4497232Poems — The Dead PanElizabeth Barrett Barrett
The Dead Pan.
Excited by Schiller's "Gotter Griechenlands," and partly founded on a well-known tradition mentioned in a treatise of Plutarch ("De Oraculorum Defectu"), according to which, at the hour of the Saviour's agony, a cry of "Great Pan is dead!" swept across the waves in the hearing of certain mariners,—and the oracles ceased.
It is in all veneration to the memory of the deathless Schiller that I oppose a doctrine still more dishonouring to poetry than to Christianity.
As Mr. Kenyon's graceful and harmonious paraphrase of the German poem was the first occasion of the turning of my thoughts in this direction, I take advantage of the pretence to indulge my feelings (which overflow on other grounds) by inscribing my lyric to that dear friend and relative, with the earnestness of appreciating esteem as well as of affectionate gratitude.—E. B. B.
Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas! Can ye listen in your silence? Can your mystic voices tell us Where ye hide? In floating islands With a wind that evermore Keeps you out of sight of shore? Pan, Pan is dead.
In what revels are ye sunken In old Æthiopia? Have the pygmies made you drunken, Bathing in mandragora Your divine pale lips, that shiver Like the lotus in the river? Pan, Pan is dead.
Do ye sit there still in slumber, In gigantic Alpine rows? The black poppies out of number Nodding, dripping from your brows To the red lees of your wine,— And so kept alive and fine? Pan, Pan is dead.
Or lie crushed your stagnant corses Where the silver spheres roll on, Stung to life by centric forces Thrown like rays out from the sun!— While the smoke of your old altars Is the shroud that round you welters? Great Pan is dead.
Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, Said the old Hellenic tongue! Said the hero-oaths, as well as Poets' songs the sweetest sung! Have ye grown deaf in a day? Can ye speak not yea or nay— Since Pan is dead?
Do ye leave your rivers flowing All alone, O Naiades, While your drenched locks dry slow in This cold feeble sun and breeze?— Not a word the Naiads say, Though the rivers run for aye. For Pan is dead.
Fiona the gloaming of the oak wood, O ye Dryads, could ye flee? At the rushing thunder-stroke, would No sob tremble through the tree?— Not a word the Dryads say, Though the forests wave for aye. For Pan is dead.
Ha e ye left the mountain places, Oreads wild, for other tryst? Shall we see no sudden faces Strike a glory through the mist? Not a sound the silence thrills, Of the everlasting hills. Pan, Pan is dead.
O twelve gods of Plato's vision, Crowned to starry wanderings,— With your chariots in procession, And your silver clash of wings! Very pale ye seem to rise, Ghosts of Grecian deities— Now Pan is dead!
Jove! that right hand is unloaded, Whence the thunder did prevail: While, in idiocy of godhead, Thou art staring the stars pale! And thine eagle, blind and old, Roughs his feathers in the cold. Pan, Pan is dead.
Where, O Juno, is the glory Of thy regal look and tread? Will they lay, for evermore, thee On thy dim, straight, golden bed? Will thy queendom all lie hid Meekly under either lid? Pan, Pan is dead
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,—hound with his own vines! And his Maenads slowly saunter, Head aside, among the pines, While they murmur dreamingly,— "Evohe—ah—evohe—" Ah, Pan is dead.
Neptune lies beside the 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 eestus 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 snowstorm, Close beside her tenderly,— As if each had weakly tried Once to kiss her as he died. Pan, Pan is dead.
What, and Hermes! Time enthralleth All thy cunning, Hermes, thus,— And the ivy blindly crawleth "Round thy brave caduceus? Hast thou no new message for us, Full of thunder and Jove-glories? Nay! Pan is dead.
Crowned Cybele's great turret Rocks and crumbles on her bead: Roar the lions of her chariot Toward the wilderness, unfed: Scornful children are not mute,— "Mother, mother, walk a-foot— Since Pan is dead."
In the fiery-hearted centre Of the solemn universe, Ancient Vesta,—who could enter To consume thee with this 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 voice nor sign: Not a votary could secure you Even a grave for your Divine! Not a grave, to show thereby, Here these grey old gods do lie! Pan, 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.
And that dismal cry rose slowly, And sank slowly through the air; Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair! And they heard the words it said— Pan is dead—Great Pan is dead— Pan, Pan is dead.
'Twas the hour when One in Sion Hung for love's sake on a cross— When His brow was chill with dying, And his soul was faint with loss; When his priestly blood dropped downward, And his kingly eyes looked throneward— Then, Pan was dead.
By the love He stood alone in, His sole Godhead stood complete: And the false gods fell down moaning, Each from off his golden seat— All the false gods with a cry Rendered up their deity— Pan, Pan was dead.
Wailing wide across the islands, They rent, vest-like, their Divine! And a darkness and a silence Quenched the light of every shrine: And Dodona's oak swang lonely Henceforth, to the tempest only. Pan, Pan was dead.
Pythia staggered,—feeling o'er her, Her lost god's forsaking look, Straight her eyeballs filmed with horror And her crispy fillets shook— And her lips gasped through their foam, For a word that did not come. Pan, Pan was dead.
O ye vain false gods of Hellas, Ye are silent evermore! And I dash down this old chalice, Whence libations ran of yore. See! the wine crawls in the dust Wormlike—as your glories must! Since Pan is dead.
Get to dust, as common mortals, By a common doom and track! Let no Schiller from the portals Of that Hades call you hack,— Or instruct us to weep all At your antique funeral. Pan, Pan is dead.
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 debonaire romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phœbus' chariot-course is run! Look up, poets, to the sun! Pan, Pan is dead.
Christ hath sent us down the angels; And the whole earth and the skies Are illumed by altar-candles Lit for blessed mysteries. And a Priest's Hand, through creation, Waveth calm and consecration— And Pan is dead.
Truth is fair: should we forego it? Can we sigh right for a wrong? God Himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song. Sing His truth out fair and full, And secure His beautiful. Let Pan be dead.
Truth is large. Our aspiration Scarce embraces half we be. Shame! to stand in His creation And doubt Truth's sufficiency!— To think God's song unexcelling The poor tales of our own telling— When Pan is dead.
What is true and just and honest, What is lovely, what is pure— All of praise that hath admonisht,— All of virtue, shall endure,— These are themes for poets' uses, Stirring nobler than the Muses— Ere Pan was dead.
O brave poets, keep back nothing; Nor mix falsehood with the whole! Look up Godward! speak the truth in Worthy song from earnest soul! Hold, in high poetic duty, Truest Truth the fairest Beauty! Pan, Pan is dead.
