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...AN ARCTIC VISION [JUNE 20, 1867] by FRANCIS BRET HARTE A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 4. HER TRIUMPH by BEN JONSON THE MINSTREL BOY by THOMAS MOORE TO A BLOCKHEAD by ALEXANDER POPE PORTRAIT OF A LADY by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |