Song.
"Sore wept the Nymphs at sight of Daphnis slain.
O hazel brakes and running rivers, ye
Witnessed their sorrow! there whilst she embraced
Her son's poor corpse, his mother called to gods
And to the stars that pitied not her woe.
In those sad days, Daphnis, men did neglect
To drive their cattle, as was once their wont
To the cool streams—so the four-footed tribe
Pined, but in vain, for pasture and for drink.
Daphnis, the hills and woods tell wondrous tales
How Punic lions mourned at thy decease.
Ofttimes, at Daphnis' bidding, men did bind
Tigresses of Armenia to his car
And worshippers of Bacchus proudly stepped
Their tall wands twisted round with foliage soft.
The glory of the vine makes fair the elm
As do her grapes the vine. Bulls are the pride
Of the mild lowing herds: the golden corn
Adorns the smiling fields. So thou alone
Didst glorify thy race—but—thou art gone!
By cruel fate. Since then the land is left
By Pales and Apollo, desolate.
In the warm furrows, where our barley grew
Now spring the barren darnel, and wild oats.
Violets have let sharp thistles take their place
And thorny shrubs banished Narcissus bright.
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