John Fletcher: Hymn to Pan
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Hymn to Pan

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!


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