Hymn XI: To Pan

Strong past'ral Pan, with suppliant voice I call,
Heav'n, sea, and earth, the mighty queen of all,
Immortal fire ; for all the world is thine,
And all are parts of thee, O pow'r divine.
Come, blessed Pan, whom rural haunts delight,
Come, leaping, agile, wand'ring, starry light.
Thron'd with the Seasons, Bacchanalian Pan,
Goat-footed, horn'd, from whom the world began ;
Whose various parts, by thee inspir'd, combine
In endless dance and melody divine.
In thee a refuge from our fears we find,
Those fears peculiar to the humankind.
Thee, shepherds, streams of water, goats rejoice,
Thou lov'st the chase and Echo's secret voice :
The sportive Nymphs thy ev'ry step attend,
And all thy works fulfill their destin'd end.
O all-producing pow'r, much-fam'd, divine,
The world's great ruler, rich increase is thine.
All-fertile Pean, heavenly splendour pure,
In fruits rejoicing, and in caves obscure.
True serpent-horned Jove, whose dreadful rage,
When rous'd, 'tis hard for mortals to assuage.
By thee the earth wide-bosom'd, deep and long,
Stands on a basis permanent and strong.
Th' unwearied waters of the rolling sea,
Profoundly spreading, yield to thy decree.
Old Ocean, too, reveres thy high command,
Whose liquid arms begird the solid land.
The spacious air, whose nutrimental fire
And vivid blasts the heat of life inspire ;
The lighter frame of fire, whose sparkling eye
Shines on the summit of the azure sky,
Submit alike to thee, whose gen'ral sway
All parts of matter, various form'd, obey.
All natures change thro' thy protecting care,
And all mankind thy lib'ral bounties share ;
For these, where'er dispers'd thro' boundless space,
Still find thy providence support their race.
Come, Bacchanalian, blessed pow'r, draw near,
Enthusiastic Pan, thy suppliants hear,
Propitious to these holy rites attend,
And grant our lives may meet a prosp'rous end;
Drive panic fury too, wherever found,
From humankind to earth's remotest bound.