_Immortals._ APOLLO. BACCHUS. PAN. SILENUS. TMOLUS, God of a Hill. FAUNS, &c. _Mortals._ MIDAS, King of Phrygia. ZOPYRION, his Prime-Minister. ASPHALION, LACON, Courtiers. COURTIERS, Attendants, Priests, &c. Scene, Phrygia. MIDAS. ACT I. Scene; a rural spot; on one side, a bare Hill, on the other an Ilex wood; a stream with reeds on its banks. The Curtain rises and discovers Tmolus seated on a throne of turf, on his right hand Apollo with his lyre, attended by the Muses; on the left, Pan, fauns, &c. Enter Midas and Zopyrion. MIDAS. The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds, Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep. She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair, Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze[,] Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin; The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold, The herds low in their stalls, & the blithe cock Halloos most loudly to his distant mates. But who are these we see? these are not men, Divine of form & sple[n]didly arrayed, They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan, Our Country God, surrounded by his Fauns? And who is he whose crown of gold & harp Are attributes of high Apollo? ZOPYRION. Best Your majesty retire; we may offend. MIDAS. Aye, and at the base thought the coward blood Deserts your trembling lips; but follow me. Oh Gods! for such your bearing is, & sure No mortal ever yet possessed the gold That glitters on your silken robes; may one, Who, though a king, can boast of no descent More noble than Deucalion’s stone-formed men[,] May I demand the cause for which you deign To print upon this worthless Phrygian earth The vestige of your gold-inwoven sandals, Or why that old white-headed man sits there Upon that grassy throne, & looks as he Were stationed umpire to some weighty cause[?] TMOLUS. God Pan with his blithe pipe which the Fauns love Has challenged Phœbus of the golden lyre[,] Saying his Syrinx can give sweeter notes Than the stringed instrument Apollo boasts. I judge between the parties. Welcome, King, I am old Tmolus, God of that bare Hill, You may remain and hear th’ Immortals sing. MIDAS. [_aside_] My judgement is made up before I hear; Pan is my guardian God, old-horned Pan, The Phrygian’s God who watches o’er our flocks; No harmony can equal his blithe pipe. (Shelley.) Apollo (sings). The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, Curtained with star-enwoven tapestries, From the broad moonlight of the sky, Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes Waken me when their Mother, the grey Dawn, Tells them that dreams & that the moon is gone. Then I arise, and climbing Heaven’s blue dome, I walk over the mountains & the waves, Leaving my robe upon the Ocean foam,— My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filled with my bright presence & the air Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare.