Round him throng the goats; suddenly he throws down his pipe; he runs to a goat heavy with milk; he presses the teats with his quick hands; the milk flows foaming into the wooden cup he has placed below; he drinks, his brown curls sweeping the cup; then he picks up his pipe and walks on proudly before his goats, his lithe body swaying from side to side as he moves, dancing to the music that he makes.

The notes float up into the morning air; the echo of them runs round the shadowy hollow of the lake.
'Down trips the boy, parting the dewy branches with his brown shoulders.
Around him the mountain side is golden with the broom; at his feet the white cistus covers the rock.

The shrubs of the scattered wood send out their scents; and the goats browse upon their shoots.
'But the path sinks gently downward--winding along the basin of the lake.
And now the boy emerges from the wood; he stands upon a knoll to rest.
'Ah! sudden and fierce comes the sun!--and there below him in the rich hollow it strikes the temple--Diana's temple and her grove.

Out flame the white columns, the bronze roof, the white enclosing walls.

Piercingly white the holy and famous place shines among the olives and the fallows; the sun burns upon the marble; Phoebus salutes his great sister.