SING his praises that doth keep <br /> Our flocks from harm. <br />Pan, the father of our sheep; <br /> And arm in arm <br />Tread we softly in a round, <br />Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground <br />Fills the music with her sound. <br /> <br />Pan, O great god Pan, to thee <br /> Thus do we sing! <br />Thou who keep'st us chaste and free <br /> As the young spring: <br />Ever be thy honour spoke <br />From that place the morn is broke <br />To that place day doth unyoke!<br /><br />John Fletcher<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hymn-to-pan-2/
