Of thee, and weep for him. My dearest dear!
Art dead, indeed? away my love did fly,

E'en as a dream. At home my widowed cheer

Keeps the loves idle; with thy latest sigh

My cestus perished too; thou rash one! why, oh why

"Did'st hunt? so fair, contend with monsters grim?" Thus Cypris wailed; but dead Adonis lies; For every gout of blood that fell from him,

She drops a tear; sweet flowers each dew suppliesRoses his blood, her tears anemonies.

Cypris no longer in the thickets weep;

The couch is furnished! there in loving guise
Upon thy proper bed, that odorous heap,
The lovely body lies-how lovely! as in sleep.

Come! in those vestments now array him,

In which he slept the live-long night with thee;
And in the golden settle gently lay him—

A sad yet lovely sight; and let him be

High heaped with flowers; tho' withered all when he Surceased. With essences him sprinkle o'er And ointments; let them perish utterly, Since he, who was thy sweetest, is no more. He lies in purple; him the weeping loves deplore.

Their curls are shorn: one breaks his bow; another His arrows and the quiver; this unstrings,

And takes Adonis' sandal off; his brother

In golden urn the fountain water brings;

This bathes his thighs; that fans him with his wings. The Loves," Alas for Cypris!" weeping say: Hymen hath quenched his torches; shreds and flings The marriage wreath away; and for the lay

Of love is only heard the doleful “

weal-away."

Yet more than Hymen for Adonis weep

The Graces; shriller than Dione vent
Their shrieks; for him the Muses wail and keep
Singing the songs he hears not, with intent
To call him back: and would the nymph relent,
How willingly would he the Muses hear!

Hush! hush! to-day, sad Cypris! and consent
Το

spare thyself. no more thy bosom tear

For thou must wail again, and weep another year.

IDYL II.

EROS AND THE FOWLER.

HUNTING the birds within a bosky grove,
A birder, yet a boy, saw winged Love
Perched on a box-tree branch; rejoicing saw
What seemed a large bird, and began to draw
His rods together, and he thought to snare
Love, that kept ever hopping here and there.
Then fretting that he could not gain his end,
Casting his rods down, sought his aged friend,
Who taught him bird-catching-his story told,
And shewed Love perching. Smiled the ploughman old,

And shook his head, replying to the boy :

66

Against this bird do not your rods employ ;

It is an evil creature; shun him-flee;

Until you take him, happy will you be.

But if you ever come to manhood's day,

He that now flies you and still bounds away,
Will of himself, by no persuasion led,
Come suddenly and sit upon your head."

IDYL III.

THE TEACHER TAUGHT.

By me in my fresh prime did Cypris stand,
Leading the child Love in her lovely hand;

He kept his eyes fixt, downcast on the ground, While in mine ears his mother's words did sound :"Dear herdsman, take and teach for me, I pray,

Eros to sing;" she said, and went her way.
Him, as one fain to learn, without ado

I then began to teach whate'er I knew

Fool that I was! how first great Pan did suit
With numerous tones his new-invented flute;
Athene wise the straight pipe's reedy hollow;
Hermes his shell; his cithern sweet Apollo.

I taught him this; he heeded not my lore,
But sang me his love-ditties evermore