The Origin of Didactic Poetry

When wise Minerva still was youngAnd just the least romantic,Soon after from Jove's head she flungThat preternatural antic,'Tis said to keep from idlenessOr flirting,—those twin curses,—She spent her leisure, more or less,In writing po——, no, verses.

How nice they were! to rhyme with farA kind star did not tarry;The metre, too, was regularAs schoolboy's dot and carry;

And full they were of pious plums,So extra-super-moral,—For sucking Virtue’s tender gumsMost tooth-enticing coral.

A clean, fair copy she prepares,Makes sure of moods and tenses,With her own hand,—for prudence sparesA man- (or woman) -uensis;Complete, and tied with ribbons proud,She hinted soon how cosy aTreat it would be to read them aloudAfter next day's Ambrosia.

The Gods thought not it would amuseSo much as Homer's Odyssees,But could not very well refuseThe properest of Goddesses;So all sat round in attitudesOf various dejection,As with a hem! the queen of prudesBegan her grave prelection.

At the first pause Zeus said, "Well sung!—I mean—ask Phœbus,—he knows."Says Phœbus, "Zounds! a wolf's amongAdmetus's merinos!Fine! very fine! but I must go;They stand in need of me there;Excuse me!" snatched his stick, and soPlunged down the gladdened ether.

With the next gap, Mars said, "For meDon't wait,—naught could be finer;But I'm engaged at half-past three,—A fight in Asia Minor!"Then Venus lisped, "How very thad!It rainth down there in torinth;But I mutht go, becauthe they've hadA thacrifithe in Corinth!"

Then Bacchus,—"With those slamming doorsI lost the last half dist—(hic!)Mos' bu'ful se'ments! what's the Chor's?My voice shall not be missed—(hic!)"His words woke Hermes; "Ah!” he said,"I so love moral theses!"Then winked at Hebe, who turned red,And smoothed her apron's creases.

Just then Zeus snored,—the Eagle drewHis head the wing from under;

The many-volumed thunder;Some augurs counted nine,—some, ten,—Some said, 'twas war,—some, famine,—And all, that other-minded menWould get a precious ———.

Proud Pallas sighed, "It will not do;Against the Muse I've sinned, oh!"And her torn rhymes sent flying throughOlympus's back window.Then, packing up a peplus clean,She took the shortest path thence,And opened, with a mind serene,A Sunday-school in Athens.

The verses? Some, in ocean swilled,Killed every fish that bit to 'em;Some Galen caught, and, when distilled,Found morphine the residuum;But some that rotted on the earthSprang up again in copies,And gave two strong narcotics birth,—Didactic bards and poppies.

Years after, when a poet askedThe Goddess's opinion,As being one whose soul had baskedIn Art's clear-aired dominion,—"Discriminate," she said, "betimes;The Muse is unforgiving;Put all your beauty in your rhymes,Your morals in your living."