"_O! Pan, great Pan! This mortal thy kingdom of beauty would span, And she would learn of the singing seasons' Wonderful featness; of all the reasons. The hill and the wood and the rippling rill The air with different melodies fill; Where bonnibel April latest was sent, When May filled the world with her wonderment! Who teaches the cuckoo his twin-bell call? The opening notes of a festival To jubilate the reign of the summer Beauteous, queenliest, rosy-robed comer. O Pan! I bring A mortal whose soul is afire to sing._" Pan smiled--a smile like a twisted oak-- Then beckoned to me, while the forest spoke, "Evoë, great Pan," sang the lark on high, "Evoë, great Pan," from the uttermost sky; I drew near and stood beside his knee: He handed his reeded flute to me, And kept his eyes, of a forest green, On my trembling hands. O! well, I ween, He knew that my amateur hands were weak, For the spirit of me was meek, so meek, And his green eyes glimmered with rising glee. My masterful Lover whispered to me, "_Put your lips to the flute with mine, Heedless of self-hood, in song be divine._" And placing near mine his golden-sweet mouth, A rondeau he sang of the forest's youth. Pan spoke at last: "Child! wander and learn The lilt of the bird and the song of the burn: And when thou hast learned from the burn and the bird Thou'lt find me again" (the forest heart stirred). "Hail! child from the plaintful Kingdom of Man." The mountain-tops shouted, "Evoë, great Pan!" The rivers sang deeply, "Evoë, great Pan!" And whisperingly I, "Evoë, great Pan!" SECOND DAY The rose-trees show but a tuft of green Where a stern, cold pruning-knife has been, But they promise a summer of fragrant wealth: How the small buds come to the light by stealth Like pixies shy; yet a pruning knife Leads every browny-bare branch to life. Slowly I passed thro' the rustic gate, Where wine-red roses will hold June fête; The wind stole out from the blossoming row Of the cherry-trees, and he whispered low: "_Are you content to be bound by a wall, E'en tho' it boundeth things beautiful? Tho' cherry and apple bloom over it fall, Always it is, and it hath been, a wall. 'Tis true that thro' it there is a wicket, But what can it know of the wild grown thicket That grows where its pathway may never wander: Out of this garden--the blue land yonder?_" And a cuckoo called; and the echo ran, "Evoë, Evoë, Evoë, great Pan!"