Hymn to Pan

 SING his praises that doth keep
 Our flocks from harm.

Pan, the father of our sheep;
 And arm in arm
Tread we softly in a round,
Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground
Fills the music with her sound.


Pan, O great god Pan, to thee
 Thus do we sing!
Thou who keep'st us chaste and free
 As the young spring:
Ever be thy honour spoke
From that place the morn is broke
To that place day doth unyoke!

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