Not always in fair Grecian bowers Piped ancient Pan, to charm the hours. Once in a thousand years he stray'd Round earth, and all his realms survey'd. And fairer in the world were none Than those bright scenes he look'd upon, Where Ulph's sweet lake her valleys woo'd, And Windar all her isles renew'd. For, long ere Kirkstone's rugged brow Was worn by mortal feet as now, Great Pan himself the Pass had trod, And rested on the heights, a God! Who climbs from Ulph's fair valley sees, Still midway couched on Kirkstone-Screes, Old as the hills, his Dog on high, At gaze athwart the southern sky. A rock, upon that rocky lair, It lives from out the times that were, When hairy Pan his soul to cheer Look'd from those heights on Windermere. There piped he on his reed sweet lays, Piped his great heart's delight and praise; While Nature, answering back each tone, Joy'd the glad fame to find her own. "Could I, while men at distance keep," Said Pan, "in yon bright waters peep, And watch their ripples come and go, And see what treasures hide below! "Rivall'd is my fair Greece's store, My own Parnassian fields and shore! I will delight me, and behold Myself in yon bright Mere of gold." Like thought, his Dog sprang to yon lair To watch the heights and sniff the air: Like thought, on Helm a Lion frown'd, To guard the northern Pass's bound: And with his mate a mighty Pard On Langdale-head, kept watchful ward:-- That great God Pan his soul might cheer, Glass'd in the depths of Windermere. Then down the dell from steep to steep, With many a wild and wayward leap, The God descending stood beside His image on the golden tide. His shaggy sides in full content He sunn'd, and o'er the waters bent; Then hugg'd himself the reeds among, And piped his best Arcadian song. What was it, as he knelt and drew The wave to sip, that pierced him through? What whispered sound, what stifled roar, Has reached him listening on the shore? He shivers on the old lake stones; He leans, aghast, to catch the groans Which come like voices uttering woe Up all the streams, and bid him go. Onward the looming troubles roll, All centring towards his mighty soul. He shriek'd! and in a moment's flight, Stunn'd, through the thickets plunged from sight. Plunged he, his unking'd head to hide With goats and herds in forests wide? Or down beneath the rocks to lie, Shut in from leaves, and fields, and sky? Gone was the great God out from earth! Gone, with his pipe of tuneful mirth! Whither, and wherefore, men may say Who stood where Pilate mused that day. And with that breath that crisp'd the rills, And with that shock that smote the hills, A moment Nature sobb'd and mourn'd, And things of life to rocks were turned.