Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/449

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Syrinx, whom Jove, in his anger, changed
To those tall, green, wavering, trembling reeds,
That, down where yon tide flows broad and deep,
Are watching their shadows, till steers and steeds,
Coming to drink at the ford hard by,
Tread them to death so heedlessly.

At eve Pan rose, and that little blue flower,
The Forget-me-not, he pluck'd with care,
And placed on his bosom, in memory
Of Syrinx, and love that she would not share;
Then into the depth of the forest strode,
Careless of path and heedless of road.

Whither he went no Greek can tell;
But, in April evenings and autumn eves
We sometimes hear, or think we hear,
His feeble song ooze through the leaves,
For the old, old Pan, still brooding, stays,
Lamenting these lingering latter days.

T. W.