I.

Yours be yon dew-steep'd roses, yours be yon Thick-clustering ivy, maids of Helicon: Thine, Pythian Pæan, that dark-foliaged bay; With such thy Delphian crags thy front array. This horn'd and shaggy ram shall stain thy shrine, Who crops e'en now the feathering turpentine.

To Pan doth white-limbed Daphnis offer here (He once piped sweetly on his herdsman's flute) His reeds of many a stop, his barbèd spear, And scrip, wherein he held his hoards of fruit.