The Flute

Lo, O, evening's here. Some pigeons skyward fly.
O goatherd, nought so soothes love's feverous wound
As pipe well blown, when its appeasing sound
Blends with the sedgy stream's melodial sigh.

In this great plane-tree's shade, where stretched we lie,
The grass is soft. That goat, now rambling round,
Should climb yon rock where tenderest buds abound,
And freely browse beyond her weanling's cry.

With seven unequal stems of hemlock made,
Well joined with wax, my flute, or sharply played
Or grave, weeps, sings, or wails, as I incline.

Come. Learn Silenus' art that knows no death,
And thy love-plaints will, by this pipe divine,
Be driven to flight mid its harmonious breath.