[A ring of turf, in a hollow of the slope, surrounded by beech-trees, except on one side, where a marsh descends to a small tarn. Over the latter is rising the harvest moon. Phoebus Apollo alone; he watches the luminary for a long time in silence.]

Phoebus.

[The reeds in the tarn are stirred, and there is audible a faint shriek and a ripple of laughter. A shrouded figure rises from the marsh, and, hastening by Phoebus through the darkness, is lost in the woods. It is followed closely by Pan, who, observing Phoebus, pauses in embarrassment.]

Phoebus.

I thought I was alone.

Pan.

And so did we, sire.

Phoebus.

Am I to congratulate you on your distractions?

Pan.

I have a natural inclination to marshy places.

Phoebus.

This is a ghastly night, Pan.

Pan.

I had not observed it, sire. Yes, doubtless a ghastly night. But I was occupied, and I am no naturalist. This glen curiously reminded me of rushy Ladon. I am a great student of reeds, and I was agreeably surprised to find some very striking specimens here—worthy of the Arcadian watercourses, as I am a deity. I should say, was a deity.

Phoebus.

They will help, perhaps, to reconcile you to mortality. You can add them to your collection.

Pan.

That, sire, is my hope. The stems are particularly full and smooth, and the heads of the best of them rustle back with a profusion of flaxen flowerage, remarkably agreeable to the touch. I broke one as your Highness approached. But the wind, or some goblin, bore it from me. This curious place seems full of earth-spirits.

Phoebus.

You must study them, too, Pan. That will supply you with another object.

Pan.

But the marsh water has a property unknown to the Olympian springs. I suspect it of being poisoned. After standing long in it, I found myself troubled with aching in the shank, from knee to hoof. If this is repeated, my studies of reed-life will be made dolorously difficult.

Phoebus.

It must now be part of your pleasure to husband your enjoyments. You have always rolled in the twinkle of the vine-leaves, hot enough and not too hot, with grapes—immense musky clusters—just within your reach. If you think of it philosophically——

Pan.

How, sire?

Phoebus.

Philosophically.... Well, if you think of it sensibly, you will see that there was a certain dreariness in this uniformity of satisfaction. Rather amusing, surely, to find the cluster occasionally spring up out of reach, to find the polished waist of the reed slip from your hands? Occasionally, of course; just enough to give a zest to pursuit.

Pan.

Ah! there was pursuit in Ladon, but it was pursuit which always closed easily in capture. What I am afraid of is that here capture may prove the exception. Your Highness ... but a slight family connection and our adversities are making me strangely familiar....

Phoebus.

Speak on, my good Pan.

Pan.

Your Highness was once something of a botanist?

Phoebus.

A botanist? Ah, scarcely! A little arboriculture, the laurel; a little horticulture, the sun-flower. Those varieties seem entirely absent here, and I have no thought of replacing them.

Pan.

The last thing I should dream of suggesting would be a hortus siccus....

Phoebus.

And I was never a consistent collector. There are reeds everywhere, you fortunate goat-foot, but even in Olympus I was the creature of a fastidious selection.

Pan.

The current of the thick and punctual blood never left me liable to the distractions of choice.

Phoebus.

I congratulate you, Pan, upon your temperament, and I recommend to you a further pursuit of the attainable.

[Pan makes a profound obeisance and disappears in the woodland. Phoebus watches him depart, and then turns to the moon.]

Phoebus [alone].

His familiarity was not distasteful to me. It reminded me of days out hunting, when I have come suddenly upon him at the edge of the watercourse, and have shared his melons and his conversation. I anticipate for him some not unagreeable experiences. The lower order of divinities will probably adapt themselves with ease to our new conditions. They despaired the most suddenly, with wringing of hands as we raced to the sea, with interminable babblings and low moans and screams, as they clustered on the deck of that extraordinary vessel. But the science of our new life must be to forget or to remember. We must live in the past or forego the past. For Pan and his likes I conceive that it will largely resolve itself into a question of temperature—of temperature and of appetite. That orb is of a sinister appearance, but to do it justice it looks heated. My sister had a passion for coldness; she would never permit me to lend her any of my warmth. I cannot say that it is chilly here to-night. I am agreeably surprised.

[The veiled figure flits across again, and Pan once more crosses in close pursuit.]

Phoebus [as they vanish].

What an amiable vivacity! Yes; the lower order of divinities will be happy, for they will forget. We, on the contrary, have the privilege of remembering. It is only the mediocre spirits, that cannot quite forget nor clearly remember, which will have neither the support of instinct nor the solace of a vivid recollection.

[He seats himself. A noise of laughter rises from he marsh, and dies away. In the silence a bird sings.]

Phoebus.

Not the Daulian nightingale, of course, but quite a personable substitute: less prolongation of the triumph, less insistence upon the agony. How curiously the note breaks off! Some pleasant little northern bird, no doubt. I experience a strange and quite unprecedented appetite for moderation. The absence of the thrill, the shaft, the torrent is not disagreeable. The actual Phocian frenzy would be disturbing here, out of place, out of time. I must congratulate this little, doubtless brown, bird on a very considerable skill in warbling. But the moon—what is happening to it? It is not merely climbing higher, but it is manifestly clarifying its light. When I came, it was copper-coloured, now it is honey-coloured, the horn of it is almost white like milk. This little bird's incantation has, without question, produced this fortunate effect. This little bird, halfway on the road between the nightingale and the cicada, is doubtless an enchanter, and one whose art possesses a more than respectable property. My sister's attention should be drawn to this highly interesting circumstance. Selene! Selene!

[He calls and waits. From the upper woods Selene slowly descends, wrapped in long white garments.]

Phoebus.

Sister, behold the throne that once was thine.

Selene.

And now, a rocking cinder, fouls the skies.

Phoebus.

A magian sweeps its filthy ash away.

Selene.

There is no magic in the bankrupt world.

Phoebus.

Nay, did'st thou hear this twittering peal of song?

Selene.

Some noise I heard; this glen is full of sounds.

Phoebus.

Fling back thy veil, and staunch thy tears, and gaze.

Selene.

At thee, my brother, not at my darkened orb.

Phoebus.

Gaze then at me. What seest thou in mine eyes?

Selene.

Foul ruddy gleams from what was lately pure.

Phoebus.

Nay, but thou gazest not. Look up, look at me!

Selene.

But on thy sacred eyeballs fume turns fire.

Phoebus.

Nay, then, turn once and see thy very moon.

Selene [turning round].

Ah! wonder! the volcanic glare is gone.

Phoebus.

The wizard bird has sung the fumes away.

Selene.

Empty it seems, and vain; but foul no more.

Phoebus [approaching her, and in a confidential tone].

I will not disguise from you, Selene, my apprehension that the hideous colour may return. Your moon is divorced from yourself, and can but be desecrated and forlorn. But at least it should be a matter of interest to you—yes, even of gratification, my sister—that this little bird, if it be a bird, has an enchanting power of temporarily relieving it and raising it.

[Selene, manifestly more cheerful, ascends to the wood on the left. Phoebus, turning again to the moon,]

I have observed that this species of mysterious agency has a very salutary effect upon the more melancholy of our female divinities. They are satisfied if they have the felicity of waiting for something which they cannot be certain of realising, and which they attribute to a cause impossible to investigate. [To Selene, raising his voice.] Whither do you go, my sister?

Selene.

I am searching for this little bird. I propose to discuss with it the nature of its extraordinary, and I am ready to admit its gratifying, control over the moon. I think it possible that I may concoct with it some scheme for our return. You shall, in that case, Phoebus, be no longer excluded from my domain.

Phoebus.

Let me urge you to do no such thing. The action of this little bird upon your unfortunate luminary is sympathetic, but surely very obscure. It would be a pity to inquire into it so closely as to comprehend it.

[Selene, without listening to him, passes up into the woods, and exit.]

Phoebus [alone].

To comprehend it might even be to discover that it does not exist. Whereas to come here night after night, in the fragrant darkness, to see the unhallowed lump of fire creep out of the lake, to listen for the first clucks and shakes of the sweet little purifying song, and to watch the orb growing steadily more hyaline and lucent under its sway, how delicious! The absolute harmony and concord of nature would be then patent and recurrent before us. My poor sister! However, it is consoling to reflect that she is almost certain not to be able to find that bird.

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