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DRYAD SONG
WHEN the wolds of Lycæus are silvery fair,
When Mænalian forests are doubtful and dim,
When the hound strains the leash and the wolf quits his lair,
And the startled fawn flies from the fountain's cool rim;
When with panting delight we impatiently follow
The shuddering stags over hillock and hollow,—
A form from the shadows comes bounding out,
And we know it is Pan by his horrid shout:
A form from the shadows comes bounding out,
At head of the Satyrs' impetuous rout,
And we know it is Pan, we know it is Pan,
We know it is Pan by his horrid shout!
When hidden with Dian in deep woodland bower,
We loosen her quiver, her sandals unbind,
Bathe her beautiful feet in the pearl-trickling shower,
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