Hymn to Pan

SING his praises that doth keep
Our flocks from harm,

Pan, the father of our sheep;

And arm in arm

Tread we softly in a round,

While the hollow neighb'ring ground

Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee

Thus do we sing:

Thou that keep'st us chaste and free,

As the young spring.

Ever be thy honour spoke,

From that place the morn is broke,

To that place day doth unyoke!

- Beaumont and Fletcher.

Now the glories of the year
May be viewed at the best,
And the earth doth now appear
In her fairest garments drest:
Sweetly smelling plants and flowers
Do perfume the garden bowers;
Hill and valley, wood and field,
Mixed with pleasure profits yield.

Much is found where nothing was,
Herds on every mountain go,
In the meadows flowery grass
Makes both milk and honey flow;
Now each orchard banquets giveth,
Every hedge with fruit relieveth;

For Summer Time

And on every shrub and tree
Useful fruits or berries be.

Walks and ways which winter marr'd
By the winds are swept and dried;
Moorish grounds are now so hard
That on them we safe may ride:

Warmth enough the sun doth lend us,
From his heat the shades defend us;
And thereby we share in these
Safety, profit, pleasure, ease.

Other blessings, many more,
At this time enjoyed may be,
And in this my song therefore
Praise I give, O Lord! to Thee:
Grant that this my free oblation
May have gracious acceptation,
And that I may well employ
Everything which I enjoy.

George Wither.