| |
| WE, sighing, said, “Our Pan is dead; | |
| His pipe hangs mute beside the river; | |
| Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, | |
| But Music’s airy voice is fled. | |
| Spring mourns as for untimely frost; | 5 |
| The bluebird chants a requiem; | |
| The willow-blossom waits for him; | |
| The Genius of the wood is lost.” | |
| |
| Then from the flute, untouched by hands, | |
| There came a low, harmonious breath: | 10 |
| “For such as he there is no death; | |
| His life the eternal life commands; | |
| Above man’s aims his nature rose: | |
| The wisdom of a just content | |
| Made one small spot a continent, | 15 |
| And turned to poetry Life’s prose. | |
| |
| “Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, | |
| Swallow and aster, lake and pine, | |
| To him grew human or divine,— | |
| Fit mates for this large-hearted child. | 20 |
| Such homage Nature ne’er forgets, | |
| And yearly on the coverlid | |
| ’Neath which her darling lieth hid | |
| Will write his name in violets. | |
| |
| “To him no vain regrets belong, | 25 |
| Whose soul, that finer instrument, | |
| Gave to the world no poor lament, | |
| But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. | |
| O lonely friend! he still will be | |
| A potent presence, though unseen,— | 30 |
| Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: | |
| Seek not for him,—he is with thee.” | |
| |
