ON A RURAL IMAGE OF PAN.
FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.
Sleep, ye rude winds! Be every murmur dead
On yonder oak-crowned promontory’s head!
Be still, ye bleating flocks—your shepherd calls.
Hang silent on your rocks, ye waterfalls!
Pan on his oaten pipe awakes the strains,
And fills with dulcet sounds the pastoral plains.
Lured by his notes, the nymphs their bowers forsake,
From every fountain, running stream, and lake,