IDYLL I.

The Death of Daphnis.

THYRSIS.  A GOATHERD.

    THYRSIS. 
    Sweet are the whispers of yon pine that makes
    Low music o’er the spring, and, Goatherd, sweet
    Thy piping; second thou to Pan alone. 
    Is his the horned ram? then thine the goat. 
    Is his the goat? to thee shall fall the kid;
    And toothsome is the flesh of unmilked kids.

    GOATHERD. 
    Shepherd, thy lay is as the noise of streams
    Falling and falling aye from yon tall crag. 
    If for their meed the Muses claim the ewe,
    Be thine the stall-fed lamb; or if they choose
    The lamb, take thou the scarce less-valued ewe.

    THYRSIS. 
    Pray, by the Nymphs, pray, Goatherd, seat thee here
    Against this hill-slope in the tamarisk shade,
    And pipe me somewhat, while I guard thy goats.

    GOATHERD. 
    I durst not, Shepherd, O I durst not pipe
    At noontide; fearing Pan, who at that hour
    Rests from the toils of hunting.  Harsh is he;
    Wrath at his nostrils aye sits sentinel. 
    But, Thyrsis, thou canst sing of Daphnis’ woes;
    High is thy name for woodland minstrelsy: 
    Then rest we in the shadow of the elm
    Fronting Priapus and the Fountain-nymphs. 
    There, where the oaks are and the Shepherd’s seat,
    Sing as thou sang’st erewhile, when matched with him
    Of Libya, Chromis; and I’ll give thee, first,
    To milk, ay thrice, a goat—­she suckles twins,
    Yet ne’ertheless can fill two milkpails full;—­
    Next, a deep drinking-cup, with sweet wax scoured,
    Two-handled, newly-carven, smacking yet
    0’ the chisel.  Ivy reaches up and climbs
    About its lip, gilt here and there with sprays
    Of woodbine, that enwreathed about it flaunts
    Her saffron fruitage.  Framed therein appears
    A damsel (’tis a miracle of art)
    In robe and snood:  and suitors at her side
    With locks fair-flowing, on her right and left,
    Battle with words, that fail to reach her heart. 
    She, laughing, glances now on this, flings now
    Her chance regards on that:  they, all for love
    Wearied and eye-swoln, find their labour lost. 
    Carven elsewhere an ancient fisher stands
    On the rough rocks:  thereto the old man with pains
    Drags his great casting-net, as one that toils
    Full stoutly:  every fibre of his frame
    Seems fishing; so about the gray-beard’s neck
    (In might a youngster yet) the sinews swell. 
    Hard by that wave-beat sire a vineyard bends
    Beneath its graceful load of burnished grapes;
    A boy sits on the rude fence watching them. 
    Near him two foxes:  down the rows of grapes
    One ranging steals the ripest; one assails
    With wiles the poor lad’s