VII
All was lost, then! No! a cricket
(What 'cicada'? Pooh!)
—Some mad thing that left its thicket
For mere love of music—flew
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.
VIII
So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer
For his truant string
Feels with disconcerted finger,
What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?
IX
Ay and, ever to the ending,
Cricket chirps at need,
Executes the hands intending,
Promptly, perfectly,—indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.
X
Till, at ending, all the judges
Cry with one assent
'Take the prize—a prize who grudges
Such a voice and instrument?
Why, we took your lyre for harp,
So it shrilled us forth F sharp!'
XI
Did the conqueror spurn the creature,
Once its service done?
That's no such uncommon feature
In the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's power too spent
For aiding soul-development.