelorn nightingales that learn'd his song, The swallows twittering shrill-the boughs among, Join their sad notes; the vocal groves reply

Sigh too, ye turtles, for your Bion sigh!'

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain! Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain! Who now, regretted swain, thy pipe shall play; Touch the fair stops, or trill the melting lay? Faint from thy lips still breathe the mellow reeds; Still on their dying sweetness Echo feeds: To bear those melodies to Pan be mine; Though he may fear to risk his fame with thine!

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain! Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain! And Galatea too bewails thy fate

Fair nymph, who oft upon the seashore sate Sooth'd by thy songs, and fled the Cyclops'armsFar other strains were thine! far other charms! Now on the sand she sits-forgets the seaYet feeds thy herds, and still remembers thee!

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain! Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain! With thee, O swain, expired the Muse's blissThe roseate bloom of youth, the roseate kiss! The fluttering Cupids round thy ashes cry, And fond-fond Venus mixes many a sigh! She loves thee as Adonis' parting breathAs his last kisses so endear'd by death!

Here-here, O Meles, musical in woe, Sad for another son thy tide shall flow! For thy first poet mourn'd thy plaintive wave; Each murmur deepen'd at thy Homer's grave: Another grief (melodious stream) appears! Alas! another poet claims thy tears!

Dear to the fountains which inspire the Muse, That drank of Helicon-this Arethuse!

That bard his harp to beauteous Helen strung!
And the dire anger of Pelides sung:
This in his softer lay no wars display'd,
But chanted Pan all peaceful in the shade!
He framed his reeds, or milk'd his kine, or led
His herds to pasture, singing as they fed!
And oft, so dear to Venus, he caress'd
The little Cupid in his panting breast.

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain!
Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
The cities and the towns thy death deplore—
Than her own Hesiod Ascra mourns thee more!
Not thus her Pindar Hyla's grief bemoans-
Not Lesbos thus Alcæus' manly tones!
Not Ceos, Paros, thus regret their bards—
And Mitylene yet thy reed regards
Beyond her Sappho's lyre; and every swain
Pipes thee, O Bion, on his native plain.
The Samian's gentle notes thy memory greet-
Philetas too and Lycidas of Crete!
Now, breathing heavy sighs, each heart despairs,
Though erst full many a jocund revel theirs.
Thee too, dear bard, Theocritus bewails,
The sweetest warbler of Sicilia's dales!
And I, who suit to sorrow's melting tone
The' Ausonian verse, but mimic music own;
If e'er the charms of melody I knew,
'Tis to thy forming skill the praise is due.
Others may claim thy gold-the gold be theirs!
Ours be the Doric Muse, thy wealthier heirs.

Begin, and in the tenderest notes complain! Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain! Though fade crisp anise, and the parsley's green, And vivid mallows from the garden-scene;