Classic Poem

Takes Old King Cole on a Sedate Stroll Through Bulfinch's Mythology .

He lived, an ancient and senescent king,
Long after Jupiter had loosed his bolts;
After gray Dis had locked his awful doors
And high Olympus crumbled into dust.
Merry he was, a blithe and genial soul;
Happy as Dionysos and as fond
Of games and dances as that smiling god.
Often he called, full loudly, for his bowl,
A bowl more vast than ever Bacchus owned;
Or e'er Silenus dipped into and held
For tipsy Nymphs or Thyiades to quaff.
Then called he for his pipe — not for the reed
Fashioned by Pan to ease his futile love
Or Syrinx trembling at the river-bank;
Not for the simple pipe that Paris played
When he was shepherding on Ida's hill;
But such a pipe that flamed and smoked as though
'Twere Ilium that burned.
And fiddlers three
He bellowed for — musicians bland of touch
As Orpheus when he swept his singing lute
Amid the ancient silences and stars;
Or Marsyas when he brought the roseate blush
To Fair Aurora's cheeks, and dreamy birds
Amid the boundless blue sang sweeter than
The Muses choiring on Parnassus' slope.
Thus he sat, bosomed in olympian calm,
And drank a mirth deep as Pierian founts;
Till laughter touched the pity of the Fates,
And Grief sank weeping in the stygian night.