Thy sacred succour, Arethusa, bring, To crown my labour, ('tis the last I sing,) Which proud Lycoris may with pity view:-- } The Muse is mournful, though the numbers few. } Refuse me not a verse, to grief and Gallus due, } So may thy silver streams beneath the tide, Unmixed with briny seas, securely glide. Sing then my Gallus, and his hopeless vows; Sing, while my cattle crop the tender browze. The vocal grove shall answer to the sound, And echo, from the vales, the tuneful voice rebound. What lawns or woods with-held you from his aid, } Ye nymphs, when Gallus was to love betrayed, } To love, unpitied by the cruel maid? } Not steepy Pindus could retard your course, Nor cleft Parnassus, nor the Aonian source: Nothing, that owns the Muses, could suspend Your aid to Gallus:--Gallus is their friend. For him the lofty laurel stands in tears, And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears. Mænalian pines the godlike swain bemoan, } When, spread beneath a rock, he sighed alone; } And cold Lycæus wept from every dropping stone. } The sheep surround their shepherd, as he lies: Blush not, sweet poet, nor the name despise. Along the streams, his flock Adonis fed; And yet the queen of beauty blest his bed. The swains and tardy neat-herds came, and last Menalcas, wet with beating winter mast. Wondering, they asked from whence arose thy flame. Yet more amazed, thy own Apollo came. Flushed were his cheeks, and glowing were his eyes: "Is she thy care? is she thy care?" he cries. "Thy false Lycoris flies thy love and thee, } And, for thy rival, tempts the raging sea, } The forms of horrid war, and heaven's inclemency." } Silvanus came: his brows a country crown Of fennel, and of nodding lilies, drown. Great Pan arrived; and we beheld him too, His cheeks and temples of vermilion hue. "Why, Gallus, this immoderate grief?" he cried, "Think'st thou that love with tears is satisfied? The meads are sooner drunk with morning dews, The bees with flowery shrubs, the goats with browze." Unmoved, and with dejected eyes, he mourned: He paused, and then these broken words returned:-- "'Tis past; and pity gives me no relief: But you, Arcadian swains, shall sing my grief, And on your hills my last complaints renew: So sad a song is only worthy you. How light would lie the turf upon my breast, If you my sufferings in your songs exprest! Ah! that your birth and business had been mine-- To pen the sheep, and press the swelling vine! Had Phyllis or Amyntas caused my pain,