HYMN OF PAN

FROM the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.

The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal earth, And of heaven, and the giant wars, And love, and death, and birth. And then I changed my pipingsSinging how down the vale of Mænalus I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;

It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. All wept as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your bloodAt the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

JOHN KEATS

'O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever-dew.
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.'

'I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful-a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild,

'I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

'I set her on my pacing steed

And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
"I love thee true.'

'She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

"And there she lullèd me asleep,

And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide
The latest dream I ever dream'd,
On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried-"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall !"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.'

GAFFER GRAY

THOMAS HOLCROFT

Ho, why dost thou shiver and shake,
Gaffer Gray?

And why does thy nose look so blue?
"Tis the weather that's cold,
'Tis I'm grown very old,

And my doublet is not very new,
Well-a-day!'

Then line thy worn doublet with ale,
Gaffer Gray;

And warm thy old heart with a glass.
'Nay, but credit I've none,
And my money's all gone;
say how may that come to pass?
Well-a-day!"

Then

Hie away to the house on the brow,
Gaffer Gray;

And knock at the jolly priest's door.
"The priest often preaches
Against worldly riches,

But ne'er gives a mite to the poor,
Well-a-day!'

The lawyer lives under the hill,
Gaffer Gray;

Warmly fenced both in back and in front.
'He will fasten his locks,

And will threaten the stocks

Should he ever more find me in want,
Well-a-day!'

The squire has fat beeves and brown ale,
Gaffer Gray;

And the season will welcome you there.
'His fat beeves and his beer,

And his merry new year,

Are all for the flush and the fair,

Well-a-day "'

My keg is but low, I confess,

Gaffer Gray;

What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live.

'The poor man alone,

When he hears the poor moan,

Of his morsel a morsel will give,
Well-a-day!'

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

FELICIA HEMANS

THE breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast;
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark,

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came ;-
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence, and in fear ;

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang:

Till the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, To the anthem of the free.

The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest, by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd :— Such was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band:
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?—

No-'twas a faith's

pure shrine.

T