The melodies had been fashioned by a mighty master, and they celebrated the praises of the proud mind of man.
"Man is a demigod," ran the words of them, "but the time will come when he shall be a god.”
"Man is plunged in dreams," ran the words of them, "but the time will come when the dreams shall be reality."
"Yonder, amid the glimmering depths of future ages, his gaze is fixed, as if it were riveted there."
"The time will come when even the young men shall not stammer about what has been."
"Utterly filled with the present, utterly the creator of the future, unsubmissive and holding sway over all, man shall stand upon earth vanquished by him."
"And when he has gained sway over all, he shall be a god."
The final cadences of his voice and the strains of the lyre were just resounding, when the guests of Megacles rose up from the table to gaze upon the minstrel.
And he stood there youthful and comely, with black tresses and a proud glance.
"Who fashioned these melodies?" the guests inquired.
"I heard them," replied the minstrel, "when I was yet a lad, in my native Eanthus, from Demades, an exile from Athens."
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