Poems (Cook)/The Poet's Wreath
For works with similar titles, see The Poet's Wreath.
THE POET'S WREATH.
Jove said one day, he should like to know
What would part the Child of Song from his lyre;
And he summon'd his minions, and bade them go,
With all their bribes and powers, below;
Nor return till they wrought his desire.
What would part the Child of Song from his lyre;
And he summon'd his minions, and bade them go,
With all their bribes and powers, below;
Nor return till they wrought his desire.
The agents departed—Jove's will must be done;
They vow'd to perform the deed full soon:
Vainly they search'd in the crowd and the sun,
But at last they found a high-soul'd one,
Alone with his harp and the moon.
They vow'd to perform the deed full soon:
Vainly they search'd in the crowd and the sun,
But at last they found a high-soul'd one,
Alone with his harp and the moon.
Fortune first tempted: she scatter'd her gold,
And placed on his temples a gem-bright rim;
But he scarcely glanced on the wealth as it roll'd;
He said the circlet was heavy and cold,
And only a burden to him.
And placed on his temples a gem-bright rim;
But he scarcely glanced on the wealth as it roll'd;
He said the circlet was heavy and cold,
And only a burden to him.
Venus came next, and she whisper'd rare things,
And praised him for scorning the bauble and pelf;
She promised him Peris in all but the wings;
But he laugh'd, and told her, with those soft strings,
He could win such creatures himself.
And praised him for scorning the bauble and pelf;
She promised him Peris in all but the wings;
But he laugh'd, and told her, with those soft strings,
He could win such creatures himself.
Oppression and Poverty tried their spell,
Nigh sure he would quail at such stern behest;
His pittance was scant, in a dark, dank cell
Where the foam-spitting toad would not choose to dwell;
But he still hugg'd the harp to his breast.
Nigh sure he would quail at such stern behest;
His pittance was scant, in a dark, dank cell
Where the foam-spitting toad would not choose to dwell;
But he still hugg'd the harp to his breast.
They debated what effort the next should be,
When Death strode forth with his ponderous dart;
He held it aloft—"Ye should know," cried he,
"This work can only be done by me;
So, at once, my barb to his heart!"
When Death strode forth with his ponderous dart;
He held it aloft—"Ye should know," cried he,
"This work can only be done by me;
So, at once, my barb to his heart!"
It struck; but the last faint flash of his eye
Was thrown on the lyre as it fell from his hand:
The trophy was seized, and they sped to the sky
Where the Thunderer flamed in his throne on high;
And told how they did his command.
Was thrown on the lyre as it fell from his hand:
The trophy was seized, and they sped to the sky
Where the Thunderer flamed in his throne on high;
And told how they did his command.
Jove heard, and he scowl'd with a gloomier frown;
'Twas the cloud Pride lends to keep Sorrow unseen—
He put by his sceptre, and flung his bolt down,
And snatch'd from the glory that halo'd his crown
The rays of most burning sheen.
'Twas the cloud Pride lends to keep Sorrow unseen—
He put by his sceptre, and flung his bolt down,
And snatch'd from the glory that halo'd his crown
The rays of most burning sheen.
He hasten'd to earth; by the minstrel he knelt,
And fashion'd the beams round his brow in a wreath:
He ordain'd it Immortal, to dazzle, to melt;
And a portion of Godhead since then has e'er dwelt
On the Poet that slumbers in death.
And fashion'd the beams round his brow in a wreath:
He ordain'd it Immortal, to dazzle, to melt;
And a portion of Godhead since then has e'er dwelt
On the Poet that slumbers in death.