Beyond the rocks, below the trees, Of Downs The great downs lie; nought but the breeze beloved Is heard upon them. All day long by Pan. The shadows of the great clouds throng
Across their sides: a noiseless rout. Sometimes a peewit, blown about By airy surge, cries a lone cry Ere hurtled down the clarid sky;
Sometimes is heard a shepherd's voice Shouting, and after it the noise Of many-pattering crowded sheep Herded within the gay dog's keep,
Who also, barking, shouts. Save these Nought breaks the breezy silences Of the green sun-swept, cloud-swept spaces.... Come ye, merry shepherds all,
Hulli-lulli-li-lo! FAUN'S RALLY. Listen to my piping call: Hulli-li-lo! Hasten to Pan's festival;
Leave your sheep. Cannot Pan a shrewd watch keep O'er his own? Safe are they as pent in stall;
Safe are they, for Pan has thrown Fear about them like a wall. Wherefore, shepherds, hither run. I have set my pipes to lip;
Now they cry despondingly As mid shaken locks I dip. Now shrill — as hark!— I lift them high To swirl the tune about the sky!
Up and down and round the sky Till want I further force to blow.... Wherefore, shepherds, hither run, Dance behind me as I skip;
Strike the tossed tambours in unison, Dance, dance and make to dance the sun To your Hulli-li-lo! Faun, I come. I hear. We hear —
This my Hulli-li-lo: Now afar and now anear. Never sped the midnight deer Half so fast
‘ Fore Diana's star-ringed spear As now haste we to appear At thy Hulli-li-lo! Joy, O shepherds, at the sound:
Hulli-lulli-li-lo! Pan's new altar I have found: Hulli-li-lo! Cowslips prank its holy mound,
With ivy have I wreathed it round — But not yet Is the altar's dress complete Till with flowers its horns are bound.
Faun, we hear, and from the brook Flags are pulled; and now we hook Honeysuckle high, low Down to us with shepherd's crook;
Breathing floss, Clematis twines, rushy stook, Apple blossom, down is shook At thy Hulli-li-lo!
Wreathe the pedestal anew; Hulli-lulli-li-lo! Scatter violets scattering dew; Hulli-li-lo!
Honey that the brown bees brew Pour, and rosy blossoms strew; Spill such wine As in dim-bloomed clusters grew
On your father's father's vine. Dance you now. I my pipe cease — thus — to blow: Dance you on.
Dance about the sacred mound, Dance when every sound is gone.... Now the timbrels softly, sprightly Beat, and foot it gaily, lightly;
Tiptoe o'er the secret ground, Dance the round. Next, to the sole, trilling flute And your own subdued laughter
Flutter all in throngs and mazes, Chase in streams of ardent faces, With bright eyes and oped mouth mute. Now alone,
One by one, Dance and dream, and dreaming float Till the multitude drifts after, And I wake a quicker note:
Clap your hands aloft and cry; Surge in line tumultuously; Cry, and with a whirl of voices Fright the pigeons whickering by!
Praise the God of field and fold! Shout until the hills have told, By their sudden echoes flying, Flying, crying, falling, dying,
That upon his name we call, Who beside the river lying Hears us keep his festival.
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