Note 248 — Chapter XXI · THE ANTHOLOGY.

Phœbus, thou know'st me—Eunomus, who beat Spartis: the tale for others I repeat; Deftly upon my lyre I played and sang, When 'mid the song a broken harp-string rang, And seeking for its sound, I could not hear The note responsive to my descant clear. Then on my lyre, unasked, unsought, there flew A grasshopper, who filled the cadence due; For while six chords beneath my fingers cried, He with his tuneful voice the seventh supplied: The midday songster of the mountains set His pastoral ditty to my canzonet; And when he sang, his modulated throat Accorded with the lifeless strings I smote. Therefore I thank my fellow-minstrel: he Sits on a lyre in brass, as you may see.