That Bion is no more; with Bion fell
The song—the music of the Dorian shell.
Ye swans of Strymon! now your banks along
Your plaintive throats with melting dirges swell,
For him who sang like you the mournful song;
Discourse of Bion’s death the Thracian nymphs among—
The Dorian Orpheus, tell them all, is dead.
His herds the song and darling herdsman miss,
And oaks, beneath whose shade he propped his head.
Oblivion’s ditty now he sings for Dis;