III.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful. For Pan was 'graved upon it, rural Pan; He stood in horror in a marshy place Clasping a bending reed; he thought to clasp Syrinx, but clasped a reed, and nothing more! There was another picture of the god, When he had learned to play upon the flute; He sat at noon within a shady bower Piping, with all his listening herd around; (I thought at times I saw his fingers move, And caught his music: did I dream or not?) Hard by the Satyrs danced, and Dryads peeped From out the mossy trunks of ancient trees; And nice-eared Echo mocked him till he thought-- The simple god!--he heard another Pan Playing, and wonder shone in his large eyes! But I have broken my divinest cup, And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!