It is the trunks of the trees that cage the sound;
As in an open temple, where the pillars
Enrich the music. In my father’s hall
The echo of each note burdens the next.
’Twould be well done to cut a theatre
Deep in some wooded dale. Till Pyrrha come,
Alexia, sing thou here.
Ch.What shall I sing?800
Deid. There is a Lydian chant I call to mind
In honour of music-makers: it beginneth