Classic Poem

O MOURN , ye Naiads of the Doric wave,
O mourn your much-lov'd Bion's early grave;
O mourn, ye shady woods and sunny dales,
Ye murm'ring streamlets, and ye sighing gales;
Exhale, ye drooping flow'rs, a weak perfume,
Ye fading roses, languishingly bloom;
Let strains of woe on hyacinths be read,
The sweetest warbler of the grove is dead.
Begin, Sicilian nine, the song of woe,
And let the tear of grief and friendship flow.

Ye nightingales conceal'd in green-wood shades,
Tell the sad tale to Arethusa's maids;
How Bion's number'd with th' Elysian throng,
How fades with him the verse and Doric song.

Begin, &c.

Lament ye swans by Strymon's echoing stream,
In softest numbers tell the mournful theme;
In numbers, such as Bion used to sing
When his slow music stay'd your flitting wing;
O tell the Thracian nymphs on Hebrus' shore,
Tell that the Doric Orpheus is no more.
Begin, &c,

No more the first of shepherds tunes his lay,
Beacath the oak, where silver riv'lets stray;
Now sings our Bion on th' Elysian plain,
While thronging shades admire the wondrous strain;
Silent his hills — his herds refuse to feed,
High slocks neglect the verdure of the mead.
Begin, &c.

Phaebus laments the swain's untimely fate,
The Fauns and Satyrs mourn his short-liv'd date;
In streams of grief the gurgling fountains flow,
And Echo wails her loss in speechless woe.
No more the nymphs shall catch the flying sound,
Nor bid the song from Hybla's vale rebound:
Fall'n are the blushing fruits from ev'ry tree,
And ev'ry flow'r has lost its bloom for thee;
The sheep no more her milky store bestows,
Nor from the hive the labour'd honcy flows:
No more let Hybla's meads their honey boast,
For with our Bion ev'ry sweet is lost.
Begin, &c.

The dolphins mourn him by the sounding main,
The nightingales renew their melting strain;
The hov'ring swallow circles round his tomb,
And mild Alcyone regrets his doom.
Begin, &c.

The clanging sea-mew from the purple wave,
Laments the blooming youth's untimely grave;
No more his birds round eastern Memnon sing,
They mourn the swain of Arethusa's spring.
Begin, &c.

Ye nightingales bewail the brave and young,
For you his ditty'd airs the shepherd sung:
Ye swallows answer from the shady groves;
O in soft murmurs breathe your plaints, ye doves.
Begin, &c.

O ever honour'd, who shall tune thy reed
What daring hand shall claim so rich a meed!
Thy softest notes still swell the balmy gale,
While echo wafts them o'er the winding dale;
To Pan thy pipe I bear — but he'll decline,
Nor dare to tune the reed that once was thine.
Begin, &c.

Fair Galatea shall thy loss deplore;
Oft did she hear thee on the shelving shore:
Unlike the Cyclop's numbers was thy strain;
The goddess listen'd from the level'd main:
Forlorn she strays beside the murm'ring deep,
And still she feeds her much lov'd Bion's sheep.
Begin, &c.

With thee the Muse's gifts have all decay'd,
The sighing shepherd, and the love-sick maid;
Around thy tomb the weeping Graces mourn,
The speaking marble cypress wreaths adorn:
Venus no more for lost Adonis sighs,
A deeper sorrow dims her starry eyes.
O Melas, teach thy echoing wave once more
The song of woe: first on thy willow'd shore
You mourn'd immortal Homer, prince of song,
And roll'd the swelling tide of grief along.
Again, O sacred stream, that tribute pay
To setting virtue, and to Bion's lay.
Dear was each bard to Heliconian maids,
The springs of Pindus, and Aonia's shades:
One sung Achilles on the plains of Troy,
The beauteous Helen, and the Phrygian boy;
The other sung not havoc's wild alarms,
Nor bade the trumpet rouze the chiefs to arms:
He tun'd his reed where dark'ning forests spread,
(The num'rous herds around their master fed)
He gave to sighing youths the kindest aid,
He sooth'd the sorrows of the love-lorn maid;
With ditties sweet his cares the swain beguil'd,
And on his lays the Paphian goddess smil'd.
Begin, &c.

For thee, my Bion, flows the silent tear,
O teacher, ever honour'd, ever dear:
From thee, in earliest youth, I learn'd the song,
To thee the latest of my lays belong;
To other swains you left your golden fields,
To me the fame which Aganippe yields.
Begin, &c.

When mallows in the garden fade away,
The verdant parsley, and the anise gay,
Again they bloom, again in pride appear,
And lend new fragrance to the coming year:
But he the wise, the noble, and the brave,
Must rest for ever in the silent grave:
In endless gloom our Bion must remain,
Fast bound by death's inextricable chain.
Begin, &c.

What hand relentless nipp'd our Bion's bloom?
O say what poison to his lips could come?
The iron wretch in wickedness how strong!
Who mix'd the poison — while he heard the song,
Begin, &c,

What dire disasters wait the guilty tribe?
No hecatombs the gods of vengeance bribe:
O could I wander through the Stygian grove,
Like wise Ulysses, or the son of Jove;
Then should I come to Pluto's dreary reign,
And in his halls should hear thy matchless strain.
The rural lay for Proserpine rehearse,
The queen shall honour thy Sicilian verse;
She, too, has warbled on th' Ætnaean strand,
And play'd with virgins on the yellow sand:
The Thracian lyre obtain'd the long-lost fair;
Relentless Charon heard the poet's pray'r.
O might thy numbers rigid Pluto sway,
And quick restore thee to the realms of day!
Were mine thy reed, to sooth th' unfeeling shades,
Thy airs, once more, should float along our glades.