“For the goatherd, when he marks the young goats at their pastime, looks on with yearning eyes, and fain would be even as they; and thou, when thou beholdest the laughter of maidens, dost gaze with yearning eyes, for that thou dost not join their dances.” Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! Yet these the herdsman answered not again, but he bare his bitter love to the end, yea, to the fated end he bare it. Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! Ay, but she too came, the sweetly smiling Cypris, craftily smiling she came, yet keeping her heavy anger; and she spake, saying: “Daphnis, methinks thou didst boast that thou wouldst throw Love a fall, nay, is it not thyself that hast been thrown by grievous Love?” Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! But to her Daphnis answered again: “Implacable Cypris, Cypris terrible, Cypris of mortals detested, already dost thou deem that my latest sun has set; nay, Daphnis even in Hades shall prove great sorrow to Love. Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! “Get thee to Ida, get thee to Anchises! There are oak trees—here only galingale blows, here sweetly hum the bees about the hives! Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! “Thine Adonis, too, is in his bloom, for he heards the sheep and slays the hares, and he chases all the wild beasts. Nay, go and confront Diomedes again, 136and say, ‘The herdsman Daphnis I conquered, do thou join battle with me.’” Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! “Ye wolves, ye jackals, and ye bears in the mountain caves, farewell! The herdsman Daphnis ye never shall see again, no more in the dells, no more in the groves, no more in the woodlands. Farewell Arethusa, ye rivers good-night, that pour down Thymbris your beautiful waters. Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song! “That Daphnis am I who here do herd the kine, Daphnis who water here the bulls and calves. “O Pan, Pan! whether thou art on the high hills of Lycæus, or rangest mighty Mænalus, haste hither to the Sicilian isle! Leave the tomb of Helice, leave that high cairn of the son of Lycæon, which seems wondrous fair, even in the eyes of the blessed. Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral song! “Come hither, my prince, and take this fair pipe, honey-breathed with wax-stopped joints; and well it fits thy lip; for verily I, even I, by Love am now haled to Hades. Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral song! “Now violets bear, ye brambles, ye thorns bear violets and let fair narcissus bloom on the boughs of juniper! Let all things with all be confounded—from pines let men gather pears, for Daphnis is dying! Let the stag drag down the hounds, let owls from the hills contend in song with the nightingales.” Give o’er, ye Muses, come, give o’er the pastoral song!