Page:Poems Cook.djvu/77

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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