University of Virginia Library

Stop running more. You must—indeed you shall.
See how your feet are hurt. Your breath comes fast
And all in vain. Light as you are, you see
I can outrun you, and these briers and brakes
That tear your tender feet will never harm
My horny hoofs. Why do you fly from me?
I mean no ill. Stop. Rest upon this bank,
Soft with green mosses, sprinkled with quaint flowers,
And listen to me while you get your breath.
Bacchus is in the distant vale, so far
His cymbals scarcely reach us—far away
Silenus and his rout—they'll never hear
Though you should scream with all your little voice.
I am a coarse, rough fellow, but I love
Such smooth, white-limbed, soft-footed things as you.
What shall I do to make you love me back,
And twine those arms around this hairy neck?
What shall I give you for a kiss? Come, sit
On these rough shaggy knees, and smooth my cheeks
With your soft hands. Bacchus is fairer far;
But he, the fickle, vain, conceited god,
Loves but himself, and changes every hour
For some new fancy. I will be more true,
And love forever. Ah! we ugly gods
Alone are constant, and that Venus knew
When she preferred to all the dandy crew
Stern, black, old Vulcan.

Oh! dear little feet!
Dear little hands, so rosy, tapering, slight.
See, how they look against these hands and hoofs,
That never will be tired to work for you.

Nay! if you will not sit upon my knee,
Lie on that bank, and listen while I play
A sylvan song upon these reedy pipes.
In the full moonrise as I lay last night
Under the alders on Peneus' banks,
Dabbling my hoofs in the cool stream, that welled
Wine-dark with gleamy ripples round their roots,
I made the song the while I shaped the pipes.
'T is all of you and love, as you shall hear.
The drooping lilies, as I sang it, heaved
Upon their broad green leaves, and underneath,
Swift silvery fishes, poised on quivering fins,
Hung motionless to listen; in the grass
The crickets ceased to shrill their tiny bells;
And even the nightingale, that all the eve
Hid in the grove's deep green, had throbbed and thrilled,
Paused in his strain of love to list to mine.
Bacchus is handsome, but such songs as this
He cannot shape, and better loves the clash
Of brazen cymbals than my reedy pipes.
Fair as he is without, he 's coarse within—
Gross in his nature, loving noise and wine;
And, tipsy, half the time goes reeling round,
Leaning on old Silenus' shoulders fat.
But I have scores of songs that no one knows,
Not even Apollo, no, nor Mercury—
Their strings can never sing like my sweet pipes—
Some, that will make fierce tigers rub their fur
Against the oak-trunks for delight, or stretch
Their flat sides for my pillow on the sward.
Some, that will make the satyrs' clattering hoofs
Leap when they hear, and from their noonday dreams
Start up to stamp a wild and frolic dance
In the green shadows. Ay! and better songs,
Made for the delicate nice ears of nymphs,
Which while I sing my pipes shall imitate
The droning bass of honey-seeking bees,
The tinkling tenor of clear pebbly streams,
The breezy alto of the alders' sighs,
And all the airy sounds that lull the grove
When noon falls fast asleep among the hills.
Not only these,—for I can pipe to you
Songs that will make the slippery vipers pause,
And stay the stags to gaze with their great eyes;
Such songs—and you shall hear them, if you will—
That Bacchus' self would give his hide to hear.

If you'll but love me, every day I'll bring
The coyest flowers, such as you never saw,
To deck you with. I know their secret nooks—
They cannot hide themselves away from Pan.
And you shall have rare garlands; and your bed
Of fragrant mosses shall be sprinkled o'er
With violets like your eyes—just for a kiss.
Love me, and you shall do whate'er you like,
And shall be tended wheresoe'er you go,
And not a beast shall hurt you—not a toad
But at your bidding give his jewel up.
The speckled shining snakes shall never bite,
But twist like bracelets round your rosy arms,
And keep your bosom cool in the hot noon.
You shall have berries ripe of every kind,
And luscious peaches, and wild nectarines,
And sun-flecked apricots, and honeyed dates,
And wine from bee-stung grapes drunk with the sun
(Such wine as Bacchus never tasted yet).
And not a poisonous plant shall have the power
To tetter your white flesh, if you'll love Pan.
And then I'll tell you tales that no one knows;
Of what the pines talk in the summer nights
When far above you hear them murmuring
As they sway whispering to the lifting breeze—
And what the storm shrieks to the struggling oaks
As it flies through them hurrying to the sea
From mountain crags and cliffs. Or, when you 're sad,
I'll tell you tales that solemn cypresses
Have murmured to me. There 's not anything
Hid in the woods and dales and dark ravines,
Shadowed in dripping caves, or by the shore,
Slipping from sight, but I can tell to you.
Plump, dull-eared Bacchus, thinking of himself,
Never can catch a syllable of this;
But with my shaggy ear against the grass
I hear the secrets hidden underground,
And know how in the inner forge of Earth,
The pulse-like hammers of creation beat.
Old Pan is ugly, rough, and rude to see,
But no one knows such secrets as old Pan.
What shall I give you for a kiss? I must,
Will have it. See, these iris-colored shells,
So curiously veined with gleamy pearl—
Rare shells, that Venus covets, and would give
A thousand kisses for—shall all be yours;—
And these great pearls too, and red coral beads,
Worn round by the smooth sea,—you shall have all.
Strung on your neck, and, rolling there between
Your budding breasts, how pretty they will look!
Do not refuse old Pan one kiss. By Zeus,
How beautiful this soft and waving hair
(Not like my bristling curls)!—how it creeps round
Your shining shoulders, by the zephyr stirred,
As if it loved them! I can scarcely keep
My fingers from those shoulders' sweeps and curves.
My arms desire to clasp that lithe slight waist.
One kiss—one kiss—I will—nay, throw not back
That chin and throat, and, with that rosy mouth,
Laugh as you push me off. I must—I will.
You make me mad. My very fingers itch.
Come, or I'll butt my head against this tree,
And poor old Pan's pipes will be heard no more.
Don't laugh at me, and kick me in the breast
With those white feet; I'll bite them if you do!
You wilful minx, have pity on old Pan—
Have pity, or I'll seize you round the waist,
And, whether you will or not, I'll have my kiss.