Maids, begin the woodland song. 
    “Fly to Mount Ida, where the swain (men say)
    And Aphrodite—­to Anchises fly: 
    There are oak-forests; here but galingale,
    And bees that make a music round the hives.
      Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
    “Adonis owed his bloom to tending flocks
    And smiting hares, and bringing wild beasts down.
      Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
    “Face once more Diomed:  tell him ’I have slain
    The herdsman Daphnis; now I challenge thee.’
      Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
    “Farewell, wolf, jackal, mountain-prisoned bear! 
    Ye’ll see no more by grove or glade or glen
    Your herdsman Daphnis!  Arethuse, farewell,
    And the bright streams that pour down Thymbris’ side.
      Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
    “I am that Daphnis, who lead here my kine,
    Bring here to drink my oxen and my calves.
      Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
    “Pan, Pan, oh whether great Lyceum’s crags
    Thou haunt’st to-day, or mightier Maenalus,
    Come to the Sicel isle!  Abandon now
    Rhium and Helice, and the mountain-cairn
    (That e’en gods cherish) of Lycaon’s son!
      Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song. 
    “Come, king of song, o’er this my pipe, compact
    With wax and honey-breathing, arch thy lip: 
    For surely I am torn from life by Love.
      Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song. 
    “From thicket now and thorn let violets spring,
    Now let white lilies drape the juniper,
    And pines grow figs, and nature all go wrong: 
    For Daphnis dies.  Let deer pursue the hounds,
    And mountain-owls outsing the nightingale.
      Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song.”

    So spake he, and he never spake again. 
    Fain Aphrodite would have raised his head;
    But all his thread was spun.  So down the stream
    Went Daphnis:  closed the waters o’er a head
    Dear to the Nine, of nymphs not unbeloved. 
      Now give me goat and cup; that I may milk
    The one, and pour the other to the Muse. 
    Fare ye well, Muses, o’er and o’er farewell! 
    I’ll sing strains lovelier yet in days to be.

    GOATHERD. 
    Thyrsis, let honey and the honeycomb
    Fill thy sweet mouth, and figs of AEgilus: 
    For ne’er cicala trilled so sweet a song. 
    Here is the cup:  mark, friend, how sweet it smells: 
    The Hours, thou’lt say, have washed it in their well. 
    Hither, Cissaetha!  Thou, go milk her!  Kids,
    Be steady, or your pranks will rouse the ram.

IDYLL II.

The Sorceress.