Classic Poem

Now wanders Pan the arched groves, and hills
Where fairies often danc'd, and shepherds' quills
In sweet contentions pass'd the tedious day:
Yet, being early, in his unknown way
Met not a shepherd, nor on all the plain
A flock then feeding saw, nor of his train
One jolly satyr stirring yet abroad,
Of whom he might inquire; this to the load
Of his affliction adds. Now he invokes
Those nymphs in mighty forests that with oaks
Have equal fates, each with her several tree
Receiving birth and ending destiny:
Calls on all powers, entreats that he might have
But for his love the knowledge of her grave;
That since the fates had ta'en the gem away,
He might but see the cark'net where it lay,
To do fit right to such a part of mould,
Covering so rare a piece that all the gold
Or diamond earth can yield, for value ne'er
Shall match the treasure which was hidden there!
A hunting nymph awaken'd with his moan,
(That in a bower near hand lay all alone,
Twining her small arms round her slender waist,
That by no others us'd to be embrac'd,)
Got up, and knowing what the day before
Was guilty of, she adds not to his store
As many simply do, whose friends so cross'd
They more afflict by showing what is lost,
But bade him follow her. He, as she leads,
Urgeth her haste. So a kind mother treads
Earnest, distracted, where with blood defil'd
She hears lies dead her dear and only child.
Mistrust now wing'd his feet, then raging ire,
“For speed comes ever lamely to desire.”
Delays, the stones that waiting suitors grind,
By whom at court the poor man's cause is sign'd.
Who to dispatch a suit will not defer
To take death for a joint commissioner;
Delay, the wooer's bane, revenge's hate,
The plague to creditors' decay'd estate,
The test of patience, of our hopes the rack,
That draws them forth so long until they crack;
Virtue's best benefactor in our times,
One that is set to punish great men's crimes,
She that had hinder'd mighty Pan a while,
Now steps aside: and as o'erflowing Nile
Hid from Clymene's son his reeking head,
So from his rage all opposition fled,
Giving him way to reach the timeless tomb
Of Nature's glory, for whose ruthless doom
(When all the Graces did for mercy plead,
And youth and goodness both did intercede,)
The sons of earth, if living, had been driven
To heap on hills, and war anew with Heaven.
The shepherds which he miss'd upon the downs
Here meets he with: for from the neighb'ring towns
Maidens and men resorted to the grave
To see a wonder more than time e'er gave.
The holy priests had told them long agone
Amongst the learned shepherds there was one
So given to piety, and did adore
So much the name of Pan, that when no more
He breath'd, those that to ope his heart began,
Found written there with gold the name of Pan.
Which unbelieving man that is not mov'd
To credit ought, if not by reason prov'd,
And ties the overworking power to do
Nought otherwise than Nature reacheth to,
Held as most fabulous: not inly seeing,
The hand by whom we live, and all have being;
No work for admirable doth intend,
Which reason hath the power to comprehend,
And faith no merit hath from heaven lent
Where human reason yields experiment.
Till now they durst not trust the legend old,
Esteeming all not true their elders told,
And had not this last accident ma de good
The former, most in unbelief had stood.
But Fame, that spread the bruit of such a wonder,
Bringing the swain[s] of places far asunder
To this selected plot (now famous more
Than any grove, mount, plain, had been before
By relic, vision, burial, or birth
Of anchoress, or hermit yet on earth),
Out of the maiden's bed of endless rest
Shows them a tree new grown, so fairly dress'd
With spreading arms and curled top that Jove
Ne'er braver saw in his Dodonian grove;
The heart-like leaves oft each with other pile,
As do the hard scales of the crocodile;
And none on all the tree was seen but bore
Written thereon in rich and purest ore
The name of Pan; whose lustre far beyond
Sparkled, as by a torch the diamond;
Or those bright spangles which, fair goddess, do
Shine in the hair of these which follow you.
The shepherds by direction of great Pan
Search'd for the root, and finding it began
In her true heart, bids them again enclose
What now his eyes for ever, ever lose.
Now in the self-same sphere his thoughts must move
With him that did the shady plane-tree love.
Yet though no issue from her loins shall be
To draw from Pan a noble pedigree,
And Pan shall not, as other gods have done,
Glory in deeds of an heroic son,
Nor have his name in countries near and far
Proclaim'd, as by his child the Thunderer;
If Phœbus on this tree spread warming rays,
And northern blasts kill not her tender sprays,
His love shall make him famous in repute,
And still increase his name, yet bear no fruit,
To make this sure, the god of shepherds last,
When other ceremonies were o'erpast,
And to perform what he before had vow'd
To dire revenge, thus spake unto the crowd:
What I have lost, kind shepherds, all you know,
And to recount it were to dwell in woe:
To show my passion in a funeral song,
And with my sorrow draw your sighs along,
Words, then, well plac'd might challenge somewhat due,
And not the cause alone, win tears from you.
This to prevent, I set orations by,
“For passion seldom loves formality.”
What profits it a prisoner at the bar,
To have his judgment spoken regular?
Or in the prison hear it often read,
When he at first knew what was forfeited?
Our griefs in others' tears, like plates in water,
Seem more in quantity. To be relator
Of my mishaps, speaks weakness, and that I
Have in myself no power of remedy.