Bryan Waller Procter (1787–1874)

UNDER what beechen shade or silent oak

Lies the mute sylvan now, mysterious Pan?

Once, (while rich Peneus and Ilissus ran

Clear from their fountains,) as the morning broke,

’T is said the Satyr with Apollo spoke,

And to harmonious strife with his wild reed

Challenged the god, whose music was indeed

Divine, and fit for heaven. Each played, and woke

Beautiful sounds to life,—deep melodies;

One blew his pastoral pipe with such nice care

That flocks and birds all answered him; and one

Shook his immortal showers upon the air.

That music hath ascended to the sun;

But where the other? Speak, ye dells and trees!