"Now ceases Philomel her nightly strain, And trembling stars forsake the ethereal plain; Pale Luna fades and down the distant West Sadly and slowly lowers her rayless crest; But yellow Phoebus pours his beams along And linnets sport where Philomela sung. Here robins chirp and joyful orioles sing Where late the owlet flapped his noiseless wing; Here the pale lily spreads its petals wide, And snowy daisies deck the green hillside; Here violets' bloom with waterflowers wreath, And forest blossoms scent the Zephyr's breath. Fit spot for song where Spring in every flower Rich incense offers to the morning hour. Then let us sing! The hour is meet for love, The plain, the vale, the music-breathing grove; Let gentle Daphnis judge the doubtful song, And soft Æolus bear the notes along. I stake my pipe with whose soft notes I while The tedious hours, and my toil beguile; Whose mellow voice gives joy serener charms, And grief of half its bitterness disarms." Here should enter some unnamed competitor, but apparently does not. "And I, my dog, who guards by yonder brook Two careless truants from his master's flock; Who views his timid charge with jealous eyes And every danger for their sake defies. In cheerful day my helpmate and my pride, At night my brave companion and my guide. The morning flies: no more the song delay, For morning most delights the Sylvan Muse, Ere modest twilight yields to flaming day, And fervid sunbeams drink the cooling dews And wither half the freshness of the Spring." Another nameless person, possibly the "gentle Daphnis," now speaks: "Alternate, then, ye swains must answering sing. By turns the planets circle round the sun In even turns the changing seasons run; Smooth-coming night enshrouds the passing day, And morn returning smiles the night away." And doubtless now it is Corydon who resumes: "Inspire my song, ye tuneful nine, inspire! And fill the shepherd's humble lay with fire. Around your altar verdant bays I twine, And palms I offer on your sacred shrine. Since Julia smiles, let Julia fire my strain, And smooth the language of the lay of love Till conscious music breathes o'er all the plain, And joyous echoes wake the silent grove."