JUPITER TONANS!

"Shall I fetch your thunderbolt, Jove?" inquired Ganymede.—Ixion in Heaven.

A bolt, a potent one, and brought at need!

That B-lf-r is a ready Ganymede.

And yet—and yet—ah, well, upon my soul,

A troublous function is the Thunderer's rôle.

'Tis vastly fine, of course; if fate would smile,

I fancy that the Cloud-Compeller's style

Would suit me sweetly; just the line I love;

Resolute rule's the appanage of a Jove.

But Shelley's dismal Demogorgon's self,

That solemn, shadowy, stern, oracular elf,

Plus obstinate Prometheus, did not play

Such mischief as the parties do to-day,

With Law and Order. Who would be a god

When force forsakes his bolt, and fear his nod?

Yes, here's the bolt forged ready to my hand,

But,—will it fly obedient to command,

And hit the mark I mean? Would I were sure;

Then should I hold my new-found seat secure,

Without a thought of Saturn, or that Hour

Which sets a term e'en to Olympian pow'r.

But what if like a boomerang, it fly

Back to my hand, or, worse, into mine eye?

Ah, Ganymede, Jupiter Tonans seems

A splendid part, in young ambition's dreams,

But, Ganymede, who would aspire, I wonder,

To be a Jove who's half afraid to thunder?

With doubts about the handling of my bolt,

And half Olympus in half-veiled revolt;

With hostile Titans mustering on the plain,

And old Prometheus "popping up again";

With Demogorgon lurking down below,

Disguised as Demos, with its muffled, low,

But multitudinous slowly-swelling voice,

How should I in Olympian power rejoice?

I grasp the bolt; I cannot well refuse it;

But—I half hope I may not have to use it!