V

Beyond the rocks, below the trees, Of Downs

The great downs lie; nought but the breeze beloved

Is heard upon them. All day long by Pan.

The shadows of the great clouds throng

Across their sides: a noiseless rout.

Sometimes a peewit, blown about

By airy surge, cries a lone cry

Ere hurtled down the clarid sky;

Sometimes is heard a shepherd's voice

Shouting, and after it the noise

Of many-pattering crowded sheep

Herded within the gay dog's keep,

Who also, barking, shouts. Save these

Nought breaks the breezy silences

Of the green sun-swept, cloud-swept spaces....

Come ye, merry shepherds all,

Hulli-lulli-li-lo! FAUN'S RALLY.

Listen to my piping call:

Hulli-li-lo!

Hasten to Pan's festival;

Leave your sheep.

Cannot Pan a shrewd watch keep

O'er his own?

Safe are they as pent in stall;

Safe are they, for Pan has thrown

Fear about them like a wall.

Wherefore, shepherds, hither run.

I have set my pipes to lip;

Now they cry despondingly

As mid shaken locks I dip.

Now shrill — as hark!— I lift them high

To swirl the tune about the sky!

Up and down and round the sky

Till want I further force to blow....

Wherefore, shepherds, hither run,

Dance behind me as I skip;

Strike the tossed tambours in unison,

Dance, dance and make to dance the sun

To your Hulli-li-lo!

Faun, I come. I hear. We hear —

This my Hulli-li-lo:

Now afar and now anear.

Never sped the midnight deer

Half so fast

‘ Fore Diana's star-ringed spear

As now haste we to appear

At thy Hulli-li-lo!

Joy, O shepherds, at the sound:

Hulli-lulli-li-lo!

Pan's new altar I have found:

Hulli-li-lo!

Cowslips prank its holy mound,

With ivy have I wreathed it round —

But not yet

Is the altar's dress complete

Till with flowers its horns are bound.

Faun, we hear, and from the brook

Flags are pulled; and now we hook

Honeysuckle high, low

Down to us with shepherd's crook;

Breathing floss,

Clematis twines, rushy stook,

Apple blossom, down is shook

At thy Hulli-li-lo!

Wreathe the pedestal anew;

Hulli-lulli-li-lo!

Scatter violets scattering dew;

Hulli-li-lo!

Honey that the brown bees brew

Pour, and rosy blossoms strew;

Spill such wine

As in dim-bloomed clusters grew

On your father's father's vine.

Dance you now.

I my pipe cease — thus — to blow:

Dance you on.

Dance about the sacred mound,

Dance when every sound is gone....

Now the timbrels softly, sprightly

Beat, and foot it gaily, lightly;

Tiptoe o'er the secret ground,

Dance the round.

Next, to the sole, trilling flute

And your own subdued laughter

Flutter all in throngs and mazes,

Chase in streams of ardent faces,

With bright eyes and oped mouth mute.

Now alone,

One by one,

Dance and dream, and dreaming float

Till the multitude drifts after,

And I wake a quicker note:

Clap your hands aloft and cry;

Surge in line tumultuously;

Cry, and with a whirl of voices

Fright the pigeons whickering by!

Praise the God of field and fold!

Shout until the hills have told,

By their sudden echoes flying,

Flying, crying, falling, dying,

That upon his name we call,

Who beside the river lying

Hears us keep his festival.