Pan

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

      This modern world is grey and old,

And what remains to us of thee?

No more the shepherd lads in glee

      Throw apples at thy wattled fold,

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Nor through the laurels can one see

      Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,

And what remains to us of thee?

And dull and dead our Thames would be,

      For here the winds are chill and cold,

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Then keep the tomb of Helicé,

      Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,

And what remains to us of thee?

Though many an unsung elegy

      Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Ah, what remains to us of thee?

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,

      Thy satyrs and their wanton play,

This modern world hath need of thee.

No nymph or Faun indeed have we,

      For Faun and nymph are old and grey,

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This is the land where liberty

      Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,

This modern world hath need of thee!

A land of ancient chivalry

      Where gentle Sidney saw the day,

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This fierce sea-lion of the sea,

      This England lacks some stronger lay,

This modern world hath need of thee!

Then blow some trumpet loud and free,

      And give thine oaten pipe away,

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This modern world hath need of thee!