Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/316

Bacchus, Bacchus! on the panther
He swoons,—hound with his own vines!
And his Maenads slowly saunter,
Head aside, among the pines,
While they murmur dreamingly,—
"Evohe—ah—evohe—"
            Ah, Pan is dead.

Neptune lies beside the trident,
Dull and senseless as a stone:
And old Pluto, deaf and silent,
Is cast out into the sun.
Ceres smileth stern thereat,—
"We all now are desolate—"
            Now Pan is dead.

Aphrodite! dead and driven
As thy native foam thou art;
With the eestus long done heaving
On the white calm of thine heart!
Ai Adonis! At that shriek,
Not a tear runs down her cheek—
            Pan, Pan is dead.

And the Loves, we used to know from
One another, huddled lie,
Frore as taken in a snowstorm,
Close beside her tenderly,—
As if each had weakly tried
Once to kiss her as he died.
            Pan, Pan is dead.

What, and Hermes! Time enthralleth
All thy cunning, Hermes, thus,—
And the ivy blindly crawleth
"Round thy brave caduceus?
Hast thou no new message for us,
Full of thunder and Jove-glories?
            Nay! Pan is dead.