Marsyas

Thy natal pines which raptured heard thy strains
Burnt not thy flesh, O thou to woes decreed!
Thy bones are shattered, and thy blood-drops feed
The flood the Phrygian Mount pours toward the plains.

The pride-blown Citharist, who jealous reigns,
Has with his plectrum riven thy every reed,
That taught the birds and tamed the lion's breed;
And of Celaena's singer nought remains—

Nought but a bloody shred on yonder yew
Where the poor wretch his nameless horror knew.
O cruel God! O cries of that sweet voice!

Beneath a hand too wise no more you'll find
Maeander's stream the sighing flute rejoice,
For Marsyas' skin is plaything of the wind.