Fable III. Jupiter and the Poet

In angry mood Jove once, they say, (That god comes often in my way) Vow'd he'd chastise a certain bard, For want of reverence and regard: What! Jupiter have passions then? Read Homer, and your gods are men. A thing call'd poet (what his name, Or who he is, or whence he came, It matters not) would have his joke, Of gods irreverently spoke; And to enhance his fund of sin, With Jove himself must needs begin. Haste, Vulcan, to thy forge; and fetch That bolt doom'd for the greatest wretch. But stay—bring with thee great and small; In one dread heap I'll lanch them all. A dire example he shall prove To all such bards as sneer at Jove. Vulcan his orders strait obey'd— The whole creation shakes dismay'd; Redoubl'd thunder roars aloud, And from the thick collected cloud Keen lightnings, darting thro' the sky, In serpentine meanders fly. Earth dreads, lest from her axis whirl'd, She be again to chaos hurl'd. And where's the poet all this while? Asleep: and sleeping seems to smile: Ah! soon he'll feel the vengeful blast,— That sleep will surely be his last. No: he awakes calm and serene, Unconscious of the dismal scene: He to Jove's wrath his safety owes: The dart must err which passion throws. For all these bolts together tumbled, In wild confusion, only rumbled; Thro' vacant skies are vainly tost, And all the expedition's lost. Some few, tho' guiltless, bore the shock, And here an oak, and there a rock Torn up, o'erthrown in woeful plight, Proclaim'd the horrors of the night. Now had this wrath-enkindled god Seiz'd a stout broomstick, or a rod, Instead of all this mighty din— A mercy on the poet's skin!