Thomas Arne - Elegy on the death of Mr Shenstone

Come shepherds, we'll follow the hearse
We'll see our loved Corydon laid;
Though sorrow may blemish the verse
Yet let the soft tribute be paid
They called him the pride of the plain
In sooth he was gentle and kind;
He marked in his elegant strain
The graces that glowed in his mind

On purpose he planted yon trees
That birds in the cover may dwell;
He cultured his thyme for the bees
But never would rifle their cell
Ye lambkins that play at his feet
Go bleat - and your master bemoan;
His music was artless and sweet
His manners as mild as your own

No verdure shall cover the vale
No bloom on the blossoms appear
The sweets of the forest shall fail
And winter discolour the year
No birds in our hedges shall sing
Our hedges so vocal before;
Since he that should welcome the spring
Can hail the gay season no more
His Phillis was fond of his praise
And poets came round in a throng
They listened, and envied his lays
But which of them equall'd his song?
Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute
For lost is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute
And thus let me break it in twain