To his sweet lute Apollo sung the motions of the spheres; The wondrous order of the stars, whose course divides the years; And all the mysteries above: But none of this could Midas move, Which purchased him his ass's ears. Then Pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t'advance, To boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance; With much more of this churlish kind, That quite transported Midas' mind, And held him rapt as in a trance. This wrong the God of Music scorned from such a sottish judge, And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the piper trudge: Then Midas' head he so did trim That every age yet talks of him And Phœbus' right-revenged grudge. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GOOD COMPANY by KARLE WILSON BAKER ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER' by GEORGE GORDON BYRON GOING AND STAYING by THOMAS HARDY HIS SAVIOURS WORDS, GOING TO THE CROSSE by ROBERT HERRICK CHAUCER; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW STILL FALLS THE RAIN; THE RAIDS, 1940. NIGHT AND DAWN by EDITH SITWELL |