Echo

Till the folding hills encircle us,
And the rock-chasms yawn in rude defile;
Then we'll rouse up Echo, shouting thus —
Echo, Echo, Echo, Pan is coming!
Pan, with all his horns and hunters coming!
Wake up, Echo, wake up swift from slumber!
And sweet Echo, half in joy, half fear,

At such olden, but o'er hasty greeting,
Quick from hill to hill the tale will bear,
Quick through gorge and glen our cry repeating,
Echo, Echo, Echo, Pan is coming!
Pan, with all his horns and hunters coming!
Wake up, Echo, wake up swift from slumber!
Pan! strange name to utter 'mid the glory

Of truth's sunshine, in this later day,
But poor Echo, born of pagan story,
Loves such salutation best, they say;
Shout then, Echo, Echo, Pan is coming!
Pan, with all his horns and hunters coming!
Wake up, Echo, wake up swift from slumber!