Not this year will the hamadryads sing
The old-time songs of Arcady that ran
Down the Lycæan glades; the joyous ring
Of satyr dancers call away their clan;
Not this year follow on the ripened Spring
The Summer pipes of Pan.
Cometh a time--as times have come before--
When the loud legions rushing in array,
The flying bullet and the cannon roar,
Scatter the Forest Folk in pale dismay
To hie them far from their green dancing floor,
And wait a happier day.
Yet think not that your Forest Folk are dead;
To this old haunt, when friend has vanquished foe,
They will return anon with lightsome tread
And labour that this place they love and know,
All broken now and bruised, may raise its head
And still in beauty grow.
Wherefore they wait the coming of good time
In the green English woods down Henley way,
In meadows where the tall cathedrals chime,
Or watching from the white St. Margaret's Bay,
Or North among the heather hills that climb
Above the Tweed and Tay.
And you, our fighters in the woods of France,
Take heart and smite their enemy, the Hun,
Who knows not Arcady, by whom the dance
Of fauns is scattered, at whose deeds the sun
Hides in despair; strike boldly and perchance
The work will soon be done.
To you, so fighting, messengers will bring
The comfort of quiet places; in the din
Of battle you shall hear the murmuring
Of the home winds and waters; there will win
Through to your hearts the word, "Still Pan is king;
His Midsummer is in."
C. HILTON BROWN.
June 23, 1915.