But at last the Archon died,
And another filled his place—
He was a man of ancient race,
But jaundiced all with bitter pride,
Oppressed with jealousy and care;
Though quite unfitted to excel,
Whate'er the task, he could not bear
To see another do it well!
No soul had he for wanton strains,
Or strains indeed of any kind:
To nature he was deaf and blind,
His deepest thoughts were bent on drains.
Yet in his ear were ever ringing
The notes the little god was singing.
"Peace, peace! thou restless creature—peace!
I cannot bear that voice of thine—
'Tis not more dulcet, sure, than mine!—
From thy perpetual piping cease!
Why come the people here to hearken?
The asses, dolts! both dull and stupid!
Why listen to a silly Cupid,
Preferring him to me, their Archon?
Hush, sirrah, hush! and never more,
While I am here, presume to sing!"
Yet still, within the mystic door,
Was heard the rustling of the wing,
And notes of witching melancholy,
Called—"Proto-proto-proto-colly!"
In wrath the furious Archon rose—
"Bring levers here!" he loudly cried,
"If he must sing—though Pallas knows
His voice is tuneless as a crow's—
E'en let him sit and sing outside!"
They burst the door. The bird was caught,
And to the open window brought—
"Now get thee forth to wood or spray,
Thou tiresome, little, chattering jay!"
Paused the fair boy, ere yet he raised
His wing to take his flight;
And on the Archon's face he gazed,
As stars look on the night.
No woe was there—he only smiled,
As if in secret scorn,
And thus with human speech the child
Addressed the nobly born,—
"Farewell! You'll rue the moment yet
You drove me from your Cabinet!"
He sped away. And scarce the wind
Had borne him o'er the garden wall,
Ere a most hideous crash behind
Announced an unexpected fall.
The Cabinet was rent in twain!
The wood was broken into splinters,
As though for many hundred winters
It had been dashed by wind and rain.
Golden no more, the jars of clay
Were dull and cracked, and dingy grey.
Down fell a beam of rotten oak;
The chair beneath the Archon broke;
And all the furniture around
Appeared at once to be unsound.
Now have I nothing more to say!
Of Cupid's entrance all beware:
But if you chance to have him there,
'Tis always wise to let him stay.
And, ladies, do not sneer at me,
Or count my words without avail;
For in a little time you'll see
There is a moral to my tale.
What has been done in days of yore
May well again be acted o'er,
And other things have been upset
By Cupid, than a Cabinet!
[THE OLD SOLDIER.—IN THREE CAMPAIGNS.]
BY THOMAS AIRD.