Have ye left the mountain places,
Oreads wild, for other tryst?
Shall we see no sudden faces
Strike a glory through the mist?
Not a sound the silence thrills.
Of the everlasting hills:

Pan, Pan is dead.

O twelve gods of Plato's vision,
Crowned to starry wanderings,
With your chariots in procession,
your silver clash of wings!

And

Very pale ye seem to rise,

Ghosts of Grecian deities,

Now Pan is dead!

Jove, that right hand is unloaded,
Whence the thunder did prevail,
While in idiocy of godhead
Thou art staring the stars pale!
And thine eagle, blind and old,
Roughs his feathers in the cold.
Pan, Pan is dead.

Where, O Juno, is the glory
Of thy regal look and tread?
Will they lay, for evermore, thee,
On thy dim, straight, golden bed?
Will thy queendom all lie hid
Meekly under either lid?

Pan, Pan is dead.

Ha, Apollo! floats his golden

Hair all mist-like where he stands,
While the Muses hang enfolding

Knee and foot with faint wild hands? 'Neath the clanging of thy bow,

Niobe looked lost as thou!

Pan, Pan is dead.

Shall the casque with its brown iron,
Pallas' broad blue eyes, eclipse,
And no hero take inspiring

From the god-Greek of her lips?
'Neath her olive dost thou sit,

Mars the mighty, cursing it?

Pan, Pan is dead.

Bacchus, Bacchus ! on the panther

He swoons, bound with his own vines; And his Mænads 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 cestus 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 snow-storm,
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,

Crowned Cybele's great turiet
Rocks and crumbles on her head;
Roar the lions of her chariot
Toward the wilderness, unfed :
Scornful children are not mute,—

"Mother, mother, walk afoot

Since Pan is dead!"

In the fiery-hearted centre
Of the solemn universe,

Ancient Vesta,-who could enter
To consume thee with this curse?
Drop thy grey chin on thy knee,
O thou palsied Mystery!

For Pan is dead.

Gods, we vainly do adjure you,-
Ye return nor voice nor sign!
Not a votary could secure you
Even a grave for your Divine:
Not a grave, to show thereby,
Here these grey old gods do lie.

Pan, Pan is dead.

Even that Greece who took your wages,

Calls the obolus outworn;

And the hoarse deep-throated ages

Laugh your godships unto scorn:

And the poets do disclaim you,

Or grow colder if they name you—
And Pan is dead.

Gods bereaved, gods belated,
With your purples rent asunder!
Gods discrowned and desecrated,
Disinherited of thunder!

Now, the goats may climb and crop
The soft grass on Ida's top-

Now, Pan is dead.

Calm, of old, the bark went onward,

When a cry more loud than wind,
Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward,
From the piled Dark behind;

And the sun shrank and grew pale,

Breathed against by the great wail

"Pan, Pan is dead."

And the rowers from the benches
Fell, each shuddering on his face,
While departing Influences

Struck a cold back through the place;

And the shadow of the ship

Reeled along the passive deep—

And that dismal cry rose slowly

And sank slowly through the air,
Full of spirit's melancholy

And eternity's despair!

And they heard the words it said

PAN IS DEAD-GREAT PAN IS DEAD

PAN, PAN IS DEAD.

'T was the hour when One in Sion

Hung for love's sake on a cross;
When His brow was chill with dying,

And His soul was faint with loss;

When His priestly blood dropped downward, And His kingly eyes looked throneward-

Then, Pan was dead.

By the love He stood alone in,
His sole Godhead rose complete,

And the false gods fell down moaning,
Each from off his golden seat;

All the false gods with a cry

Rendered up their deity—

Pan, Pan was dead.

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.

Pythia staggered, feeling o'er her
Her lost god's forsaking look ;

Straight her eyeballs filled 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.

Get to dust, as common mortals,
By a common doom and track!
Let no Schiller from the portals
Of that Hades call you back,
Or instruct us to weep all

At your antique funeral.

Pan, Pan is dead.