Thereat he heaved his brows; saw the starved fields, The waste and horror of a world’s eclipse; And all the wrong and all the pity of it Rushed from him in a roar:— "I’m passed, deposed: call on another Pan! Call Christ—the ates foretel him—he’ll respond. I’m old; grown impotent; a toothless dog. New times, new blood: the world forgets my voice. This Christ supplants me: call on him, I say. Whence comes he? Whence, if not from off the streets? Some coxcomb of the Schools, belike—some green, Anæmic, theoretic verderer, Shaping his wood-lore from the Herbary, And Nature from his brazen window-pots. The Fates these days have gone to live in town— Grown doctrinaires—forgot their rustic loves. Call on their latest nominee—call, call! He’ll ease thee of thy produce, bear it home, And in alembics test and recompose it. Call, in thine agony—loud—call on Christ: He’ll hear maybe, and maybe understand!" "No Pan," she wailed: "No other Pan than thou!" "What!" roared he, mocking: "Christ not understand? Your loves, your lores, your secrets—will he not? Not by his books be master of your heart? Gods! I am old. I speak but by the woods; And often nowadays to rebel ears. He’ll do you better: fold your fogs in bales; Redeem your swamps; sweep up your glowing leaves; People his straight pastures with your broods; Shape you for man, to be his plain helpmeet; No toys, no tricks, no mysteries, no sports— But sense and science, scorning smiles and tears." Raging, he rose: A light broke on the snow: The ice upon the river cracked and spun: Long milky-ways of green and starry flowers Grew from the thaw: the trees nipped forth in bud: The falcon sleeked the wren; the stoat the hare; And Nature with a cry delivered was. Pan stared: A naked child stood there before him, Warming a frozen robin in his hands. Shameless the boy was, fearless, white as milk; No guile or harm; a sweet rogue in his eyes. And he looked up and smiled, and lisped a word:— "Brother, _thou_ take and cure him, make him well. Or teach _me_ of thy lore his present needs." "_Brother!_" choked Pan. "_My_ father was a God. Who art thou?" "Nature’s baby," said the child. "Man was _my_ father; and my name is Christ." He slid his hand within the woodman’s palm:— "Dear elder brother, guide me in my steps. I bring no gift but love, no tricks but love’s— To make sweet flowers of frost—locked hearts unfold— The coney pledge the weasel in a kiss. Canst thou do these?" "No, by my beard," said Pan. Gaily the child laughed: "Clever brother thou art; Yet can I teach thee something." "All," said Pan. He groaned; the child looked up; flew to his arms:— "O, by the womb that bore us both, do love me!"