Orpheus and the Busy Ones

Orpheus, the Stygian current cross’d, When Hell stood still to hear him sing, Torn from Eurydice twice lost (Almost by music saved e’er lost) Over the world went wandering. One day, sate on a mountain slope, Weary and sick for want of hope, (Or rather, shall we term it, dead, Since life is gone when hope is sped), He twang’d his lyre; till song sublime Out of the ashes of his prime And fire of grief like Phoenix sprang; And all the startled hillside rang. Aroused, the dew-engrossed Flowers Turn’d to him all their maiden eyes; And from the sweet forgotten bowers Flew forth a thousand Butterflies. The Trees forgot their roots. Beneath, The noisy Crickets of the heath Rub’d each his forehead with amaze To hear one sing such heavenly lays. Under her stone the lumpy Toad Peer’d forth; even the solid sod Grew peopled with emerging Worms— Such power hath Music on all forms. Above, the pinched Pard amort (She had three cublings in a den) Forgot her hunger, and in short Reposed herself to listen then, Upon her furry paws her chin; And from her vantage watch’d the Poet, Delighted, but enraged to know it, While all her spotted sleek of skin Heaved with the pleasure she took in. Not only this, but shall I say ’t, The very Hills began debate Whether, to hear the singing clearer, They should not move a little nearer. Only, the Bard, to these strange ways Accustom’d, noted with amaze A herd of Hogs that near him fed, Which might for all he sang be dead. He ceased his song and tried the scale To find out where his voice might fail; His lyre divine descanted soon To see the strings were all in tune; Till satisfied that these were right, And at those Hogs astonish’d quite That they not to his conquering lyre, Which all things else did so admire, Gave heed, but routed in the rye As tho’ he had not been close by, He ask’d of them the reason why. ‘Good friend,’ a Bacon old replied, ‘We have too much to do beside; The roots are many, the field is wide. Should we neglect this plenteousness We should be wrong, you must confess— The gods some day might give us less. Our girth is great; the fodder free; This field of food must finished be. That time is short you’ll not deny. We eat but little ere we die.’