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"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.)

GOAT with feet that danced and head that swayed

&ensp;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?