"Here Daphnis sleeps, and while the great watch goes Of loud and restless Time, takes his repose. Fame is but noise; all Learning but a thought; Which one admires, another sets at nought, Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado: But Death brings knowledge and assurance too." _Menalcas._ Cast in your garlands! strew on all the flow'rs, Which May with smiles or April feeds with show'rs, Let this day's rites as steadfast as the sun Keep pace with Time and through all ages run; The public character and famous test Of our long sorrows and his lasting rest. And when we make procession on the plains, Or yearly keep the holiday of swains, Let Daphnis still be the recorded name, And solemn honour of our feasts and fame. For though the Isis and the prouder Thames Can show his relics lodg'd hard by their streams: And must for ever to the honour'd name Of noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame: Yet here his stars first saw him, and when Fate Beckon'd him hence, it knew no other date. Nor will these vocal woods and valleys fail, Nor Isca's louder streams, this to bewail; But while swains hope, and seasons change, will glide With moving murmurs because Daphnis died. _Damon._ A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes, Then runs along with public plagues and woes, Lies heavy on us; and the very light, Turn'd mourner too, hath the dull looks of night. Our vales, like those of death, a darkness show More sad than cypress or the gloomy yew; And on our hills, where health with height complied, Thick drowsy mists hang round, and there reside. Not one short parcel of the tedious year In its old dress and beauty doth appear. Flow'rs hate the spring, and with a sullen bend Thrust down their heads, which to the root still tend. And though the sun, like a cold lover, peeps A little at them, still the day's-eye sleeps. But when the Crab and Lion with acute And active fires their sluggish heat recruit, Our grass straight russets, and each scorching day Drinks up our brooks as fast as dew in May; Till the sad herdsman with his cattle faints, And empty channels ring with loud complaints. _Menalcas._ Heaven's just displeasure, and our unjust ways, Change Nature's course; bring plagues, dearth, and decays. This turns our lands to dust, the skies to brass, Makes old kind blessings into curses pass: And when we learn unknown and foreign crimes, Brings in the vengeance due unto those climes. The dregs and puddle of all ages now, Like rivers near their fall, on us do flow. Ah, happy Daphnis! who while yet the streams Ran clear and warm, though but with setting beams, Got through, and saw by that declining light, His toil's and journey's end before the night. _Damon._