Now Pan at last is surely dead,
And King No-Credit reigns instead,
Whose officers, morosely strict,
Poor Fancy’s tenantry evict, 60
Chase the last Genius from the door,
And nothing dances any more. 
Nothing?  Ah, yes, our tables do,
Dramming the Old One’s own tattoo,
And, if the oracles are dumb,
Have we not mediums!  Why be glum?

Fly thither?  Why, the very air
Is full of hindrance and despair! 
Fly thither?  But I cannot fly;
My doubts enmesh me if I try, 70
Each Liliputian, but, combined,
Potent a giant’s limbs to bind. 
This world and that are growing dark;
A huge interrogation mark,
The Devil’s crook episcopal. 
Still borne before him since the Fall,
Blackens with its ill-omened sign
The old blue heaven of faith benign. 
Whence?  Whither?  Wherefore?  How?  Which?  Why? 
All ask at once, all wait reply. 80
Men feel old systems cracking under ’em;
Life saddens to a mere conundrum
Which once Religion solved, but she
Has lost—­has Science found?—­the key.

What was snow-bearded Odin, trow,
The mighty hunter long ago,
Whose horn and hounds the peasant hears
Still when the Northlights shake their spears? 
Science hath answers twain, I’ve heard;
Choose which you will, nor hope a third; 90
Whichever box the truth be stowed in,
There’s not a sliver left of Odin. 
Either he was a pinchbrowed thing,
With scarcely wit a stone to fling,
A creature both in size and shape
Nearer than we are to the ape,
Who hung sublime with brat and spouse
By tail prehensile from the boughs,
And, happier than his maimed descendants,
The culture-curtailed independents, 100
Could pluck his cherries with both paws,
And stuff with both his big-boned jaws;
Or else the core his name enveloped
Was from a solar myth developed,
Which, hunted to its primal shoot,
Takes refuge in a Sanskrit root,
Thereby to instant death explaining
The little poetry remaining.

Try it with Zeus, ’tis just the same;
The thing evades, we hug a name; 110
Nay, scarcely that,—­perhaps a vapor
Born of some atmospheric caper. 
All Lempriere’s fables blur together
In cloudy symbols of the weather,
And Aphrodite rose from frothy seas
But to illustrate such hypotheses. 
With years enough behind his back,
Lincoln will take the selfsame track,
And prove, hulled fairly to the cob,
A mere vagary of Old Prob. 120
Give the right man a solar myth,
And he’ll confute the sun therewith.