Farewell, sun-smitten mountain peaks, farewell, shady haunts among the valleys: Iolas departs from your recesses. Hapless Iolas! No more will you see the meadows that are so pleasant to the lowing kine with odorous marybuds and marjoram.
Hapless Iolas! Sunk in the cool grass of the sloping hill, you will no longer see the bullocks warring fiercely with their horns.
Not the murmuring of sliding rills, the whispering of ilexboughs, shall soothe you, nor the wind lure you to the land of sleep.