Hymn to Pan |
SING his praises that doth keep
Our flocks from harm,
Pan, the father of our sheep ;
And arm in arm
Tread we softly in a round,
Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground
Fills the music with her sound.
Pan, O great god Pan, to thee
Thus do we sing !
Thou who keepíst us chaste and free
As the young spring :
Ever be thy honour spoke
From that place the morn is broke
To that place day doth unyoke !
The Oxford Book of English Verse.
Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed.
Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1919. 237.
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