210. Hymn to Pan

John Fletcher. 1579-1625

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 neighbouring ground
Fills the music with her sound.

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

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition