Whisper aloft in the west wind aquiver.
Lo! here by my stream as it chattereth ever
The Panpipe enchanteth thy eyelids to slumber.”
From this we pass without break to the piping shepherds and the country charms with which Theocritus filled his Idyls for city-jaded men:—
... “There we lay
Half buried in a couch of fragrant reed
And fresh-cut vine leaves, who so glad as we?
A wealth of elm and poplar shook o’erhead;
Hard by, a sacred spring flowed gurgling on
From the Nymphs’ grot, and in the sombre boughs