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 keepst 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!
The Oxford Book of English Verse, Oxford: Clarendon
Press 1919
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