In Part from Moschus's Lament for Bion

Ah me! the lowliest children of the spring,
Violets and meekest snowdrops, when they lie
Nipped in the faded garden, soon again
Put forth fresh leaves and breathe another year,
But we, the great, the mighty and the wise,
Soon as we perish, in the hollow earth
Unwakeable, unheard of, undisturbed,
Slumber, a dull interminable sleep.
Never to come again the time of song
Nor [store?] of purple light, of scent and [ ].
Man's sweet and pleasant time, his morn of life,
Flies first, and come diseases on and age;
Widowed of Joy and Labor, till at length
Beat by the inclement storm of cruel Death
He finds a fearful refuge, none knows where.

At the sweet hour of prime the [ ] lark
Springs up, awaked by joy, and o'er the head
Of the tired labourer, like a mountain stream,
Sings discontinuous all day long, and joy
Drops down with him at Evening to his nest.
Labour and grief and Solitude and fear . . .
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