The mountain sire, with grave deportment, now To Phoebus turns his venerable brow; And, as he turns, with him the listening wood In the same posture of attention stood. The god his own Parnassian laurel crown’d, And in a wreath his golden tresses bound; Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground. High on the left his ivory lute he raised; The lute, emboss’d with glittering jewels, blazed; In his right hand he nicely held the quill, His easy posture spoke a master’s skill; The strings he touch’d with more than human art, Which pleased the judge’s ear, and soothed his heart; Who soon judiciously the palm decreed, And to the lute postponed the squeaking reed.