Simonides Preserved By The Gods.[1]

Three sorts there are, as Malherbe[2] says,      Which one can never overpraise -      The gods, the ladies, and the king;      And I, for one, endorse the thing.      The heart, praise tickles and entices;      Of fair one's smile, it oft the price is.      See how the gods sometimes repay it.      Simonides - the ancients say it -      Once undertook, in poem lyric,      To write a wrestler's panegyric;      Which, ere he had proceeded far in,      He found his subject somewhat barren.      No ancestors of great renown;      His sire of some unnoted town;      Himself as little known to fame,      The wrestler's praise was rather tame.      The poet, having made the most of      Whate'er his hero had to boast of,      Digress'd, by choice that was not all luck's,      To Castor and his brother Pollux;      Whose bright career was subject ample,      For wrestlers, sure, a good example.      Our poet fatten'd on their story,      Gave every fight its place and glory,      Till of his panegyric words      These deities had got two-thirds.      All done, the poet's fee      A talent was to be.      But when he comes his bill to settle,      The wrestler, with a spice of mettle,      Pays down a third, and tells the poet,      'The balance they may pay who owe it.      The gods than I are rather debtors      To such a pious man of letters.      But still I shall be greatly pleased      To have your presence at my feast,      Among a knot of guests select,      My kin, and friends I most respect.'      More fond of character than coffer,      Simonides accepts the offer.      While at the feast the party sit,      And wine provokes the flow of wit,      It is announced that at the gate      Two men, in haste that cannot wait,      Would see the bard. He leaves the table,      No loss at all to 'ts noisy gabble.      The men were Leda's twins, who knew      What to a poet's praise was due,      And, thanking, paid him by foretelling      The downfall of the wrestler's dwelling.      From which ill-fated pile, indeed,      No sooner was the poet freed,      Than, props and pillars failing,      Which held aloft the ceiling      So splendid o'er them,      It downward loudly crash'd,      The plates and flagons dash'd,      And men who bore them;      And, what was worse,      Full vengeance for the man of verse,      A timber broke the wrestler's thighs,      And wounded many otherwise.      The gossip Fame, of course, took care      Abroad to publish this affair.      'A miracle!' the public cried, delighted.      No more could god-beloved bard be slighted.      His verse now brought him more than double,      With neither duns, nor care, nor trouble.      Whoe'er laid claim to noble birth      Must buy his ancestors a slice,      Resolved no nobleman on earth      Should overgo him in the price.      From which these serious lessons flow: -      Fail not your praises to bestow      On gods and godlike men. Again,      To sell the product of her pain      Is not degrading to the Muse.      Indeed, her art they do abuse,      Who think her wares to use,      And yet a liberal pay refuse.      Whate'er the great confer upon her,      They're honour'd by it while they honour.      Of old, Olympus and Parnassus      In friendship heaved their sky-crown'd masses.