We, sighing, said, “Our Pan is dead;
  His pipe hangs mute beside the river;
  Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
But Music’s airy voice is fled.
Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
  The bluebird chants a requiem;
  The willow-blossom waits for him;
The Genius of the wood is lost.”

Then from the flute, untouched by hands,...