Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain,
And mourning mingles with their fountains' song;
Shepherds contend no more, as all day long
They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprusplain;
The master-voice is silent, songs are vain;
Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong
Done by the gods, when gods and men were strong,
Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain.
O sweetest singer of the olden days,
In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead;
The gods are gone, but poets never die;
Though men may turn their ears to newer lays,
Sicilian nightingales enrapturèd
Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky.