Great Pan ascended from the vales below. 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 "The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings.” III. 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. IV. You strain your ear to catch the harmonies And seek to learn the native tongue of Earth. I pitch my tent upon the naked sands, And the tall palm, that plumes the orient lands, You, in your starry trances, breathe the air And bid us their diviner odors share. I at the threshold of that world have lain, In Nature, making mine her myriad shows; Of all experience; 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, 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. V. 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. |