Damon

Distant strains are hither wending,

And I’m gladden’d by the throng;
Yes, they’re coming,—yes, descending

To the valley from the height,

Menalcas

Let us haste, our footsteps blending

With the rhythm of the song!
Yes, they come; their course they’re bending

Tow’rd the wood’s green sward so bright.

CHORUS.
[Gradually becoming louder.]

Yes, we hither come, attending

With the harmony of song,
As the hours their race are ending

On this day of blest delight.