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With flower-enwoven tresses torn,
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn." I

Many a poet has lamented the change. For even if the head did profit, for a time, by the revolt against the divine prerogative of nature, it is more than possible that the heart lost in due proportion. Indeed, it is only a false Christianity that fails to recognize God's presence in the birds of the air and the lilies of the field as well as in man. True Christianity is not selfish.

His sorrow at this loss of imaginative sympathy among the moderns, Wordsworth expresses in the sonnet, already cited, beginning, “ The world is too much with us."? Schiller, also, by his poem, The Gods of Greece, has immortalized his sorrow for the decadence of the ancient mythology. It was this poem that provoked the well-known reply of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, contained in “The Dead Pan.” Her argument may be gathered from the following stanzas : —

“ By your beauty which confesses

Some chief Beauty conquering you,
By our grand heroic guesses
Through your falsehood at the True,
We will weep not! earth shall roll
Heir to each god's aureole,

And Pan is dead.

“ Earth outgrows the mythic fancies

Sung beside her in her youth;
And those debonair romances
Sound but dull beside the truth.
Phæbus' chariot course is run!
Look up, poets, to the sun!

Pan, Pan is dead.”

True enough from the philosophical point of view, but hardly from the poetic. Phoebus' chariot course shall not be finished so long as there is a sun, or a poet to gaze upon it. And that Pan

1 Milton, Hymn to the Nativity.

3 $ 54.

is not yet dead, but alive even in the practical atmosphere of our western world, the exquisite poem here appended would indicate : - ) . .

Just where the Treasury's marble front 1

Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations,
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont ,

To throng for trade and last quotations, --
Where, hòur by hour, the rates of gold

Outrival, in the ears of people,
The quarter-chimes, serenely told

From Trinity's undaunted steeple.in

Even there I heard a strange wild strain

Sound high above the modern clamor,
Above the cries of greed and gain,

The curbstone war, the auction's hammer,
And swift, on Music's misty ways,

It led, from all this strife for millions,
To ancient sweet-do-nothing days

Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

And as it still'd the multitude,

And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,
I saw the minstrel where he stood

At ease against a Doric pillar :
e One hand a droning organ play'd,

The other held a Pan's pipe (fashion'd
Like those of old) to lips that made

The reeds give out that strain impassion'd.

'Twas Pan himself had wandered here,

A-strolling through the sordid city,
And piping to the civic ear

The prelude of some pastoral ditty!
The demigod had cross'd the seas, —

From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,
And Syracusan times, — to these

Far shores and twenty centuries later.

1 By Edmund Clarence Stedman.

A ragged cap was on his head:

But - hidden thus - there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,

His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting: His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,

Were cross'd, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patch'd of divers hues,

Conceal'd his crooked shanks beneath them.

He fill'd the quivering reeds with sound,

And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, And with his goat's eyes look'd around

Where'er the passing current drifted; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills

The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills,

With clerks and porters, crowded near him.

The bulls and bears together drew

From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true,

Came beasts from every wooded valley; The random passers stay'd to list,

A boxer Ægon, rough and merry, A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst .With Naïs at the Brooklyn Ferry.

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long

In tatter'd cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng,

A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; While old Silenus stagger'd out

From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout,

To strike up “Yankee Doodle Dandy!”

A newsboy and a peanut girl

Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl,

Her tawny legs were bare and taper. And still the gathering larger grew,

And gave its pence and crowded nigher,

While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew

His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

O heart of Nature! beating still

With throbs her vernal passion taught her,--
Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,

Or by the Arethusan water !
New forms may fold the speech, new lands

Arise within these ocean portals,
But Music waves eternal wands, –

Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

So thought I; — but among us trod

A man in blue with legal baton;
And scoff'd the vagrant demigod,

And push'd him from the step I sat on.
Doubting I mused upon the cry –

“Great Pan is dead!” — and all the people
Went on their ways: — and clear and high

The quarter sounded from the steeple.

§ 117. Of the company of the lesser gods of earth, beside Pan, were the Sileni, the Sylvans, the Fauns, and the Satyrs, all male; the Oreads and the Dryads or Hamadryads, female. To these may be added the Naiads, for, although they dwelt in the streams, their association with the deities of earth was intimate. Of the nymphs, the Oreads and the Naiads were immortal. The love of Pan for Syrinx has already been mentioned, and his musical contest with Apollo. Of Silenus we have seen something in the adventures of Bacchus. What kind of existence the Satyr enjoyed is conveyed in the following soliloquy:

“The trunk of this tree,?

Dusky-leaved, shaggy-rooted,

Is a pillow well suited
To a hybrid like me,

Goat-bearded, goat-footed;

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