"So did he feel who pulled the bough aside, That we might look into a forest wide, . . . . . . . . Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. Poor nymph- poor Pan- how he did weep to find Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain, Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain."