lad, sing: no songs thou'lt own
In the dim land where all things are forgot.

THYSIS [_sings_].
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
The voice of Thyrsis. AEtna's Thyrsis I.
Where were ye, Nymphs, oh where, while Daphnis pined?
In fair Peneus' or in Pindus' glens?
For great Anapus' stream was not your haunt,
Nor AEtna's cliff, nor Acis' sacred rill.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
O'er him the wolves, the jackals howled o'er him;
The lion in the oak-copse mourned his death.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
The kine and oxen stood around his feet,
The heifers and the calves wailed all for him.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
First from the mountain Hermes came, and said,
"Daphnis, who frets thee? Lad, whom lov'st thou so?"
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
Came herdsmen, shepherds came, and goatherds came;
All asked what ailed the lad. Priapus came
And said, "Why pine, poor Daphnis? while the maid
Foots it round every pool and every grove,
(_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_)
"O lack-love and perverse, in quest of thee;
Herdsman in name, but goatherd rightlier called.
With eyes that yearn the goatherd marks his kids
Run riot, for he fain would frisk as they:
(_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_):
"With eyes that yearn dost thou too mark the laugh
Of maidens, for thou may'st not share their glee."
Still naught the herdsman said: he drained alone
His bitter portion, till the fatal end.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
Came Aphrodite, smiles on her sweet face,
False smiles, for heavy was her heart, and spake:
"So, Daphnis, thou must try a fall with Love!
But stalwart Love hath won the fall of thee."
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
Then "Ruthless Aphrodite," Daphnis said,
"Accursed Aphrodite, foe to man!
Say'st thou mine hour is come, my sun hath set?
Dead as alive, shall Daphnis work Love woe."
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
"Fly to Mount Ida, where the swain (men say)
And Aphrodite--to Anchises fly:
There are oak-forests; here but galingale,
And bees that make a music round the hives.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
"Adonis owed his bloom to tending fl