Young Thirsis' fate ye hills and groves deplore,
Thirsis, the pride of all the plains,
The joy of nymphs, and envy of the swains,
The gentle Thirsis is no more.
What makes the spring retire,
And groves their songs decline?
Nature for her lov'd Thirsis seems to pine,
Whose artful strains and tuneful lyre
Made the spring bloom and did the groves inspire;
What can the drooping sons of art,
From this sad hour impart,
To charm the cares of life,
And ease the lover's smart?
While thus in dismal notes we mourn
The skilful shepherd's urn;
To the glad skies his harmony he bears,
And as he charm'd the Earth,
Transports the Spheres.