(@3To his wife Procne, the nightingale@1) DEAR comrade, arise, from slumber awake, let flow the sad rapture of hallowed song; mindful of Itys, ever-wept, sing on, tell again old tales of your sorrow and mine. There's a throbbing in air as the heavenly cry of your brown bright throat travels up, flung clear through the bryony-leaf skyward to high-throned Zeus in his heaven. To the sorrowful sound golden Apollo gives ear, and a sweet response strikes out on his ivoried lute. Ranged round to his will celestial choirs in unison chant, giving out from lips immortal a sound loud-voiced, of all heaven acclaiming. (@3A pipe-solo follows, representing the nightingale.@1) |