When Pan Blew On His Pipes

By Alex. Campbell.

When Pan blew on his pipes, they say
The Ancients ran to the woods for a space,
Where, with fauns and dryads and nymphs at play,
They danced in the groves at a merry pace –
When Pan blew on his pipes.

For the magic notes of his woodland songs,
Did quicken their blood, with a fire that drove
Them out from the cities in joyous throngs,
To seek the fair visions by hill and grove –
When Pan blew on his pipes.

But now Pan’s pipes blow far less clear;
They are muffled and sometimes sound unsure,
Yet not so low that the listening ear
Does not yield to the charm of their old allure –
When Pan blows on his pipes

For the heart, half pagan, still will hear
The call to the hill, to the wild, to the sea;
Where the sun and the wind make welcome cheer
For the Rambler and lover of Nature free –
When Pan blows on his pipes.

For to feel the play of the sportive winds,
To live in the sunbeams as they fall,
From these come the joy that the Rambler finds,
As he wanders afield obeying the call –
When Pan blows on his pipes.

Envoi.

So when the sunset hour shall fall,
And the shadows creep round the Rambler old,
He shall go to his rest under night’s dark pall,
With joy; how the hours were touched with gold,
When Pan blew on his pipes.