The Pan Page

Pan, Rustic God, said son of Hermes, friend and compatriot of Dionysus,
patron of that which is the Wild,
protector of the Flocks, deity of the country folk...
Dancing God, Prancing God, Mountains and Woods echo with your piping
and songs...
Goat boy supreme, ever in rut, leader of the wild ones, enjoyer of dryad, maenads, nymphs
and Goat Girls everywhere.....
Probably born under a mushroom, or somewhere else as rude, find him still in the Mountains,
deep in the Peloponnese hills.
Find him, in that wild place that still calls from within your heart.
Little God, trace him back, back, back to the Paleolithic, find him on cave walls, in France,
in Spain...
Know him as the Green Man, slandered and misshapen into Demon, Devil and Satan,
a convenient Scape Goat denied his true place by clerics that worshipped the dead and who
deny that which is ever living in our hearts....
He gave his name to the universal by way of JOY,
and to the fear and beating heart when something rustles near
in undergrowth, as you stand alone heart pounding in a clearing in the deep Sylvan Wood.
 

(The Cave Sanctuary of Pan on Kos)
Where Pan was said to have been born....

Pan
O beloved Pan and all ye other gods of this place,
grant to me that I be made beautiful in my soul within,
and that all external possessions be in harmony with my inner man.
(Socrates in Plato's Phaedrus)

Hymn to Pan

Of the dear son of Hermes, O Muse, sing now to me,
That goat-foot, horned lover of ringing revelry,
Who wanders the woodland valleys, while his lightfoot Nymphs dance round;
Where never a goat can clamber, along the crags they bound,
Calling to Pan, the shepherd-god, with shout and song -
Pan of the glorious locks unkempt, to whom belong
All peaks, all snowy summits, all stony mountain-ways,
Through the tangled brakes of the forest, now here, now there, he strays -
Sometimes the rivers lure him down to their gentle flow,
Sometimes he turns to scramble, by rocks where none may go,
Up to a towering hilltop, to see where his sheep may lie;
Often the long white ridges behold him hurrying by,
Often with keen, wild glances he scours the upland glen,
Tracking his prey; and returning from his chase in the twilight then
On the reeden pipe of a shepherd he plays his music lone -
No nightingale can utter a strain of lovelier tone,
When in the flowery springtime, perched amid many a leaf,
With notes as sweet as honey she trills her song of grief.
Then round him the lilting voices of the Nymphs of the mountain ring,
As by the dark-black water, bubbling from a spring,
Their light feet trip, and the echoes, high from the hilltop, call.
But the God, with his twinkling steps, through the dances leads them all,
Now through the midst of them whirling, now this, now the other side,
Rapt by the music, and wearing a reddish lynx's hide;
Soft round them lies the forest-lawn and, perfumed sweet,
The hyacinth blends, and the crocus, with the grass beneath their feet.
But the song of the Oreads tells of the blessed Gods on high
And of the long-ridged Olympus; and, above the rest, they cry
The praise of the God's fleet herald, of Hermes swift to aid,
And how of old to Cyllene, to his sacred woodland's shade,
In Arcadia, mother of flocks, land of fair springs, he sped
And there that son of Heaven the sheep of a mortal fed;
For now a tender longing in his heart had come to flower
For Dryops' fair-tressed daughter. The lover found his hour;
And so in her home for Hermes she brought a dear son to birth,
Twy-horned and goat-footed, a lover of noisy mirth -
So monstrous, that his mother, dropping him, fled afeared
From the sight of those grim features, that bristled with a beard.
But quickly Hermes the Helper lifted him where he lay
And owned his son; and within him the heart of the God grew gay.
Then Heavenward in haste he turned, wrapping the child
Warm in the furry skin of a hare of the mountain-wild,
And took his seat in Olympus and showed his little lad
To Zeus and the other Immortals - and all of them grew glad,
But most of all Dionysus delighted in the boy.
So 'Pan' was the name they gave him, since he filled 'ALL' Heaven with joy.

Farewell, O Lord, I have brought Thee prayer alike and praise;
And I will sing they glories, anew, in coming days.
(Greek Poetry, 5th century BC)

Orphic Hymn to Pan

Great Pan, God of the wild,
we honor you, ruler of sky,
sea and earth, Light
ensouling all.

The world is yours.
Every thing reflects you.

Delighted by shady groves,
dancer under the stars,
you rule the seasons.

Pan, shepherd of goats,
giver of milk, meat and skin,
your horns sprouted
and the world began.

Inspire us
with dance and song.
Protect us from fear.

You love the hunt,
Ekho's solitary song
and playful nymphai.

All your works
reach fruition.
You rule increase.

Pan, splendid as cloudless sky,
sweet as fruit,
obscure as the deepest cave,
subtle as a snake,

wise as a wolf,
no man can resist
your panic.

You hold up the Earth.
You rule the restless sea,
even ancient Ocean, Earth hugger,
loves your law.

Air nourishes fire,
fire inspires life,
even the shining blue sky
loves your law.

Protect and care for
matter dancing everywhere
Grace us.

Lift us, mighty Pan,
come near, excite us.
Give us creative power
and freedom from fear.
 

(Aphrodite & Pan)
 

Hymn to Pan

Sing his praises that doth keep
  Our flocks from harm.
Pan, the father of our sheep;
  And arm in arm
Tread we softly in a round,
Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground
Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee
  Thus do we sing!
Thou who keep'st us chaste and free
As the young spring:
Ever be thy honour spoke
From that place the morn is broke
To that place day doth unyoke!
(John Fletcher. 1579–1625)

 Hymn of Pan

  From the forests and highlands
    We come, we come;
  From the river-girt islands,
    Where loud waves are dumb,
  Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
      The bees on the bells of thyme,
    The birds on the myrtle bushes,
      The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
  Listening to my sweet pipings.

  Liquid Peneus was flowing,
    And all dark Tempe lay
  In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
  Speeded by my sweet pipings.
    The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,
      And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
    To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
  With envy of my sweet pipings.

  I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal earth,
  And of heaven, and the giant wars,
    And love, and death, and birth.
  And then I changed my pipings—
    Singing how down the vale of Mænalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:
    Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
      It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.
All wept—as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood—
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
(Percy ByssheShelley)
 

Hymn to Pan

ephrix erõti periarchés d' aneptoman
iõ iõ pan pan
õ pan pan aliplankte, kyllanias chionoktypoi
petraias apo deirados phanéth, õ
theõn choropoi anax
SOPH. AJ.

Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man! My man!
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady!
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and satyrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ass, come over the sea
To me, to me,
Come with Apollo in bridal dress
(Shepherdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of the amber fount!
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantonness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain --- come over the sea,
(Io Pan! Io Pan!)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man! my man!
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill!
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring!
Come with flute and come with pipe!
Am I not ripe?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion and sharp as an asp ---
Come, O come!
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
Thrust the sword through the galling fetter,
All-devourer, all-begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye,
And the token erect of thorny thigh,
And the word of madness and mystery,
O Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan Pan! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! I am awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan!
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold, I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I rape and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end,
Mannikin, maiden, Maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan! Io Pan!
(Master Therion,  Aleister Crowley)