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Ha, Apollo! Floats his golden
Hair, all mist-like where he stands ;
While the Muses hang enfolding
Knee and foot with faint wild hands.
'Neath the clanging of thy bow
Niobe looked lost as thou !

Pan, Pan is dead.

Shall the casque with its brown iron
Pallas' broad blue eyes eclipse,
And no hero take inspiring
From the God-greek of her lips?
'Neath her olive dost thou sit,
Mars the mighty, cursing it?

Pan, Pan is dead.

Bacchus, Bacchus ! on the Panther
He swoons, bound with his own vines !
And his Mænads slowly saunter,
Head aside among the pines.
While they murmur dreamingly,

Ah, Pan is dead.

Neptune lies beside his trident,
Dull and senseless as a stone :
And old Pluto, deaf and silent,
Is cast out into the sun.
Ceres smileth stern thereat,
“We all now are desolate”.

Now Pan is dead.

Aphrodite! dead and driven
As thy native foam thou art;
With the cestus long done heaving
On the white calm of thine heart!
Ai Adonis ! At that shriek
Not a tear runs down her cheek-

Pan, Pan is dead.

And the loves we used to know from
One another-huddled lie
Frore as taken in a snow-storm
Close beside her tenderly,-
As if each had weakly tried
Once to kiss her ere he died.

Pan, Pan is dead.

What, and Hermes ? Time entralleth
All thy cunning, Hermes, thus,-
And the ivy blindly crawleth
Round thy brave caduceus ?
Hast thou no new message
Full of thunder and Jove glories ?

Nay! Pan is dead.

for us


Crowned Cybele's great turret
Rocks and crumbles on her head :
Roar the lions of her chariot
Toward the wilderness unfed :
Scornful children are not mute,
“Mother, mother, walk afoot,

Since Pan is dead."

In the fiery-hearted centre
Of the solemn Universe,
Ancient Vesta, —who could enter
To consume thee with his curse?
Drop thy grey chin on thy knee,
O, thou palsied Mystery!

For Pan is dead.

Gods! we vainly do adjure you -
Ye return nor words nor sign :
Not a votary could secure yon
Even a grave for your Divine !
Not a grave to show thereby
Here those grey old gods do lie.

And Pan is dead.

Even that Greece who took your wages
Calls the Obolus outworn,
And the hoarse deep-throated ages
Laugh your godships unto scorn-
And the poets do disclaim you
Or grow colder if they name you—

And Pan is dead.

Gods bereaved, gods belated, -
With your purples rent asunder!
Gods discrowned and desecrated-
Disinherited of thunder !
Now the goats may climb and crop
The soft grass on Ida's top-

Now Pan is dead.

Calm of old, the bark went onward
When a cry more loud than wind
Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward,
From the pilèd Dark behind:
And the sun shrank and grew pale
Breathed against by the great wail-

“Pan, Pan is dead.”

And the rowers from the benches
Fell, each shuddering on his face-
While departing Influences
Struck a cold back through the place :
And the shadow of the ship
Reeled along the passive deep

Pan, Pan is dead.

I have no room for the rest, but I must find a place for one exquisite stanza :

O, ye vain false gods of Hellas,
Ye are silent evermore!
And I dash down this old chalice
Whence libations ran of

See! the wine crawls in the dust
Worm-like—as your glories must!

Since Pan is dead.

The last edition of Mrs Browning's poems closes with three-and-forty sonnets from the Portugueseglowing with passion, melting with tenderness. True love was never more fitly sung:

What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver!... who hast brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them on the outside of the wall
For such as I to take or leave withal
In unexpected largesse? Am I cold,
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
High gifts I render nothing back at all ?

Not cold !--but very poor instead !
Ask God, who knows ! for frequent tears have run
The colours from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.
Go farther! Let it serve to trample on.

Not so.

There is a deep truth in this which follows:

Yet love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright
Let temple burn or flax! An equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar plant or weed.
And love is fire: and when I say at need,
I love thee--mark !—I love thee! in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright
With conscience of the new rays that proceed
Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures
Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel, across the inferior features,
Of what I am doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of love enhances Nature's.

The same visit to London that brought me acquainted with my beloved friend, Elizabeth Barrett,

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