"Whence art thou, my pretty boy? But the infant nought replied, Turning to the other side With an unknown song of joy. "Can it be," the Archon pondered, "That some little god hath wandered From his home within the skies, To a dreary spot like this? Ever welcome to the wise Such a rare occasion is; So within my cloak I'll fold him!" Little trouble was to hold him-- Calm and still the infant lay, Smiling ever, singing ever, Till the Archon crossed the river Just above Piræus' bay. "In what place to lodge my darling!" Mused the much-bewildered sage, "He might dwell within a cage Safe as any finch or starling; But an infant god to hold, All the wires should be of gold. Ha! I see--the very thing! This will give him room to play, Yet so far restrain his wing That he cannot fly away. Therefore come, my pretty pet, I'll put thee in my Cabinet!" Crazy was that Cabinet When he let the Cupid in, Loosely were the joinings set Both without it and within: You had sworn in any weather That it could not hold together Longer than a year or so. But no sooner was the god Ushered to his new abode, Than he wrought a change; for, lo! Bright and fresh the place became, Renovated in its frame. With a lustre shone the wood As it were from opal hewed; And the vases twain, that stood On its top, both cracked and grey, Glistened with metallic ray, As if golden jars were they. Every thing grew bright and fair, For the God of Love was there. As a bird within a cage So that it be tended well, Careth not elsewhere to dwell; Will not leave its hermitage, Even for the wild and free Chorus of the greenwood tree-- So the god, though famed for changing, Never seemed to think of ranging. Were the seasons dry or wet-- Rose the sun, or did it set-- Still he kept his Cabinet. And he sang so loud and clear, That the people clustered round In the hope that they might hear Something of that magic sound; Though the words that Cupid sung None could fathom, old nor young. Sometimes, listening from afar, You might catch a note of war, Like the clarion's call; and often Would his voice subside, and soften To a tone of melancholy, Ending in a long-drawn note, Like that from Philomela's throat-- 'Twas, "Proto-proto-proto-colly!"