In Arcadia's lush forest,
Where dainty nymphs frequent,
Pan roams lascivious and lustful,
Follows their fragrant scent.
Syrinx, the fairest nymph of all,
Runs through the woods with grace,
To flee the goat-horned god's pursuit,
To escape his wild embrace.
Her sisters heard her pleas,
Her voice so fraught with fear,
In reeds they turned her form,
As Pan was drawing near.
Through hollow reeds the wind
A melody then, played so sweet,
That Pan, in sorrow, took the stalks
To craft his flute, allaying his defeat.
In verdant, pine-clad slopes,
Where mountain breezes sing,
The air through hollow reeds,
Pan's melodies would bring.
High and low wanders he,
His music soothes the heart,
All nymphs would stop and listen,
His tunes a breed apart.
The nymphs would sing and dance,
Their laughter airy and light,
While Pan plays tender tunes
In the shadows of the night.
From Mount Lycaeum's peak
To valleys dark and deep,
Pan's sad yearning echoes
As shepherds fall asleep.
The pipes he cherished so
Speak of his love forlorn,
If Syrinx is lost in reeds,
Her recall thus is borne.
O Muse, do remember Pan,
Horned with goat-like feet,
In Arcadia's glens he roams,
Lamenting his love so sweet.