Classic Poem

What further befell on that magic night
When the goddess and I were together
I will tell you more fully when winter is past,
In the warm, sweet summer weather.

The smug old race of hypocrites
Is passing away, thank God! now;
The disease of lies is killing it off;
It is sinking beneath the sod now.

A new generation is growing apace,
By rouge and sin untarnished,
Whose pleasures and thoughts will be open and free;
It shall hear my tale unvarnished.

There's a budding race whom the poet's pride
And goodness yet will capture;
Which will warm itself on the poet's heart,
And his soul of sunny rapture.

My heart is as chaste and pure as fire,
As kind as the sun's own face is.
The golden chords of my sounding lyre
Were tuned by the noblest Graces.

'Tis the self-same lyre that in days of old
Was struck by Aristophanes,
A darling of the muses nine,
As the witty poet often is.

'Tis the self-same lyre on which he sang
The story of Paisteteros,
Who, wedding with Basileia, rose
To be ranked with royal heroes.

In the previous chapter I tried — the attempt
Is an open and frankly confest one —
To copy the close of The Birds , which I think
Of my father's plays is the best one.

The Frogs is capital, too. I am told
They've produced a German translation
On the Berlin stage, and are acting it now
For the royal delectation.

The king enjoys the piece, which shows
That a classical taste's not lacking.
The late king greatly preferred, in his time,
To listen to modern quacking.

And yet, though the king enjoys the play,
Were the author a living poet
Who valued his person, my counsel would be
In Prussia not to show it.

Aristophanes, even the genuine one,
Who lived in freedom before us,
Might now find himself followed, wherever he went,
By a crowd of gendarmes for chorus.

The mob had gotten permission soon
To insult him instead of fawning,
And the bard, in the clutch of the dread police,
Might have seen a dungeon yawning.

O King! I honestly wish you well,
And mean you a kindness by giving
This counsel: Honour the poets dead,
But spare the poets living.

Offend not the poets alive to-day;
They have weapons of fame and glory
More awful than even the lightnings of Jove,
In the bard's immortal story.

Offend the gods both old and new,
And let all Olympus know it;
Offend Almighty God Himself,
But never offend a poet.

That the gods can punish the sins of men
Is, alas! no idle boasting;
The fires of hell are fairly hot,
And there's plenty of time for roasting.

But priests can pray the sinner free
From the flames; a pious donation
To the church for masses to purge his soul,
Will win him back salvation.

And Jesus Christ, in the fulness of time,
Will arise and break hell's portal;
And, though he may call to a strict account,
He'll be dodged by many a mortal.

And yet there are hells, believe me, O King!
Which they hold such watch and ward on,
That no prayers avail to set you free,
Not even a Saviour's pardon.

You have surely heard of Dante's hell,
In the three dread books. Oh, never
Shall any win free whom the poet put there,
They are damned and lost for ever!

No God, no Christ can save your soul
When the surging flames consume you.
Then beware, O King! lest for evermore
To such a hell we doom you.