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52
BATTLE OF THE
"Who lends immortal aid
To Frogs or Mice?—I ween, my blue-eyed maid,
For daily service in thy temple paid,
Thou to the Mice—there one and all they skip,
Snuff the rich steam, and wet the whiskered lip10."
Saturnius ceas'd: to whom his child:—" my sire,
Tho' death o'ertake them, and tho' labour tire,
Yon Mice I ne'er will aid—my wealth they spoil,
Rend my fair wreaths, and rob my lamps for oil.
But mark the deed that most distracts my soul—
Gnaw'd have the thieves and drill'd with many a hole
That robe, my daily task, my nightly care,
Wov'n of thin woof and threads more light than air;
While hourly, thus on miseries miseries mount,
Comes Botch and duns me for his small account.
Hence am I wroth—for, while I wove away,
On tick I went,—and now have nought to pay.—
Yet deem not thus the Frogs shall boast mine aid,
Weak are their souls, unprincipled, unstaid,
For when, with battling bruised and worn with toil,
I woo'd the balm of sleep,—their wild turmoil
Scared every wink—with aching brows I lay,
And toss'd till Chanty piped the dawn of day.
Then cease we, gods, yon ruffians to assist,
Lest "one of us" fly wounded from the list,
For keen their brands, tho' gods their passage bar,—
Then cease we all, and watch from heaven the war."
She spake: the'gods obey'd, and tarrying not,
Throng'd in a body to the appointed spot.
To Frogs or Mice?—I ween, my blue-eyed maid,
For daily service in thy temple paid,
Thou to the Mice—there one and all they skip,
Snuff the rich steam, and wet the whiskered lip10."
Saturnius ceas'd: to whom his child:—" my sire,
Tho' death o'ertake them, and tho' labour tire,
Yon Mice I ne'er will aid—my wealth they spoil,
Rend my fair wreaths, and rob my lamps for oil.
But mark the deed that most distracts my soul—
Gnaw'd have the thieves and drill'd with many a hole
That robe, my daily task, my nightly care,
Wov'n of thin woof and threads more light than air;
While hourly, thus on miseries miseries mount,
Comes Botch and duns me for his small account.
Hence am I wroth—for, while I wove away,
On tick I went,—and now have nought to pay.—
Yet deem not thus the Frogs shall boast mine aid,
Weak are their souls, unprincipled, unstaid,
For when, with battling bruised and worn with toil,
I woo'd the balm of sleep,—their wild turmoil
Scared every wink—with aching brows I lay,
And toss'd till Chanty piped the dawn of day.
Then cease we, gods, yon ruffians to assist,
Lest "one of us" fly wounded from the list,
For keen their brands, tho' gods their passage bar,—
Then cease we all, and watch from heaven the war."
She spake: the'gods obey'd, and tarrying not,
Throng'd in a body to the appointed spot.
