X

The pipe of Pan, to shepherds Couched in the shadow of Mænalian pines, Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leopards, That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines, How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang! While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground In cadence,--and Silenus swang This way and that, with wild-flowers crowned. To life, to life give back thine ear: Ye who are longing to be rid Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell Echoed from the coffin-lid; The convict's summons in the steeple's knell; "The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore, Repeated-heard, and heard no more!