'O Pan, Pan! whether thou art on the high hills of Lycaeus, or
rangest mighty Maenalus, haste hither to the Sicilian isle! Leave
the tomb of Helice, leave that high cairn of the son of Lycaon, which
seems wondrous fair, even in the eyes of the blessed. {9}

Give o'er, ye Muses, come, give o'er the pastoral song!

'Come hither, my prince, and take this fair pipe, honey-breathed with
wax-stopped joints; and well it fits thy lip: for verily I, even I,
by Love am now haled to Hades.

Give o'er, ye Muses, come, give o'er the pastoral song!

'Now violets bear, ye brambles, ye thorns bear violets; and let fair
narcissus bloom on the boughs of juniper! Let all things with all be
confounded,--from pines let men gather pears, for Daphnis is dying!
Let the stag drag down the hounds, let owls from the hills contend in
song with the nightingales.'

Give o'er, ye Muses, come, give o'er the pastoral song!

So Daphnis spake, and ended; but fain would Aphrodite have given him
back to life. Nay, spun was all the thread that the Fates assigned,
and Daphnis went down the stream. The whirling wave closed over the
man the Muses loved, the man not hated of the nymphs.

Give o'er, ye Muses, come, give o'er the pastoral song!

And thou, give me the bowl, and the she-goat, that I may milk her and
poor forth a libation to the Muses. Farewell, oh, farewells