Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 30
Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.
[Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute];
Tempered to the oaten flute
[Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel]
From the glad sound would not be absent long; 35
And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.
[But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone],
Now thou art gone and never must return!