All the simple faith has gone

Which their world was builded on.
Now the moonbeams coldly glance
On no gardens of romance ;
To prosaic senses dull,
Baldur s dead, the Beautiful,
Hark, the cry rings overhead,
Universal Pan is dead ! ? "
" Requiescant ! " Claude’s grave tone
Thrilled us strangely. " I am one
Who would not restore that Past,
Beauty will immortal last,
Though the beautiful must die
This the ages verify.
And had Pan deserved the name
Which his votaries misclaim,
He were living with us yet.
I behold, without regret,
Beauty in new forms recast,
Truth emerging from the vast,
Bright and orbed, like yonder sphere,
Making the obscure air clear.
He shall be of bards the king,
Who, in worthy verse, shall sing
All the conquests of the hour,
Stealing no fictitious power
From the classic types outworn,
But his rhythmic line adorn
With the marvels of the real.
He the baseless feud shall heal