Shepherds that on this mountain ridge abide,
Tending your goats and fleecy flocks alway,
A little favour, but most grateful, pay
Cleitagoras, nor be the boon denied!
For sake of mother earth, and by the bride
Of Hades under earth, let sheep I pray,
Bleat near me, and the shepherd softly play
From the scarred rock across the pasture wide.
Ah! but, in early spring, cull meadowsweet,
Neighbour, and weave a garland for my tomb;
And with ewe's milk be the stone edge bedewed
When the lambs play about their mother's feet.
So shall you honour well the shades, from whom
Are thanks--and from the dead is gratitude.
