Trusts thou’st supported well all thy afflictions dire.
This trifle sends for present needs, as harpstrings’ worth.
When it is spent, come here again, and fear not dearth.”
The old man trembled as he heard those words so kind;
His finger in astonishment he bit;—near lost his mind.290
Then cried aloud: “O God! Thou all-unequalled One!
In my old age I sink for shame; this mercy I’ve not won.”
A torrent, now, of tears, he shed, in anguish deep;
His harp then dashed to pieces. Why it longer keep?
He thus apostrophised it: “O thou source of ill!