XXIX.

Anon I saw one of those elfin things,
Clad all in white like any chorister,
Come fluttering forth on his melodious wings,
That made soft music at each little stir,
But something louder than a bee’s demur
Before he lights upon a bunch of broom,
And thus ’gan he with Saturn to confer,—­
And O his voice was sweet, touch’d with the gloom
Of that sad theme that argued of his doom!

XXX.

Quoth he, “We make all melodies our care,
That no false discords may offend the Sun,
Music’s great master—­tuning everywhere
All pastoral sounds and melodies, each one
Duly to place and season, so that none
May harshly interfere.  We rouse at morn
The shrill sweet lark; and when the day is done,
Hush silent pauses for the bird forlorn,
That singeth with her breast against a thorn.”

XXXI.

“We gather in loud choirs the twittering race,
That make a chorus with their single note;
And tend on new-fledged birds in every place,
That duly they may get their tunes by rote;
And oft, like echoes, answering remote,
We hide in thickets from the feather’d throng,
And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat,
Singing in shrill responses all day long,
Whilst the glad truant listens to our song.”

XXXII.

“Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love
The raining music from a morning cloud,
When vanish’d larks are carolling above,
To wake Apollo with their pipings loud;—­
If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud
The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell,
Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd,
And we will muffle up the sheepfold bell
Whene’er thou listenest to Philomel.”

XXXIII.

Then Saturn thus;—­“Sweet is the merry lark,
That carols in man’s ear so clear and strong;
And youth must love to listen in the dark
That tuneful elegy of Tereus’ wrong;
But I have heard that ancient strain too long,
For sweet is sweet but when a little strange,
And I grow weary for some newer song;
For wherefore had I wings, unless to range
Through all things mutable, from change to change?”

XXXIV.

“But would’st thou hear the melodies of Time,
Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll
Over hush’d cities, and the midnight chime
Sounds from their hundred clocks, and deep bells toll
Like a last knell over the dead world’s soul,
Saying, ’Time shall be final of all things,
Whose late, last voice must elegize the whole,’—­
O then I clap aloft my brave broad wings,
And make the wide air tremble while it rings!”