Classic Poem

That old god Pan,
By some sweet stream that ran,
Through dreamy fields Arcadian,

Safe hid would lie
'Mongst reeds and rushes high,
And watch the flashing waves go by.

Often he made
Soft music in the shade,
And all things listened while he played.

He earliest knew
What sound souls fair and true
In whispering reeds imprisoned grew.

'Twas he that in
Their hollow pipes and thin
Found all of nature's dulcet din.

He played; the thrush,
Hid in leaf-bower lush,
With head awry, grew mute and hush,

And honey bees,
Quiring in blossomed trees,
Would cease to list his melodies.

His pipe to hear,
The timid fawn stole near,
And, quite entranced, forgot its fear.

And many a face
Of nymph and woodland grace
Peeped through into his hiding-place.

Bards of to-day,
On scrannel pipes that play,
Your discords fill us with dismay.

Oh, that some man
By stream Arcadian
Might find the Syrinx of old Pan!