The Man And The Wooden God.

A pagan kept a god of wood,— A sort that never hears, Though furnish'd well with ears,— From which he hoped for wondrous good. The idol cost the board of three; So much enrich'd was he With vows and offerings vain, With bullocks garlanded and slain: No idol ever had, as that, A kitchen quite so full and fat. But all this worship at his shrine Brought not from this same block divine Inheritance, or hidden mine, Or luck at play, or any favour. Nay, more, if any storm whatever Brew'd trouble here or there, The man was sure to have his share, And suffer in his purse, Although the god fared none the worse. At last, by sheer impatience bold, The man a crowbar seizes, His idol breaks in pieces, And finds it richly stuff'd with gold. 'How's this? Have I devoutly treated,' Says he, 'your godship, to be cheated? Now leave my house, and go your way, And search for altars where you may. You're like those natures, dull and gross, From, which comes nothing but by blows; The more I gave, the less I got; I'll now be rich, and you may rot.'