"But trust me, Lamp, though now I flee.
If ever I shall chance to find
Thy flame extinct—with fearless glee
I'll glut my thirsty beak in thee,
Nor leave a drop behind."
(Iriarte, Literary Fables. Translated for Blackwood's Magazine.)
A GOAT with feet that danced and head that swayed
In modulated measure to the sound
Of a sweet violin, which, deftly played,
Awoke the blandest echoes all around.
Had listened long, when, with an air of pride
He thus addressed a Horse which stood beside:
"These chords which speak so well, my humble friend,
Were borrowed from the bowels of a Goat;
And even I, when life is at an end.
May still survive to be a thing of note;
For then some artist of harmonic skill
Shall twist my tripe into as sweet a trill."
The Horse, as if in laughter, neighed aloud.
And answered thus: "Poor wretch! of what avail
Would be the simple chords which make thee proud,
Unless I had supplied them, from my tail,
With many a hair to form the fiddle-bow.
Whose movements make the hidden music flow?
