With these fair scenes and classic histories
The webs of the four sisters were inlaid,
Which sweetly flushed with variegated dyes,
In clear obscure of sunshine and of shade,
Each figured object to observant eyes
In rich relief so naturally displayed,
That, like the birds deceived by Zeuxis' grapes,
It seemed the hand might grasp their swelling shapes.
But now the setting sun with farewell rays
Played on the purple mountains of the west,
And in the darkening skies gave vacant place
For Dian to display her silver crest;
The little fishes in her loving face
Leaped up, gay lashing with their tails the breast
Of the clear stream, when from their tasks the four
Arose, and arm in arm resought the shore.
Each in the tempered wave had dipt her foot,
And toward the water bowed her swanlike breast,
Down to their crystal hermitage to shoot,—
When suddenly sweet sounds their ears arrest,
Mellowed by distance, of the pipe or flute,
So that to listen they perforce were prest;
To the mild sounds wherewith the valleys ring,
Two shepherd youths alternate ditties sing.
Piping through that green willow wood they roam
Amidst their flocks, which, now that day is spent,
They to the distant folds drive slowly home,
Across the verdurous meadows, dew-besprent;
Whitening the dun shades, onward as they come,
Clear and more clear the fingered instrument
Sounds in accord with the melodious voice,
And cheers their task, and makes the woods rejoice.
These shepherd youths were wealthy of estate,
And skilled in singing above all that feed
Their flocks along the stream,—Tyrreno that,
Alcino this was named; their years agreed;
One was their taste; prepared now to debate
The palm of pastoral music they proceed;
In turn the voice, in turn the pipe they try,
One sings, and one makes apposite reply.
TYRRENO.
Oh gentle Flerida! more sweet to me
And flavourous than the grape, than milk more white,
And far more charming than a flower-filled lea,
When April paints the landscape with delight;
If the true love Tyrreno bears to thee
Thou dost with equal tenderness requite,
Thou to my fold wilt surely come, before
The reddening orient tells that night is o'er.
ALCINO.
Beautiful Phyllis, who so stern as thou!
May I to thee be bitterer than the broom,
And severed from thee, sorrow like the bough
Stript of its leaves before the tree's in bloom,
If the grey bat that flits around me now
More hates the light, and more desires the gloom,
Than I to see this day of anguish o'er,
To me much longer than a year before!