"O leaf-loving Zephyr, whence cometh the mirth Of this melody? Owns my mothering Earth A piper who pipes so alluringly Of beauty that is, of beauty to be? Onward! o'er thousands of blushet-shy daisies, To find this piper of beautiful phrases."
'Mong flocks of goats, and of leaping lambs, The piper sat. Two fierce-horned rams Made a fleecy cushion whereon he sat, And a sleeping ewe made a creamy mat For his hoofed feet. His music ceased. Green were his eyes, and they seemed well pleased As they lit on our forms:
"_O! Pan, great Pan! This mortal thy kingdom of beauty would span, And she would learn of the singing seasons' Wonderful featness; of all the reasons. The hill and the wood and the rippling rill The air with different melodies fill; Where bonnibel April latest was sent, When May filled the world with her wonderment! Who teaches the cuckoo his twin-bell call? The opening notes of a festival To jubilate the reign of the summer Beauteous, queenliest, rosy-robed comer. O Pan! I bring A mortal whose soul is afire to sing._"
Pan smiled--a smile like a twisted oak-- Then beckoned to me, while the forest spoke, "Evoë, great Pan," sang the lark on high, "Evoë, great Pan," from the uttermost sky; I drew near and stood beside his knee: He handed his reeded flute to me, And kept his eyes, of a forest green, On my trembling hands. O! well, I ween, He knew that my amateur hands were weak, For the spirit of me was meek, so meek, And his green eyes glimmered with rising glee. My masterful Lover whispered to me, "_Put your lips to the flute with mine, Heedless of self-hood, in song be divine._" And placing near mine his golden-sweet mouth, A rondeau he sang of the forest's youth.
Pan spoke at last: "Child! wander and learn The lilt of the bird and the song of the burn: And when thou hast learned from the burn and the bird Thou'lt find me again" (the forest heart stirred). "Hail! child from the plaintful Kingdom of Man." The mountain-tops shouted, "Evoë, great Pan!" The rivers sang deeply, "Evoë, great Pan!" And whisperingly I, "Evoë, great Pan!"
The rose-trees show but a tuft of green Where a stern, cold pruning-knife has been, But they promise a summer of fragrant wealth: How the small buds come to the light by stealth Like pixies shy; yet a pruning knife Leads every browny-bare branch to life. Slowly I passed thro' the rustic gate, Where wine-red roses will hold June fête; The wind stole out from the blossoming row Of the cherry-trees, and he whispered low: