Psyche and Pan

The gentle River, in her Cupid's honour,
Because he used to warm the very wave,
Did ripple aside, instead of closing on her,
And cast up Psyche, with a refluence brave,
Upon the flowery bank, — all sad and sinning.
Then Pan, the rural god, by chance was leaning
Along the brow of waters as they wound,
Kissing the reed-nymph till she sank to ground,
And teaching, without knowledge of the meaning,
To run her voice in music after his
Down many a shifting note; (the goats around,
In wandering pasture and most leaping bliss,
Drawn on to crop the river's flowery hair).
And as the hoary god beheld her there,
The poor, worn, fainting Psyche! — knowing all
The grief she suffered, he did gently call
Her name, and softly comfort her despair: —
"O wise, fair lady, I am rough and rude,
And yet experienced through my weary age!
And if I read aright, as soothsayer should,
Thy faltering steps of heavy pilgrimage,
Thy paleness, deep as snow we cannot see
The roses through, — thy sighs of quick returning,
Thine eyes that seem, themselves, two souls in mourning,—
Thou lovest, girl, too well, and bitterly!
But hear me: rush no more to a headlong fall:
Seek no more deaths! leave wail, lay sorrow down,
And pray the sovran god; and use withal
Such prayer as best may suit a tender youth,
Well-pleased to bend to flatteries from thy mouth,
And feel them stir the myrtle of his crown."
— So spake the shepherd-god; and answer none
Gave Psyche in return: but silently
She did him homage with a bended knee,
And took the onward path. —