Classic Poem

The broken goblets of the Gods
Lie scatter'd in the Waters deep,
Where the tall sea-flag blows and nods
Over the shipwreck'd seamen's sleep;
The gods like phantoms come and go
Amid the wave-wash'd ocean-hall,
Above their heads the bleak winds blow;
They sigh, they shiver to and fro —
" Pan, Pan!" those phantoms call.

O Pan, great Pan, thou art not dead,
Nor dost thou haunt that weedy place,
Tho' blowing winds hear not thy tread,
And silver runlets miss thy face;
Where ripe nuts fall thou hast no state,
Where eagles soar, thou now art dumb,
By lonely meres thou dost not wait; —
But here 'mid living waves of fate
We feel thee go and come!

O piteous one! — In wintry days
Over the City falls the snow,
And, where it whitens stony ways.
I see a Shade flit to and fro;
Over the dull street hangs a cloud —
It parts, an ancient Face flits by,
'Tis thine! 'tis thou! Thy gray head bowed,
Dimly thou flutterest o'er the crowd,
With a thin human cry.

Ghost-like, O Pan, thou glimmerest still,
A spectral Face with sad dumb stare;
On rainy nights thy breath blows chill
In the street-walker's dripping hair;
Thy ragged woe from street to street
Goes mist-like, constant day and night;
But often, where the black waves beat,
Thou hast a smile most strangely sweet
For honest hearts and light!

Where'er thy shadowy vestments fly
There comes across the waves of strife.
Across the souls of all close by,
The gleam of some forgotten life:
There is a sense of waters clear,
An odour faint of flowery nooks;
Strange-plumaged birds seem flitting near
The cold brain blossoms, lives that hear
Ripple like running brooks.

And as thou passest, human eyes
Look in each other and are wet —
Simple or gentle, weak or wise,
Alike are full of tender fret;
And mean and noble, brave and base
Raise common glances to the sky; —
And lo! the phantom of thy Face,
While sad and low thro' all the place
Thrills thy thin human cry!

Christ help thee, Pan! canst thou not go
Now all the other gods are fled?
Why dost thou flutter to and fro
When all the sages deem thee dead?
Or, if thou still must live and dream,
Why leave the fields of harvest fair —
Why quit the peace of wood and stream —
And haunt the streets with eyes that gleam
Through white and holy hair?