_Menaphon--_
He looked upon the trophies of his art,
Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed and cried:--
"Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it;
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,
As he was pushing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.