Classic Poem

Here in this wild, primeval dell
Far from the haunts of man,
Where never fashion's footsteps fell,
Where shriek of steam nor clang of bell,
Nor din of those who buy and sell,
Has broken Nature's perfect spell,
May one not hear, who listens well,
The mystic pipe of Pan?

So virgin and unworldly seem
All things in this deep glade
Thick curtained from the noonday beam,
That, hearkening, one may almost dream
Fair naiads plashing in the stream,
While graceful limbs and tresses gleam
Along the dim green shade.

The cool brook runs as clear and sweet
As ever water ran;
I almost hear the rhythmic beat
Of pattering footfalls, light and fleet,
As Daphne speeds, with flying feet
To hide with leaves her safe retreat,—
But not the pipe of Pan.

On yonder rocky mountain's sides
Do oreads dance and climb?
In that dark grot what nymph abides?
And when the freakish wind-god rides,
Do sylphs float on the breezy tides,
While in the hollow tree-trunk hides
The dryad of old time?

Or is the world so changed to-day
That all the sylvan clan,
Nymph, dryad, oread, sylph and fay
Have flown forevermore away,
So, though we watch, and wait, and pray,
Never again on earth will play
The witching pipe of Pan?

Come, sit on yonder stone and play
O Pan, thy pipe of reeds,
As when the earth was young and gay,
Long ere this dull and sordid day,—
Play till we learn thy simple lay,
And grief and discord fade away,
And selfish care recedes!

O, darkened sense! O, dense, deaf ear!
The world has placed its ban
Against the genii, once so dear,
And strife and greed, for many a year,
Have spoiled the sweet old atmosphere,
So, though he play, we cannot hear
The wondrous pipe of Pan!