Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands filled,
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.
Thomson.
Notwithstanding the heat has parched the songsters of the grove into silence, there is still an audible music in nature—
The gnats
Their murmuring small trumpets sounden wide.
Spenser.
And John Keats points to another source of melody—
The poetry of earth is never dead;
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,