We, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead;
His pipe hands mute beside the river;—
Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
But Music's airy voice is fled.
Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
The bluebird chants a requiem;
The willow-blossom waits for him;—
The Genius of the wood is lost."
Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
There came a low, harmonious breath: