As news from Olympus has grown rather rare,
Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to touch there,
We extract for our readers the intelligence given,
In our latest accounts from that ci-devant Heaven–
That realm of the By-gones, where still sit in state
Old god-heads and nod-heads now long out of date.
Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o’er,
Seems to find immortality rather a bore;
Tho’ he still asks for news of earth’s capers and crimes,
And reads daily his old fellow-Thunderer, the Times.
He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-peckt are,
And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.
Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration,
And packt off to earth on a puff speculation.
The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim,
Since bards lookt to Bentley and Colburn, not him.
So he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags.
Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the Mags;
Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to linger in’t,
From which men could guess that the god had a finger in’t.
There are other small facts, well deserving attention,
Of which our Olympic despatches make mention.
Poor Bacchus is still very ill, they allege,
Having never recovered the Temperance Pledge.
“What, the Irish!” he cried–“those I lookt to the most!
“If they give up the spirit, I give up the ghost:”
While Momus, who used of the gods to make fun,
Is turned Socialist now and declares there are none!
But these changes, tho’ curious, are all a mere farce
Compared to the new “casus belli” of Mars,
Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet,
Uncheered by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot!
In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow
Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow,
Like Pat at a fair, he might “coax up a row:”
But the joke wouldn’t take–the whole world had got wiser;
Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser;
And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot,
Without very well knowing for whom or for what.
The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing,
Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King;
While, in England, good fighting’s a pastime so hard to gain,
Nobody’s left to fight with, but Lord Cardigan.
‘Tis needless to say then how monstrously happy
Old Mars has been made by what’s now on the tapis;
How much it delights him to see the French rally,
In Liberty’s name, around Mehemet Ali;
Well knowing that Satan himself could not find
A confection of mischief much more to his mind
Than the old Bonnet Rouge and the Bashaw combined.
Right well, too, he knows, that there ne’er were attackers,
Whatever their cause, that they didn’t find backers;
While any slight care for Humanity’s woes
May be soothed by that “Art Diplomatique,” which shows
How to come in the most approved method to blows.
This is all for to-day–whether Mars is much vext
At his friend Thiers’s exit, we’ll know by our next.