The melancholy mountain silent is;
His pining cows no longer wish to feed,
But moan for him; Apollo wept, I wis,
For thee, sweet Bion! and in mourning weed
The brotherhood of Fauns and all the Satyr breed.
The tears by Naiads shed are brimful bourns;
Afflicted Pan thy stifled music rues;
Lorn Echo ’mid her rocks thy silence mourns,
Nor with her mimic tones thy voice renews;
The flowers their bloom, the trees their fruitage lose;