Classic Poem

With thee, sweet Bion , all the grace of Song,
And all the Muses boasted Art is gone:
Mute is thy Voice, which could all hearts command,
Whose pow'r no Sheperdess could e're withstand:
All the soft weeping Loves about thee moan,
At once their Mothers darling, and their own:
Dearer wast thou to Venus than her Loves ,
Than her charm'd Girdle, than her faithful Doves,
Than the last gasping Kisses, which in death
Adonis gave, and with them gave his breath.
This, Thames , ah! this is now the second loss,
For which in tears thy weeping Current flows:
Spencer , the Muses glory, went before,
He past long since to the Elysian shore:
For him (they say) for him, thy dear-lov'd Son,
Thy Waves did long in sobbing murmurs groan,
Long fill'd the Sea with their complaint, and moan:
But now, alas! thou do'st afresh bewail,
Another Son does now thy sorrow call:
To part with either thou alike wast loth,
Both dear to thee, dear to the fountains both:
He largely drank the rills of sacred Cham ,
And this no less of Isis nobler stream:
He sung of Hero's, and of hardy Knights
Far-fam'd in Battles, and renown'd Exploits:
This meddled not with bloody Fights, and Wars,
Pan was his Song, and Shepherds harmless jars,
Loves peaceful combats, and its gentle cares.
Love ever was the subject of his lays,
And his soft lays did Venus ever please.