And ye ask for worship in the dust, Since the blind jade, Fate, a world has thrust In your purse, perchance? And ye clatter, giant puppet troops, Marshalled in your proudly childish groups, Like the juggler on the opera scene?—    Though the sound may please the vulgar ear, Yet the skilful, filled with sadness, jeer Powers so great, but mean. Let your towering shame be hid from sight In the garment of a sovereign's right, From the ambush of the throne outspring! Tremble, though, before the voice of song Through the purple, vengeance will, ere long, Strike down e'en a king! 

        THE SATYR AND MY MUSE. An aged satyr sought Around my Muse to pass, Attempting to pay court, And eyed her fondly through his glass. By Phoebus' golden torch, By Luna's pallid light, Around her temple's porch Crept the unhappy sharp-eared wight; And warbled many a lay, Her beauty's praise to sing, And fiercely scraped away On his discordant fiddle-string. With tears, too, swelled his eyes, As large as nuts, or larger; He gasped forth heavy sighs, Like music from Silenus' charger. The Muse sat still, and played Within her grotto fair, And peevishly surveyed Signor Adonis Goatsfoot there.     "Who ever would kiss thee, Thou ugly, dirty dunce? Wouldst thou a gallant be, As Midas was Apollo once?     "Speak out, old horned boor What charms canst thou display? Thou'rt swarthy as a Moor, And shaggy as a beast of prey.     "I'm by a bard adored In far Teutonia's land; To him, who strikes the chord, I'm linked in firm and loving band."     She spoke, and straightway fled The spoiler,—he pursued her, And, by his passion led, Soon caught her, shouted, and thus wooed her:     "Thou prudish one, stay, stay! And hearken unto me! Thy poet, I dare say, Repents the pledge he gave thee.     "Behold this pretty thing,—     No merit would I claim,—    Its weight I often fling On many a clown's back, to his shame.     "His sharpness it increases, And spices his discourse, Instilling learned theses, When mounted on his hobby-horse     "The best of songs are known, Thanks to this heavy whip Yet fool's blood 'tis alone We see beneath its lashes drip.     "This lash, then, shall be his, If thou'lt give me a smack; Then thou mayest hasten, miss, Upon thy German sweetheart's track."     The Muse, with purpose sly, Ere long agreed to yield—    The satyr said good-by, And now the lash I wield! And I won't drop it here, Believe in what I say! The kisses of one's dear One does not lightly throw away. They kindle 

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