Callimachus

This morning we beheld with streaming eyes
The flames from Melanippus' body rise;
At eve, fair Basile resign'd her breath,
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By mighty Pan and Bacchus' greater name,
Beneath these embers lurks a spreading flame.
Embrace me not; tho' streams in silence fall,
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Had never vessel cross'd the main,
Our present grief had been in vain;
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Whoe'er with hallow'd feet approaches near,
Behold, Callimachus lies buried here,
I drew my breath from fam'd Cyrene's shore,
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They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
I wept as I remembered how often you and I
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But twelve short years you lived, my son,
Just twelve short years, and then you died:
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The basket swift-descending from the skies,
Thus, thus, ye matrons, let your voices rise:
'Hail! Ceres, hail! by thee, from fertile ground
Swift springs the corn, and plenty flows around.'
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Tho' great Apollo claim the poet's lyre,
Yet cold neglect may tempt Diana's ire,
Come, virgin-goddess, and inspire my song,
To you the chase, the sylvan dance belong,
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The huntsman o'er the hills pursues
The timid hare, and keenly views
The tracks of hinds amid the snow,
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Cleombrotus, high on a rock,
Above Ambracia stood,
Bade Sol adieu, and, as he spoke,
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I hate the bard who strolls along,
And sells in streets his borrow'd song;
I seldom walk the public way,
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This book is sure exactly wrote
In Hesiod's manner, style, and thought,
Of Grecian poet's not the least.
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Cleonicus, unhappy man,
Say whence thy sorrows first began?
For, by yon' blazing orb of light,
I ne'er beheld so sad a sight.
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A Youth, in haste, to Mitylene came,
And anxious, thus reveal'd his am'rous flame
To Pittacus the wife; O sacred Sire,
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A sacred shell Zephyritis divine,
Fair Selenæa offers at thy shrine,
And thus thy Nautilus is doubly bless'd,
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Whoe'er shall to this tomb draw nigh,
Behold, in death, a priestess lie;
I sacred Ceres first implor'd,
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I hear, O friend, the fatal news
Of Heraclitus death.
A sudden tear my cheek bedews,
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What force, what sudden impulse thus can make
The laurel-branch, and all the temple shake!
Depart ye souls profane; hence, hence! O fly
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Whilst we to Jove immortal and divine,
Perform the rites, and pour the ruddy wine;
What shall the Muse, with sacred rapture sing,
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If sober, and inclin'd to sport,
To you, my fair one, I resort;
The still-forbidden bliss to prove,
...