I found Pan crouched by the river's edge, His hoofed feet hid by the rushy sedge, And I listened his plaint.
"O great god Pan, You sing with the broken heart of a man! Your song is of Syrinx, who, æons ago, Escaped from your loving. Alas! that you know The music of love, and the music of lack, And you mourn for the hours that cannot come back,-- But I would learn of merrier things: The melody murmurs of fluttering wings, The secrets that fill the nightingaled glades, The music that stirs in the leaf-colonnades."
He piped for a minute, then, turning to me, With a wry, queer smile, said: "In Arcady No song goes forth to the listening earth That comes not thro' travail and tears to birth: The river weeps as it leaves the fell, And the note cries out as it mourns the bell; The bird that praises the young, fair dawn, Sings of his loss on the twilit lawn, And those that hymn of the coming spring Lament for her too, when she taketh wing. The song of songs is of Death and of Love-- I sing of Syrinx, my own ... lost ... love." He piped again, and the blue mists frail Swayed in the dusk to the tender wail, And I dreamed--till I felt on my damp, moist hair, My Love's cool hand, and his whisper, "_Fair_," Then I felt his arms, and I knew the skies, Whilst over the mountains I saw Dawn arise, And another sweet day its course began, While the hidden stars sang, "Evoë, great Pan!" And the lark in the blue, "Evoë, great Pan!" And wistfully I, "Evoë, great Pan!"
Dear God, your rain and shining sun Have all their lovely duties done: The rain makes grow the golden wheat And so provides the bread we eat.
The cow gives us the milk we drink Because she loves your sun, I think. Please, grant that other children may Have milk and bread enough this day.
SCENE: _The Meeting of the Waters, in Bolton Woods, Wharfedale_.
QUEEN MAB _lies sleepily in a mossy hollow, guarded by a quivering frond of last year's bracken. After a little yawn she discontentedly gazes at_ THE THRUSH _who is singing continuously, whilst balancing himself on a twig of the leafless hawthorn above her._
QUEEN MAB (_almost peevishly for a Queen_):
Thou saucy bird, to wake me from my slumber, The spring still tarries, and I would not wake To live thro' cloud-spun days, thro' endless nights; To watch the weeping rain, until I too Would mix my tears with hers. To see the hills Bow their nude forms beneath the lashing hail, To hear the strong trees groan. I will not wake.