"Then here's a didrachmon1- lend me thy lyre an hour; Thou hold out the cap in thine hand, and I will play : Surely these men that are deaf shall listen to-day."

Then with a mighty hand sweeping the trembling strings,

Over the tumult and chatting,

Like the call of a clear sweet trumpet, the young voice rings; For he sings of the taking of Troy, and the chords

Sound like the trampling of hoofs and the clashing of swords.

There in the market of Argos is Hector slain,

There in their midst is Achilles.

Breathless, they listen, again and again,

Fill up the cap with coins, and shout in the crowded street, "Strike up thy lyre once more, O Singer strange and sweet."

Ah! then came magical notes, soft melodies low;

The air grew purple and amber,

Scented with honey, and spices, and roses a-blow:

And there in the glory sat Love - Mother and Queen —
And eyes grew misty with tears for days that had been.

Eyes grew misty, hearts grew tender, tender and free:
Every one gave to the soldier

Bracelets, and rings, and perfumes from over the sea.
Then said the Singer, "Now, soldier, gather thy store,
The hands that have fought for Greece need never beg more.

"Greeks, dwelling in Argos, this is a shameful sight

A soldier wounded and begging."

The Singer grew splendid and godlike, and rose in unbearable light:

Then they knew it was Phoebus Apollo, and said,

"Never again in Argos shall the brave beg bread."

1 Didrachmon: a two-drachma piece; an ancient Greek silver coin worth nearly forty cents.

Chaucer, "the Father of English poetry," shows himself "the heir of all the ages" of literature that had preceded him. One of the many merits of the "Canterbury Tales" is that each of the story-tellers entertains his hearers with a tale suited to his particular walk in life. This is noticeable in the Manciple's tale.

The steward of a college, coming in daily contact with professors and students, might naturally be expected to pick up bits of classic lore, and so, after giving an account of the most notable exploits of Apollo, he tells how the raven became black. Chaucer uses the name crow, though raven seems to be the name generally accepted by the mythologies.

THE MANCIPLE'S TALE.

When Phoebus dwelled here in earth adown,
As oldë bookës makë mentioun,

He was the mostë lusty bachelér

Of all this world, and eke the best archér.
He slew Python the serpent, as he lay
Sleeping against the sun upon a day;
And many another noble worthy deed
He with his bow wrought, as men mayë read,
Playen he could on every minstrelsy,

And singë, that it was a melody

To hearen of his clearë voice the soun',
Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioún,
That with his singing walled the city,
Could never singë half so well as he.
Thereto he was the seemliestë man

That is, or was since that the world began ;

What needeth it his features to descrive?
For in this world is none so fair alive.
He was therewith full fill'd of gentleness,
Of honour, and of perfect worthiness.

This Phoebus, that was flower of bach'lery,
As well in freedom as in chivalry,

For his disport, in sign eke of victory
Of Python, so as telleth us the story,
Was wont to bearen in his hand a bow.
Now had this Phoebus in his house a crow,
Which in a cage he fostered many a day,
And taught it speaken, as men teach a jay.
White was this crow, as is a snow-white swan,
And counterfeit the speech of every man
He couldë when he shouldë tell a tale,
Therewith in all this world no nightingale
Ne couldë by an hundred thousand deal
Singë so wondrous merrily and well.
Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife,
Which that he loved more than his life,
And night and day did ever his diligence
Her for to please, and do her reverence:
Save only, if that I the sooth shall sayn,
Jealous he was, and would have kept her fain.
But all for nought, for it availeth nought.

*

But now to purpose, as I first began.

This worthy Phoebus did all that he can

To please her, weening through such pleasánce,
And for his manhood and his governance,

That no man should have put him from her grace;

Take any bird, and put it in a cage
And do all thine intent, and thy coráge,

To foster it tenderly with meat and drink
Of allë dainties that thou canst bethink,
And keep it all so cleanly as thou may;
Although the cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet had this bird, by twenty thousand fold,
Lever in a forest, both wild and cold,

Go eatë wormës, and such wretchedness,
For ever this bird will make it his business
T'escape out of his cage when that he may :
His liberty the bird desireth aye.

Let take a cat, and foster her with milk

And tender flesh, and make her couch of silk,
And let her see a mouse go by the wall,
Anon she weiveth milk, and flesh, and all,
And every dainty that is in that house,
Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse.
So, here hath kind her domination,

And appetite drives out discretion.

This Phoebus, which that thought upon no guile
Deceived was for all his jollity

For besides him another haddë she

A man of little reputation,

Nought worth to Phoebus in comparison,
And so befell when Phoebus was absent
His wife anon hath for her lover sent.

This white crow that hung aye in the cage
Beheld them meet and said never a word;

And when that home was come Phoebus the lord,

This crowë sung "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo !"

"What? bird," quoth Phoebus, "what song sing'st thou now?

Wert thou not wont so merrily to sing,
That to my heart it was a rejoicing

To hear thy voice? alas! what song is this?"
"My lord," quoth he, "I singë not amiss:
Phoebus," quoth he, " for all thy worthiness,
For all thy beauty, and all thy gentleness,
For all thy song, for all thy minstrelsy,
For all thy watching, bleared is thine eye."

What will ye more?

The crow anon him told

How that his wife was false to him,
To his great shame and his great villainy;
And told him oft he saw it with his eyen.
This Phoebus gan awayward for to wrien;
Him thought his woeful heartë burst in two,
His bow he bent and set therein a flo,
And in his ire he hath his wife slain;
This is th' effect, there is no more to sayn.
For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy,
Both harp and lute, gitérn and psaltery;
And eke he brake his arrows and his bow;
And after that thus spake he to the crow.

"Traitor," quoth he, with tongue of scorpion, "Thou hast me brought to my confusion;

Alas, that I was wrought! why n'ere I dead?
O dearë wife that wert to me so sad,
And eke so true, now liest thou dead
With face pale of hue,

Full guiltëless, that durst I swear y-wis!
O, hasty hand, to do so foul amiss!
O troubled wit, O irë reckëless,
That unadvised smit'st the guiltëless."