Ismenius

As late in fair Sicilia's groves I stray'd,Charm'd with the beauties of the vernal sceneI sate me down amid the yew tree's shade,Flowers blooming round, with herbage fresh and green.

Not distant far a monument aroseAmong the trees and form'd of Parian stone,And, as if there some stranger did repose,It stood neglected, and it stood alone.

Along its sides dependent ivy crept,The cypress bough, Plutonian green, was near,A sculptur'd Venus on the summit wept,A pensive Cupid dropt the parting tear.

Strains deep engrav'd on every side I read,How Phaon died upon that foreign shore--Sappho, I think your Phaon must be dead,Then hear the strains that do his fate deplore:

Thou swain that lov'st the morning air,To those embowering trees repair,Forsake thy sleep at early dawn.And of this landscape to grow fonder,Still, O still persist to wanderUp and down the flowery lawn;And as you there enraptur'd roveFrom hill to hill, from grove to grove,Pensive now and quite alone,Cast thine eye upon this stone,Read its melancholy moan;And if you can refuse a tearTo the youth that slumbers here,Whom the Lesbians held so dear,Nature calls thee not her own.Echo, hasten to my aid!Tell the woods and tell the waves,Tell the far off mountain caves(Wrapt in solitary shade);Tell them in high tragic numbers,That beneath this marble tomb,Shrouded in unceasing gloomPhaon, youthful Phaon, slumbers,By Sicilian swains deplor'd--That a narrow urn restrainsHim who charm'd our pleasing plains,Him, whom every nymph ador'd.Tell the woods and tell the waves,Tell the mossy mountain caves,Tell them, if none will hear beside,How our lovely Phaon died.In that season when the sunBids his glowing charioteerPhoebus, native of the sphere,High the burning zenith run;Then our much lamented swain,O'er the sunny, scorched plain,Hunting with a chosen train,Slew the monsters of the wasteFrom those gloomy caverns chac'dRound stupendous Etna plac'd.--Conquer'd by the solar beamAt last he came to yonder stream;Panting, thirsting there he layOn this fatal summer's day,While his locks of raven jettWere on his temples dripping wet;The gentle stream ran purling byO'er the pebbles, pleasantly,Tempting him to drink and die--He drank indeed--but never thoughtDeath was in the gelid draught!--Soon it chill'd his boiling veins,Soon this glory of the plainsLeft the nymphs and left the swains,And has fled with all his charmsWhere the Stygian monarch reigns,Where no sun the climate warms!--Dread Pluto then, as once before,Pass'd Avernus' waters o'er;Left the dark and dismal shore,And strait enamour'd, as he gloomy stood,Seiz'd Phaon by the waters of the wood.Now o'er the silent plainWe for our much lov'd Phaon call again,And Phaon! Phaon! ring the woods amain--From beneath this myrtle tree,Musidora, wretched maid,How shall Phaon answer thee,Deep in vaulted caverns laid!--Thrice the myrtle tree hath bloom'dSince our Phaon was entomb'd,I, who had his heart, below,I have rais'd this turret high,A monument of love and woeThat Phaon's name may never die.--With deepest grief, O muse divine,Around his tomb thy laurels twineAnd shed thy sorrow, for to morrowThou, perhaps, shalt cease to glow--My hopes are crost, my lover lost,And I must weeping o'er the mountains go!