THE DEAD PAN.
313
Wailing wide across the islands,
They rent, vest-like, their Divine!
And a darkness and a silence
Quenched the light of every shrine:
And Dodona's oak swang lonely
Henceforth, to the tempest only.
Pan, Pan was dead.
They rent, vest-like, their Divine!
And a darkness and a silence
Quenched the light of every shrine:
And Dodona's oak swang lonely
Henceforth, to the tempest only.
Pan, Pan was dead.
Pythia staggered,—feeling o'er her,
Her lost god's forsaking look,
Straight her eyeballs filmed with horror
And her crispy fillets shook—
And her lips gasped through their foam,
For a word that did not come.
Pan, Pan was dead.
Her lost god's forsaking look,
Straight her eyeballs filmed with horror
And her crispy fillets shook—
And her lips gasped through their foam,
For a word that did not come.
Pan, Pan was dead.
O ye vain false gods of Hellas,
Ye are silent evermore!
And I dash down this old chalice,
Whence libations ran of yore.
See! the wine crawls in the dust
Wormlike—as your glories must!
Since Pan is dead.
Ye are silent evermore!
And I dash down this old chalice,
Whence libations ran of yore.
See! the wine crawls in the dust
Wormlike—as your glories must!
Since Pan is dead.
Get to dust, as common mortals,
By a common doom and track!
Let no Schiller from the portals
Of that Hades call you hack,—
Or instruct us to weep all
At your antique funeral.
Pan, Pan is dead.
By a common doom and track!
Let no Schiller from the portals
Of that Hades call you hack,—
Or instruct us to weep all
At your antique funeral.
Pan, Pan is dead.
By your beauty, which confesses
Some chief Beauty conquering you,—
By our grand heroic guesses,
Through your falsehood, at the True,—
We will weep not. . . !—earth shall roll
Heir to each god's aureole—
And Pan is dead.
Some chief Beauty conquering you,—
By our grand heroic guesses,
Through your falsehood, at the True,—
We will weep not. . . !—earth shall roll
Heir to each god's aureole—
And Pan is dead.
