XVI. Aphrodite dead and driven XVII. And the Loves, we used to know from One another, huddled lie, XXI. Gods! we vainly do adjure you,— Ye return nor voice nor sign: Not a votary could secure you Even a grave for your Divine ! Not a grave, to show thereby, Here these grey old gods do lie. Pan, Pan is dead. XXII. Even that Greece who took your Calls the obolus outworn: [wages, And the hoarse deep-throated ages Laugh your godships unto scornAnd the poets do disclaim you, Or grow colder if they name you— And Pan is dead. XXIII. Gods bereaved, gods belated,— With your purples rent asunder! Time Gods discrowned and desecrated, Disinherited of thunder! XXVI. And that dismal cry rose slowly, PAN, PAN IS DEAD. XXVII. 'Twas the hour when One in Sion Hung for love's sake on a crossWhen His brow was chill with dying, And His soul was faint with loss; When His priestly blood dropped downward, And His kingly eyes looked throneward And her lips gasped through their For a word that did not come. XXXI. O ye vain false gods of Hellas, Wormlike—as your glories must! XXXII. Get to dust, as common mortals, Then, Pan was dead. At your antique funeral. XXVIII. By the love He stood alone in, Each from off his golden seat—- Pan, Pan was dead. XXIX. Wailing wide across the islands, XXX. Pythiastaggered,-feeling o'er her And her crispy fillets shook- Pan, Pan is dead OF English blood, of Tuscan | A little child !-how long she lived, birth, ... What country should we give her? Instead of any on the earth, The civic Heavens receive her II. And here, among the English tombs, In Tuscan ground we lay her, While the blue Tuscan skyendomes Our English words of prayer. By months, not years, reckoned: Born in one July, she survived Alone to see a second. IV. is Bright-featured, as the July sun Her little face, still played in, And splendours, with her birth begun, Had had no time for fading. |