I ’LL seek him yet: in some warm nook
He lies asleep beside the brook,
Drugged by the spicy gales that pass ;
His pipe beside him on the grass
Lies but half trimmed, — just as it fell
When Sleep cast o’er him her soft spell.
I ’ll seek him yet: he does not hear
The bee that drones beside his ear,
Half buried in the nectared gloom
Of some sweet-burdened, purple bloom.
Above him droop the cooling leaves;
His shaggy bosom falls and heaves,
In his deep slumber’s quietness;
He will not hear me, though I press,
Through woven bough and vine and flower,
Quite into his sleep-charmëd bower.
Ah me, how soundly he hath slept!
How well the mossy wood hath kept
Its secret old ! The poppied gales,
Blown softly by, have told no tales
Of sleeping Pan, while far astray
His white flock goes this many a day.
I’ll seek him yet: somewhere he lies
Well screened from peering human eyes;
And though his hoof-marks, as I know,
From mortal sight passed long ago,
Still I will tread the sylvan aisles
And sunny meadows, miles and miles ;
I ’ll follow hard the dragon-fly,
As down the stream he circles by ;
I ’ll track the wild bee from its home
To that fair place whence it hath come,
Where, hoarding still their honeyed store,
Bloom such rare flowers as starred of yore
The shining slopes of Arcady.
So I will seek him yet; ah me !
Though human foot hath never trod
The leafy lair where lies the god,
Who knows but by some happy chance
I yet may rouse him from his trance !
James B. Kenyon.