Headpiece The Last FaunTHE LAST FAUN
Headpiece The Last Faun
THE LAST FAUN
BY HELEN MINTURN SEYMOUR
WITH PICTURE BY CHARLES A. WINTER
BY mead and wood I called them all day through,All day I hunted them from dale to dale,From height to height, each rift we ever knew,At hide-and-seek, and still no answering hail.Ah, could they be so cruel in their playTo make me lose the first delicious daySince spring came up the vale?I mind me how the northern whirlwind toreOur wood. I saw those agèd giants quake.Their wreckage lay about my cavern door.I shut it close and, deep in withered brake,I hugged my icy flanks all shivering,And closed mine eyes, and dreamed of spring—of springWhose voice would bid me wake.And next I heard the inmost water runIn the cliff’s heart, and wondered, half asleep,If all the snow were melted in the sun,And waited for a hamadryad to peepThrough yonder cleft and mock me for my sloth.But, oh! the fern was soft, and I was lothFrom out my bed to creep.Slow, slow I drew the rotting bolt away.My hoofs sank deep among the drifted leaves.But, farther on, a lonely sunbeam layOn fading snowdrops, and my granite eavesWere overthatched with mosses green and fine;And every bud upon the dangling vineShowed how the warm sap heaves.I marvel how the streamer hangs so lowAbout my door, that with the fading yearWas out of reach—or did I dream it so?No. Since I slept, the boughs have pressed so nearThe narrow path is lost. But I must runAnd chase my fellows out into the sun.“O playmates, playmates, hear!”So went I calling, listening, singling outEach voice, each sound, each little stir that wokeThe drowsy shadows. Now it was the routOf vagrant winds, and now a bird that brokeThe trance with song up-brimming through the birch,And now the boars disputing in their searchFor mast beneath the oak.I ran to find them at the dancing-green.The grass had sprung untrampled by their feet.Great oaks had fallen, and the copse betweenChanged the smooth lawn. Each knoll and ivied seatWas crumbling fast. The forest life had drownedIn waves of lush young growth our pleasure-ground,Whelmed every nymph’s retreat.I thought: “The gods have wrought a cruel jest,Blasting our wood and those who dwell therein,Bidding the coverts break their wonted restTo grow and grow and drown the dancing-green;And so in dark, numb days, the winter through,The charm was wrought, and still the ruin grew,Unheard-of and unseen.“And they, my comrades, waking even as I,Have they, too, seen the change and crept awayTo weep, untroubled by the laughing sky,Far in the utmost shadow? Stay, oh, stay!O brothers mine, here’s one who weeps with youThe sunny glade, the dancing in the dew,The pipes of yesterday!”So went I calling, calling down the glade:“Oh, harken, brothers, harken, one and all!”Mad Echo jeered me from the hemlock shade,But never came there answer to my call.Their caves lay overgrown and tenantless,Nor by a sound nor footprint might I guessWhat sorrow should befall.There came a laughter veering down the breeze,Soft, cruel sounds as from a dryad’s throat.“Even now they mock you, hid among the trees,Shaping their signals to the wood bird’s note,With sly, malicious dance and mirth-brimmed eyes.”The laughter broke, and, wavering into sighs,Failed, wind-like and remote.Panting, I swung from stem to jutting stemUp the wet crag, and, ever as I clomb,I called, ’twixt tears and pain, and offered themBribe of my last year’s harvest, honeycomb,Beechnuts, and hazel; yet there came no signSave Echo’s, answering that call of mine,“O friends, come home! Come home!”Oh, not among the cliffs or on the height!“Some glad adventure leads them far astray,Surely,” I said; “the coming of the nightWill bring them back.” And for a while I layAnd racked my wits with plans of punishment.Then up I sprang in doubt and discontent,And sought another way.And now that dark has fallen, and I lieCurled on the leaves and nurse my bleeding sides,I wonder, was it Pan who wandered by,And lured them down the unfamiliar rides—That Pan whose piping has a sweeter noteThan spring has bred in any woodland throatTo win the shy-winged brides?Or else another, mightier than Pan,That Other who has neither form nor speech,Who stops the spider ere he weaves his span,Or lizard, darting o’er the fallen beech,Who draws a film across the doe’s brown eyes,And takes the lark, though high and high he fliesAnd dreams him out of reach.He blows the noiseless reed which none may hearSave such as he would draw unto his hand.He takes a tribute of the waking year,And wanders, piping, through the flowery land.And there a locust hears him and is mute;And here a rabbit leaves a nibbled rootTo hark and understand.O piper in the shadows, pipe once more!Send but one call from out the fading west!Aye, though I crouch behind my cavern door,One note of thine would draw me to the quest,To journey past the sunset and the rain,Where I may find my people once again,And the lost winds find rest.
BY mead and wood I called them all day through,All day I hunted them from dale to dale,From height to height, each rift we ever knew,At hide-and-seek, and still no answering hail.Ah, could they be so cruel in their playTo make me lose the first delicious daySince spring came up the vale?I mind me how the northern whirlwind toreOur wood. I saw those agèd giants quake.Their wreckage lay about my cavern door.I shut it close and, deep in withered brake,I hugged my icy flanks all shivering,And closed mine eyes, and dreamed of spring—of springWhose voice would bid me wake.And next I heard the inmost water runIn the cliff’s heart, and wondered, half asleep,If all the snow were melted in the sun,And waited for a hamadryad to peepThrough yonder cleft and mock me for my sloth.But, oh! the fern was soft, and I was lothFrom out my bed to creep.Slow, slow I drew the rotting bolt away.My hoofs sank deep among the drifted leaves.But, farther on, a lonely sunbeam layOn fading snowdrops, and my granite eavesWere overthatched with mosses green and fine;And every bud upon the dangling vineShowed how the warm sap heaves.I marvel how the streamer hangs so lowAbout my door, that with the fading yearWas out of reach—or did I dream it so?No. Since I slept, the boughs have pressed so nearThe narrow path is lost. But I must runAnd chase my fellows out into the sun.“O playmates, playmates, hear!”So went I calling, listening, singling outEach voice, each sound, each little stir that wokeThe drowsy shadows. Now it was the routOf vagrant winds, and now a bird that brokeThe trance with song up-brimming through the birch,And now the boars disputing in their searchFor mast beneath the oak.I ran to find them at the dancing-green.The grass had sprung untrampled by their feet.Great oaks had fallen, and the copse betweenChanged the smooth lawn. Each knoll and ivied seatWas crumbling fast. The forest life had drownedIn waves of lush young growth our pleasure-ground,Whelmed every nymph’s retreat.I thought: “The gods have wrought a cruel jest,Blasting our wood and those who dwell therein,Bidding the coverts break their wonted restTo grow and grow and drown the dancing-green;And so in dark, numb days, the winter through,The charm was wrought, and still the ruin grew,Unheard-of and unseen.“And they, my comrades, waking even as I,Have they, too, seen the change and crept awayTo weep, untroubled by the laughing sky,Far in the utmost shadow? Stay, oh, stay!O brothers mine, here’s one who weeps with youThe sunny glade, the dancing in the dew,The pipes of yesterday!”So went I calling, calling down the glade:“Oh, harken, brothers, harken, one and all!”Mad Echo jeered me from the hemlock shade,But never came there answer to my call.Their caves lay overgrown and tenantless,Nor by a sound nor footprint might I guessWhat sorrow should befall.There came a laughter veering down the breeze,Soft, cruel sounds as from a dryad’s throat.“Even now they mock you, hid among the trees,Shaping their signals to the wood bird’s note,With sly, malicious dance and mirth-brimmed eyes.”The laughter broke, and, wavering into sighs,Failed, wind-like and remote.Panting, I swung from stem to jutting stemUp the wet crag, and, ever as I clomb,I called, ’twixt tears and pain, and offered themBribe of my last year’s harvest, honeycomb,Beechnuts, and hazel; yet there came no signSave Echo’s, answering that call of mine,“O friends, come home! Come home!”Oh, not among the cliffs or on the height!“Some glad adventure leads them far astray,Surely,” I said; “the coming of the nightWill bring them back.” And for a while I layAnd racked my wits with plans of punishment.Then up I sprang in doubt and discontent,And sought another way.And now that dark has fallen, and I lieCurled on the leaves and nurse my bleeding sides,I wonder, was it Pan who wandered by,And lured them down the unfamiliar rides—That Pan whose piping has a sweeter noteThan spring has bred in any woodland throatTo win the shy-winged brides?Or else another, mightier than Pan,That Other who has neither form nor speech,Who stops the spider ere he weaves his span,Or lizard, darting o’er the fallen beech,Who draws a film across the doe’s brown eyes,And takes the lark, though high and high he fliesAnd dreams him out of reach.He blows the noiseless reed which none may hearSave such as he would draw unto his hand.He takes a tribute of the waking year,And wanders, piping, through the flowery land.And there a locust hears him and is mute;And here a rabbit leaves a nibbled rootTo hark and understand.O piper in the shadows, pipe once more!Send but one call from out the fading west!Aye, though I crouch behind my cavern door,One note of thine would draw me to the quest,To journey past the sunset and the rain,Where I may find my people once again,And the lost winds find rest.
BY mead and wood I called them all day through,All day I hunted them from dale to dale,From height to height, each rift we ever knew,At hide-and-seek, and still no answering hail.Ah, could they be so cruel in their playTo make me lose the first delicious daySince spring came up the vale?
BY mead and wood I called them all day through,
All day I hunted them from dale to dale,
From height to height, each rift we ever knew,
At hide-and-seek, and still no answering hail.
Ah, could they be so cruel in their play
To make me lose the first delicious day
Since spring came up the vale?
I mind me how the northern whirlwind toreOur wood. I saw those agèd giants quake.Their wreckage lay about my cavern door.I shut it close and, deep in withered brake,I hugged my icy flanks all shivering,And closed mine eyes, and dreamed of spring—of springWhose voice would bid me wake.
I mind me how the northern whirlwind tore
Our wood. I saw those agèd giants quake.
Their wreckage lay about my cavern door.
I shut it close and, deep in withered brake,
I hugged my icy flanks all shivering,
And closed mine eyes, and dreamed of spring—of spring
Whose voice would bid me wake.
And next I heard the inmost water runIn the cliff’s heart, and wondered, half asleep,If all the snow were melted in the sun,And waited for a hamadryad to peepThrough yonder cleft and mock me for my sloth.But, oh! the fern was soft, and I was lothFrom out my bed to creep.
And next I heard the inmost water run
In the cliff’s heart, and wondered, half asleep,
If all the snow were melted in the sun,
And waited for a hamadryad to peep
Through yonder cleft and mock me for my sloth.
But, oh! the fern was soft, and I was loth
From out my bed to creep.
Slow, slow I drew the rotting bolt away.My hoofs sank deep among the drifted leaves.But, farther on, a lonely sunbeam layOn fading snowdrops, and my granite eavesWere overthatched with mosses green and fine;And every bud upon the dangling vineShowed how the warm sap heaves.
Slow, slow I drew the rotting bolt away.
My hoofs sank deep among the drifted leaves.
But, farther on, a lonely sunbeam lay
On fading snowdrops, and my granite eaves
Were overthatched with mosses green and fine;
And every bud upon the dangling vine
Showed how the warm sap heaves.
I marvel how the streamer hangs so lowAbout my door, that with the fading yearWas out of reach—or did I dream it so?No. Since I slept, the boughs have pressed so nearThe narrow path is lost. But I must runAnd chase my fellows out into the sun.“O playmates, playmates, hear!”
I marvel how the streamer hangs so low
About my door, that with the fading year
Was out of reach—or did I dream it so?
No. Since I slept, the boughs have pressed so near
The narrow path is lost. But I must run
And chase my fellows out into the sun.
“O playmates, playmates, hear!”
So went I calling, listening, singling outEach voice, each sound, each little stir that wokeThe drowsy shadows. Now it was the routOf vagrant winds, and now a bird that brokeThe trance with song up-brimming through the birch,And now the boars disputing in their searchFor mast beneath the oak.
So went I calling, listening, singling out
Each voice, each sound, each little stir that woke
The drowsy shadows. Now it was the rout
Of vagrant winds, and now a bird that broke
The trance with song up-brimming through the birch,
And now the boars disputing in their search
For mast beneath the oak.
I ran to find them at the dancing-green.The grass had sprung untrampled by their feet.Great oaks had fallen, and the copse betweenChanged the smooth lawn. Each knoll and ivied seatWas crumbling fast. The forest life had drownedIn waves of lush young growth our pleasure-ground,Whelmed every nymph’s retreat.
I ran to find them at the dancing-green.
The grass had sprung untrampled by their feet.
Great oaks had fallen, and the copse between
Changed the smooth lawn. Each knoll and ivied seat
Was crumbling fast. The forest life had drowned
In waves of lush young growth our pleasure-ground,
Whelmed every nymph’s retreat.
I thought: “The gods have wrought a cruel jest,Blasting our wood and those who dwell therein,Bidding the coverts break their wonted restTo grow and grow and drown the dancing-green;And so in dark, numb days, the winter through,The charm was wrought, and still the ruin grew,Unheard-of and unseen.
I thought: “The gods have wrought a cruel jest,
Blasting our wood and those who dwell therein,
Bidding the coverts break their wonted rest
To grow and grow and drown the dancing-green;
And so in dark, numb days, the winter through,
The charm was wrought, and still the ruin grew,
Unheard-of and unseen.
“And they, my comrades, waking even as I,Have they, too, seen the change and crept awayTo weep, untroubled by the laughing sky,Far in the utmost shadow? Stay, oh, stay!O brothers mine, here’s one who weeps with youThe sunny glade, the dancing in the dew,The pipes of yesterday!”
“And they, my comrades, waking even as I,
Have they, too, seen the change and crept away
To weep, untroubled by the laughing sky,
Far in the utmost shadow? Stay, oh, stay!
O brothers mine, here’s one who weeps with you
The sunny glade, the dancing in the dew,
The pipes of yesterday!”
So went I calling, calling down the glade:“Oh, harken, brothers, harken, one and all!”Mad Echo jeered me from the hemlock shade,But never came there answer to my call.Their caves lay overgrown and tenantless,Nor by a sound nor footprint might I guessWhat sorrow should befall.
So went I calling, calling down the glade:
“Oh, harken, brothers, harken, one and all!”
Mad Echo jeered me from the hemlock shade,
But never came there answer to my call.
Their caves lay overgrown and tenantless,
Nor by a sound nor footprint might I guess
What sorrow should befall.
There came a laughter veering down the breeze,Soft, cruel sounds as from a dryad’s throat.“Even now they mock you, hid among the trees,Shaping their signals to the wood bird’s note,With sly, malicious dance and mirth-brimmed eyes.”The laughter broke, and, wavering into sighs,Failed, wind-like and remote.
There came a laughter veering down the breeze,
Soft, cruel sounds as from a dryad’s throat.
“Even now they mock you, hid among the trees,
Shaping their signals to the wood bird’s note,
With sly, malicious dance and mirth-brimmed eyes.”
The laughter broke, and, wavering into sighs,
Failed, wind-like and remote.
Panting, I swung from stem to jutting stemUp the wet crag, and, ever as I clomb,I called, ’twixt tears and pain, and offered themBribe of my last year’s harvest, honeycomb,Beechnuts, and hazel; yet there came no signSave Echo’s, answering that call of mine,“O friends, come home! Come home!”
Panting, I swung from stem to jutting stem
Up the wet crag, and, ever as I clomb,
I called, ’twixt tears and pain, and offered them
Bribe of my last year’s harvest, honeycomb,
Beechnuts, and hazel; yet there came no sign
Save Echo’s, answering that call of mine,
“O friends, come home! Come home!”
Oh, not among the cliffs or on the height!“Some glad adventure leads them far astray,Surely,” I said; “the coming of the nightWill bring them back.” And for a while I layAnd racked my wits with plans of punishment.Then up I sprang in doubt and discontent,And sought another way.
Oh, not among the cliffs or on the height!
“Some glad adventure leads them far astray,
Surely,” I said; “the coming of the night
Will bring them back.” And for a while I lay
And racked my wits with plans of punishment.
Then up I sprang in doubt and discontent,
And sought another way.
And now that dark has fallen, and I lieCurled on the leaves and nurse my bleeding sides,I wonder, was it Pan who wandered by,And lured them down the unfamiliar rides—That Pan whose piping has a sweeter noteThan spring has bred in any woodland throatTo win the shy-winged brides?
And now that dark has fallen, and I lie
Curled on the leaves and nurse my bleeding sides,
I wonder, was it Pan who wandered by,
And lured them down the unfamiliar rides—
That Pan whose piping has a sweeter note
Than spring has bred in any woodland throat
To win the shy-winged brides?
Or else another, mightier than Pan,That Other who has neither form nor speech,Who stops the spider ere he weaves his span,Or lizard, darting o’er the fallen beech,Who draws a film across the doe’s brown eyes,And takes the lark, though high and high he fliesAnd dreams him out of reach.
Or else another, mightier than Pan,
That Other who has neither form nor speech,
Who stops the spider ere he weaves his span,
Or lizard, darting o’er the fallen beech,
Who draws a film across the doe’s brown eyes,
And takes the lark, though high and high he flies
And dreams him out of reach.
He blows the noiseless reed which none may hearSave such as he would draw unto his hand.He takes a tribute of the waking year,And wanders, piping, through the flowery land.And there a locust hears him and is mute;And here a rabbit leaves a nibbled rootTo hark and understand.
He blows the noiseless reed which none may hear
Save such as he would draw unto his hand.
He takes a tribute of the waking year,
And wanders, piping, through the flowery land.
And there a locust hears him and is mute;
And here a rabbit leaves a nibbled root
To hark and understand.
O piper in the shadows, pipe once more!Send but one call from out the fading west!Aye, though I crouch behind my cavern door,One note of thine would draw me to the quest,To journey past the sunset and the rain,Where I may find my people once again,And the lost winds find rest.
O piper in the shadows, pipe once more!
Send but one call from out the fading west!
Aye, though I crouch behind my cavern door,
One note of thine would draw me to the quest,
To journey past the sunset and the rain,
Where I may find my people once again,
And the lost winds find rest.
Tailpiece The Last Faun