But the creature, alarmed, from its perch quickly flew; The boy, all excited, still kept it in view Till it lit on a box-tree—then followed his prey; Alas! with a cry, it again flew away. At length he grew tired of this profitless chase, And turned toward his home with a wearisome pace. But ere long, on the road, an old farmer he met, Who had taught him his snares for the songsters to set. And he told how the bird all his skill had evaded, And to go see this wonder the farmer persuaded. At length they drew near; in a thicket of trees, Whose tops gently waved in the murmuring breeze, On a dwarf laurel-bush, on the verge of the grove, In beauty bewitching, there sat errant Love! His pinions hung prettily down by his side, And his features, the Cyprian goddess’s pride, Were as lovely as ever, more roguish by half, For he scarce could refrain from a boisterous laugh. And as soon as he saw him, the husbandman, smiling, Knew at once the young Love-god the boy was beguiling. Then said he to the boy: “Quick, away from this grove: The bird thou art seeking is mischievous Love! Though brilliant his hues as the butterfly’s wings, And melody dwells on the strain that he sings, Yet a dangerous prize to the catcher he’ll prove. Then away with thy bird-lime, nor follow this Love! When he flies, seize thy chance and escape if thou can, For in vain wilt thou shun him when grown to a man. Then thou’lt be the bird—he, the catcher,’ll pursue thee; Though now he evades, then he’ll quickly fly to thee.” LINES TO HESPER. “Hesper, thou golden light of happy love, Hesper, thou holy pride of purple eve, Moon among stars, but star beside the moon, Hail, friend! and since the young moon sets to-night Too soon below the mountains, lend thy lamp And guide me to the shepherd whom I love. No theft I purpose; no wayfaring man Belated would I watch and make my prey; Love is my goal, and Love how fair it is, When friend meets friend sole in the silent night, Thou knowest, Hesper!”—SYMONDS. FROM MOSCHUS’S LAMENT FOR BION. “Ye mountain valleys, pitifully groan! Rivers and Dorian springs, for Bion weep! Ye plants, drop tears; ye groves, lamenting moan! Exhale your life, wan flowers; your blushes deep In grief, anemonies and roses, steep; In whimpering murmurs, hyacinth! prolong The sad, sad woe thy lettered petals keep; Our minstrel sings no more his friends among— Sicilian Muses! now begin the doleful song.