Poetry Archives

Sing his praises that doth keep
Our flocks from harm,
Pan, the father of our sheep;
And arm in arm
Tread we softly in a round,
Whilst the hollow murmuring ground
Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee
Thus do we sing!
Thou that keep’st us chaste and free
As the young spring;
Ever be thy honor spoke,
From that place the morn is broke,
To that place day doth unyoke!