Sing His Praises That Doth Keep

John Fletcher

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 murmuring ground
Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee
Thus do we sing!
Thou that keep’st us chaste and free
As the young spring;
Ever be thy honor spoke,
From that place the morn is broke,
To that place day doth unyoke!

Next 10 Poems

• John Fletcher : Sleep
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• John Fletcher : Tis Late And Cold
• John Fletcher : Weep No More
• Philip Freneau : Emancipation From British Dependence
• Philip Freneau : Ode
• Philip Freneau : On A Honey Bee
• Philip Freneau : On Retirement
• Philip Freneau : On The Death Of Dr. Benjamin Franklin
• Philip Freneau : On The Universality And Other Attributes Of The God Of Nature

Previous 10 Poems

• John Fletcher : Now The Lusty Spring Is Seen
• John Fletcher : Lay A Garland On My Hearse
• John Fletcher : Hold Back Thy Hours
• John Fletcher : Hence, All You Vain Delights
• John Fletcher : Hear, Ye Ladies That Despise
• John Fletcher : God Lyaeus, Ever Young
• John Fletcher : Drink To-day, And Drown All Sorrow
• John Fletcher : Dearest, Do Not You Delay Me
• John Fletcher : Cast Our Caps And Cares Away
• John Fletcher : Care-charming Sleep