The other night, while digging out
Some bits of ancient truth and slander,
I read a curious tale about
The bard of mighty Alexander.
It seems the Conqueror chose to claim
God-like Achilles for ancestor,
And with that hero's musty fame
His friends he loved to bore and pester.
He had his way, of course; you see
He owned the earth, and it were rather
A shame if such a man as he
Could not select his own forefather.
These days an ancient line is bought
Often for slight considerations;
The thing was not with trouble fraught
To one who told his wealth by nations.
And when the king had fixed upon
The blood from which he drew his glory,
He studied, like a faithful son,
To ape his great forefather's story.
And first of all, since he was wise,
And fond of reading Homer's pages,
He sought a bard, to advertise
His fame to all succeeding ages.
" 'Twas Homer sang Achilles' wrath, "
Exclaimed the king; " what modern poet
Enough of force and frenzy hath
To take my louder trump and blow it?
" Old Homer starved, but he who sings
My deeds in half so stately thunder
Need never fear misfortune's flings,
Nor want for earth's most regal plunder.
" But let no common scribbler dare
In this great theme to see his mission.
This is my offer, just and fair,
And this its just and fair condition:
" For each good line the bard shall slip
Into his purse a mina yellow;
For each bad verse the whistling whip
About his shanks shall make him bellow. "
Now want of worth is ever bold,
And merit more or less retiring.
Few bards were tempted by the gold,
And less the lashes were desiring.
Of only one tradition speaks —
Named Choerilus, a bumptious fellow,
Who scribbled day and night for weeks,
Until his jowls grew thin and yellow.
And when at last his brains ran dry,
He rushed before the monarch, crying:
" Rejoice, O king, that bard am I
For whom so long thou hast been sighing. "
An hour was set, and he began —
Poor Choerilus! the sight was funny;
Upon his left the whipping man,
Upon his right the man with money.
He read a line, and what a line!
It wouldn't do; the whip descended.
He read another; at a sign
A blow the second sentence ended.
A hundred lines, a hundred blows;
A thousand more, a thousand lashes,
Till death relieved him of his woes,
And turned his hopes and him to ashes.
A tragic tale; yet tell me, pray,
Why want should hound each worthy fellow,
And why some bards who write to-day
Should not be thrashed until they bellow?
Some bits of ancient truth and slander,
I read a curious tale about
The bard of mighty Alexander.
It seems the Conqueror chose to claim
God-like Achilles for ancestor,
And with that hero's musty fame
His friends he loved to bore and pester.
He had his way, of course; you see
He owned the earth, and it were rather
A shame if such a man as he
Could not select his own forefather.
These days an ancient line is bought
Often for slight considerations;
The thing was not with trouble fraught
To one who told his wealth by nations.
And when the king had fixed upon
The blood from which he drew his glory,
He studied, like a faithful son,
To ape his great forefather's story.
And first of all, since he was wise,
And fond of reading Homer's pages,
He sought a bard, to advertise
His fame to all succeeding ages.
" 'Twas Homer sang Achilles' wrath, "
Exclaimed the king; " what modern poet
Enough of force and frenzy hath
To take my louder trump and blow it?
" Old Homer starved, but he who sings
My deeds in half so stately thunder
Need never fear misfortune's flings,
Nor want for earth's most regal plunder.
" But let no common scribbler dare
In this great theme to see his mission.
This is my offer, just and fair,
And this its just and fair condition:
" For each good line the bard shall slip
Into his purse a mina yellow;
For each bad verse the whistling whip
About his shanks shall make him bellow. "
Now want of worth is ever bold,
And merit more or less retiring.
Few bards were tempted by the gold,
And less the lashes were desiring.
Of only one tradition speaks —
Named Choerilus, a bumptious fellow,
Who scribbled day and night for weeks,
Until his jowls grew thin and yellow.
And when at last his brains ran dry,
He rushed before the monarch, crying:
" Rejoice, O king, that bard am I
For whom so long thou hast been sighing. "
An hour was set, and he began —
Poor Choerilus! the sight was funny;
Upon his left the whipping man,
Upon his right the man with money.
He read a line, and what a line!
It wouldn't do; the whip descended.
He read another; at a sign
A blow the second sentence ended.
A hundred lines, a hundred blows;
A thousand more, a thousand lashes,
Till death relieved him of his woes,
And turned his hopes and him to ashes.
A tragic tale; yet tell me, pray,
Why want should hound each worthy fellow,
And why some bards who write to-day
Should not be thrashed until they bellow?