Have ye left the mountain places, Pan, Pan is dead. O twelve gods of Plato's vision, And Very pale ye seem to rise, Ghosts of Grecian deities, Now Pan is dead! Jove, that right hand is unloaded, Where, O Juno, is the glory Pan, Pan is dead. Ha, Apollo! floats his golden Hair all mist-like where he stands, 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, From the god-Greek of her lips? 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, Now Pan is dead." Aphrodite ! dead and driven 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, Once to kiss her as he died. Pan, Pan is dead. What, and Hermes? Time enthralleth Crowned Cybele's great turiet "Mother, mother, walk afoot Since Pan is dead!" In the fiery-hearted centre Ancient Vesta,-who could enter For Pan is dead. Gods, we vainly do adjure you,- 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— Gods bereaved, gods belated, Now, the goats may climb and crop Now, Pan is dead. Calm, of old, the bark went onward, When a cry more loud than wind, And the sun shrank and grew pale, Breathed against by the great wail "Pan, Pan is dead." And the rowers from the benches 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, 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; 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, And the false gods fell down moaning, All the false gods with a cry Rendered up their deity— Pan, Pan was dead. Wailing wide across the islands, Pan, Pan was dead. Pythia staggered, feeling o'er her Straight her eyeballs filled with horror, 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 Since Pan is dead. Get to dust, as common mortals, At your antique funeral. Pan, Pan is dead. |