Classic Poem

Dear pan of Arcady,
Hark to the melody
That fills the air;
Sweetly she strikes the strings,
Sweetly my Zeno sings:
On concord fair!

Ah! whither can I fly;
If to escape I try
In respite brief,
The Loves around me press,
And soon in weariness
I beg relief.

Is it perchance her face,
Her learning, or her grace
I most desire?
I know not what I say,
All hold me 'neath their sway—
I burn with fire.