Gentle shepherds, you that know
The charms of tuneful breath
That harmony is grief can show,
Lament for pious Theron's death!
Theron, the good, the friendly Theron's gone!
Rending the mountains,
Weeping fountains,
Groaning dales
And echoing vales,
If you want skill, will teach you how to moan.
Could innocence or piety expiring life maintain,
Or Art prevail on Destiny, Theron still had grac'd the plain,
Belov'd of Pan, and dear to Phoebus' train.
Muses, bring your roses hither,
Strew them gently on his hearse;
And when those short liv'd glories wither,
Crown it with a lasting verse.
Roses soon will fade away,
Verse and tomb must both decay;
Yet Theron's name, in spite of fate's decree,
An endless fame shall meet;
No verse so durable can be,
Nor roses half so sweet.
Then waste no more in sighs your breath,
Nor think his fate was hard;
There's no such thing as sudden death
To those that always are prepar'd.
Prepar'd like him, by harmony and love,
To join at first approach the sacred choir above.