Classic Poem

O RCHOMENOS once had a king,
This king had a son called Trophonius,
Who built a stone fane round a spring
Of Phaebus, surnamed the Harmonious.
The god, when the youth asked for pelf,
Despatched him with Pluto to sup;
For Earth in her maw caught the elf,
And ate the poor architect up.

Baeotia was plagued with a drought,
The natives, a goblet too low,
Went poking for well-springs about,
With pickaxe, and shovel, and hoe.
" Dry Greeks, " cried a voice in the breeze,
" If your plan be to moisten your clay,
Go follow you army of bees,
And halt where they settle — away! "

To the rocks, armed with ladle and pan,
Intent but to tipple and chew,
The sons of North Attica ran
And fled where the honey-fraught flew.
They tracked to a cavern the hive,
Where, healthy, and not at all grown,
They found young Trophonius live,
Like a toad in a segment of stone.

The youth gave his finders a rod,
Whose point with a tremulous swing
Would vibrate awhile on the sod,
Then point where to probe for a spring.
In grateful requital, the Greeks,
Securing in cisterns the tide,
Extoll'd him with water-logg'd cheeks,
And made him a god when he died.

Anointed with unguents and oils,
To his fane, in the bramble-girt hollow,
They bore in their hands votive spoils,
And dubb'd him the Son of Apollo;
They proffer'd him bees-wax and honey.
In milk-white habiliments clad,
Some enter'd the cave, looking funny,
But all came away looking sad.

When Greece to the Crescent bent low,
And Art found in Athens a grave,
Lord Elgin, with pick-axe and hoe,
Dug deep for the bramble-girt cave.
He bore it o'er mountain and heath,
And, aided by ocean and air,
Immovably placed it beneath
The mansion of London's Lord Mayor.

There, entering on hands and on knees,
Baeotian saints still we find,
Led by females, as busy as bees,
Who leave their drone helpmates behind
In quest of the well-spring of Grace,
Aloft through the cavern they crawl,
And meet, face to sanctified face,
In his Lordship's Egyptian Hall.

There Zealanders, tarr'd and tattoo'd,
And red-ochred chiefs meet the sight;
And water and tubs round are strew'd
For washing the Blackamoor white:
And Mummery revels and feasts,
And Reason deep slumbering nods;
And Folly and Farce are the priests,
And Monkeys and Leeks are the gods.

There, Scotia, thy big Boanerges
His thunderbolt hurls on the ear,
Asserts lack of lucre, and urges,
His watch on a pawnbroker peer.
No homily there comes amiss,
Provided the text is " Qui dat; "
And the honey-tongued Reverend This
Responds to the Reverend That.

Then deem not, Trophonius, too tragic
The fate that attends thy retreat:
Though borne from Baeotia, its magic
Still tends it in Mansion House Street.
As long as thy priests call for money
From widow and maid, man and lad;
Though some may walk in looking funny,
Yet all will walk out looking sad.