So is thy song to me, poet divine,as slumber on the grass to weary limbs,or to slake thirst from some sweet-bubbling rillin summer's heat. Nor on the reeds alone,but with thy voice art thou, thrice happy boy,ranked with thy master, second but to him.Yet will I, too, in turn, as best I may,sing thee a song, and to the stars upliftthy Daphnis—Daphnis to the stars extol,for me too Daphnis loved.MOPSUSThan such a boonwhat dearer could I deem? the boy himselfwas worthy to be sung, and many a timehath Stimichon to me your singing praised.MENALCAS“In dazzling sheen with unaccustomed eyesdaphnis stands rapt before Olympus' gate,and sees beneath his feet the clouds and stars.Wherefore the woods and fields, Pan, shepherd-folk,and Dryad-maidens, thrill with eager joy;nor wolf with treacherous wile assails the flock,