A Hymn to PanSing, Muse, this chief of Hermes’ love-got joys,Goat-footed, two-horn’d, amorous of noise,That through the fair greens, all adorn’d with trees,Together goes with Nymphs, whose nimble kneesCan every dance foot, that affect to scaleThe most inaccessible tops of allUprightest rocks, and ever use to callOn Pan, the bright-hair’d God of pastoral;Who yet is lean and loveless, and doth oweBy lot all loftiest mountains crown’d with snow;All tops of hills, and cliffy highnesses,All sylvan copses, and the fortressesOf thorniest queaches, here and there doth rove,And sometimes, by allurement of his love,Will wade the wat’ry softnesses. Sometimes(In quite oppos’dcapriccios) he climbsThe hardest rocks, and highest, every wayRunning their ridges. Often will conveyHimself up to a watch-tow’r’s top, where sheepHave their observance. Oft through hills as steepHis goats he runs upon, and never rests.Then turns he head, and flies on savage beasts,Mad of their slaughters; so most sharp an eyeSetting upon them, as his beams let flyThrough all their thickest tapistries. And then(When Hesp’rus calls to fold the flocks of men)From the green clossets of his loftiest reedsHe rushes forth, and joy with song he feeds.When, under shadow of their motions set,He plays a verse forth so profoundly sweet,As not the bird that in the flow’ry spring,Amidst the leaves set, makes the thickets ringOf her sour sorrows, sweeten’d with her song,Runs her divisions varied so and strong.And then the sweet-voic’d Nymphs that crown his mountains(Flock’d round about the deep-black-water’d fountains)Fall in with their contention of song.To which the echoes all the hills alongTheir repercussions add. Then here and there(Plac’d in the midst) the God the guide doth bearOf all their dances, winding in and out,A lynce’s hide, besprinkled round aboutWith blood, cast on his shoulders. And thus He,With well-made songs, maintains th’ alacrityOf his free mind, in silken meadows crown’dWith hyacinths and saffrons, that aboundIn sweet-breath’d odours, that th’ unnumber’d grass(Besides their scents) give as through all they pass.And these, in all their pleasures, ever raiseThe blessed Gods’ and long Olympus’ praise:Like zealous Hermes, who of all I saidMost profits up to all the Gods convey’d.Who, likewise, came into th’ Arcadian state,(That’s rich in fountains, and all celebrateFor nurse of flocks,) where He had vow’d a grove(Surnam’d Cyllenius) to his Godhead’s love.Yet even himself (although a God he were)Clad in a squalid sheepskin, govern’d thereA mortal’s sheep. For soft love ent’ring himConform’d his state to his conceited trim,And made him long, in an extreme degree,T’ enjoy the fair-hair’d virgin Dryope.Which ere he could, she made consummateThe flourishing rite of Hymen’s honour’d state;And brought him such a piece of progenyAs show’d, at first sight, monstrous to the eye,Goat-footed, two-horn’d, full of noise even then,And (opposite quite to other childeren)Told, in sweet laughter, he ought death no tear.Yet straight his mother start, and fled, in fear,The sight of so unsatisfying a thing,In whose face put forth such a bristled spring.Yet the most useful Mercury embrac’d,And took into his arms, his homely-fac’d,Beyond all measure joyful with his sight;And up to heaven with him made instant flight,Wrapp’d in the warm skin of a mountain hare,Set him by Jove, and made most merry fareTo all the Deities else with his son’s sight;Which most of all fill’d Bacchus with delight;And Pan they call’d him, since he brought to allOf mirth so rare and full a festival.And thus all honour to the shepherds’ King,For sacrifice to thee my Muse shall sing!
Sing, Muse, this chief of Hermes’ love-got joys,Goat-footed, two-horn’d, amorous of noise,That through the fair greens, all adorn’d with trees,Together goes with Nymphs, whose nimble kneesCan every dance foot, that affect to scaleThe most inaccessible tops of allUprightest rocks, and ever use to callOn Pan, the bright-hair’d God of pastoral;Who yet is lean and loveless, and doth oweBy lot all loftiest mountains crown’d with snow;All tops of hills, and cliffy highnesses,All sylvan copses, and the fortressesOf thorniest queaches, here and there doth rove,And sometimes, by allurement of his love,Will wade the wat’ry softnesses. Sometimes(In quite oppos’dcapriccios) he climbsThe hardest rocks, and highest, every wayRunning their ridges. Often will conveyHimself up to a watch-tow’r’s top, where sheepHave their observance. Oft through hills as steepHis goats he runs upon, and never rests.Then turns he head, and flies on savage beasts,Mad of their slaughters; so most sharp an eyeSetting upon them, as his beams let flyThrough all their thickest tapistries. And then(When Hesp’rus calls to fold the flocks of men)From the green clossets of his loftiest reedsHe rushes forth, and joy with song he feeds.When, under shadow of their motions set,He plays a verse forth so profoundly sweet,As not the bird that in the flow’ry spring,Amidst the leaves set, makes the thickets ringOf her sour sorrows, sweeten’d with her song,Runs her divisions varied so and strong.And then the sweet-voic’d Nymphs that crown his mountains(Flock’d round about the deep-black-water’d fountains)Fall in with their contention of song.To which the echoes all the hills alongTheir repercussions add. Then here and there(Plac’d in the midst) the God the guide doth bearOf all their dances, winding in and out,A lynce’s hide, besprinkled round aboutWith blood, cast on his shoulders. And thus He,With well-made songs, maintains th’ alacrityOf his free mind, in silken meadows crown’dWith hyacinths and saffrons, that aboundIn sweet-breath’d odours, that th’ unnumber’d grass(Besides their scents) give as through all they pass.And these, in all their pleasures, ever raiseThe blessed Gods’ and long Olympus’ praise:Like zealous Hermes, who of all I saidMost profits up to all the Gods convey’d.Who, likewise, came into th’ Arcadian state,(That’s rich in fountains, and all celebrateFor nurse of flocks,) where He had vow’d a grove(Surnam’d Cyllenius) to his Godhead’s love.Yet even himself (although a God he were)Clad in a squalid sheepskin, govern’d thereA mortal’s sheep. For soft love ent’ring himConform’d his state to his conceited trim,And made him long, in an extreme degree,T’ enjoy the fair-hair’d virgin Dryope.Which ere he could, she made consummateThe flourishing rite of Hymen’s honour’d state;And brought him such a piece of progenyAs show’d, at first sight, monstrous to the eye,Goat-footed, two-horn’d, full of noise even then,And (opposite quite to other childeren)Told, in sweet laughter, he ought death no tear.Yet straight his mother start, and fled, in fear,The sight of so unsatisfying a thing,In whose face put forth such a bristled spring.Yet the most useful Mercury embrac’d,And took into his arms, his homely-fac’d,Beyond all measure joyful with his sight;And up to heaven with him made instant flight,Wrapp’d in the warm skin of a mountain hare,Set him by Jove, and made most merry fareTo all the Deities else with his son’s sight;Which most of all fill’d Bacchus with delight;And Pan they call’d him, since he brought to allOf mirth so rare and full a festival.And thus all honour to the shepherds’ King,For sacrifice to thee my Muse shall sing!