Great Pan ascended from the vales below.
I see them sitting in the silent glow;
I hear the alternating measures flow
From pipe and golden lyre; - the melody

Heard by the Gods between their nectar bowls, Or when, from out the chambers of the sea,

Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls A pathway for the sun ; then, following swift,

The dædal harmonies of awful caves Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift

Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves, With many a lighter strain, that dances o'er The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain

To follow :
Hark! once more,
How floats the God's exultant strain

In answer to Apollo !

The wind in the reeds and the rushes,

The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,

The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass
Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was,

Listening to my sweet pipings.


I cannot separate the minstrels' worth ;

Each is alike transcendent and divine. What were the Day, unless it lighted Earth ?

And what were Earth, should Day forget to shine ? But were you here, my Friend, we twain would build

Two altars, on the mountain's sunward side :

There Pan should o'er my sacrifice preside,
And there Apollo your oblation gild.
He is your God, but mine is shaggy Pan;

Yet, as their music no discordance made,

So shall our offerings side by side be laid, And the same wind the rival incense fan.


You strain your ear to catch the harmonies

That in some finer region have their birth; I turn, despairing, from the quest of these,

And seek to learn the native tongue of Earth.
In “Fancy's tropic clime” your castle stands,

A shining miracle of rarest art ;
I pitch my tent upon the naked sands,

And the tall palm, that plumes the orient lands,

Can with its beauty satisfy my heart.
You, in your starry trances, breathe the air

Of lost Elysium, pluck the snowy bells

Of lotus and Olympian asphodels,
And bid us their diviner odors share.
I at the threshold of that world have lain,

Gazed on its glory, heard the grand acclaim

Wherewith its trumpets hail the sons of Fame, And striven its speech to master — but in vain. And now I turn, to find a late content

In Nature, making mine her myriad shows;

Better contented with one living rose Than all the Gods' ambrosia ; sternly bent On wresting from her hand the cup, whence flow . The flavors of her ruddiest life

the change Of climes and races

the unshackled range Of all experience; - that my songs may show The warm red blood that beats in hearts of men, And those who read them in the festering den

Of cities, may behold the open sky,
And hear the rhythm of the winds that blow,

Instinct with Freedom. Blame me not, that !
Find in the forms of Earth a deeper joy
Than in the dreams which lured me as a boy,

And leave the Heavens, where you are wandering still

With bright Apollo, to converse with Pan;

For, though full soon our courses separate ran, We, like the Gods, can meet on Tmolus' hill.

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There is no jealous rivalry in Song :

I see your altar on the hill-top shine,

And mine is built in shadows of the Pine, Yet the same worships unto each belong. Different the Gods, yet one the sacred awe

Their presence brings us, one the reverent heart Wherewith we honor the immortal law

Of that high inspiration, which is Art. Take, therefore, Friend! these Voices of the Earth -

The rhythmic records of my life's career, Humble, perhaps, yet wanting not the worth

Of Truth, and to the heart of Nature near. Take them, and your acceptance, in the dearth

Of the world's tardy praise, shall make them dear.





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