When wise Minerva still was young
   And just the least romantic,
Soon after from Jove’s head she flung
   That preternatural antic,
’Tis said to keep from idleness
   Or flirting, — those twin curses, —
She spent her leisure, more or less,
   In writing po——, no, verses.

How nice they were! to rhyme with far
   A kind star did not tarry;
The metre, too, was regular
   As schoolboy’s dot and carry;
And full they were of pious plums,
   So extra-super-moral, —
For sucking Virtue’s tender gums
   Most tooth-enticing coral.

A clean, fair copy she prepares,
   Makes sure of moods and tenses,
With her own hand, — for prudence spares
   A man- (or woman) -uensis;
Complete, and tied with ribbons proud,
   She hinted soon how cosy a
Treat it would be to read them aloud
   After next day’s Ambrosia.

The Gods thought not it would amuse
   So much as Homer’s Odyssees,
But could not very well refuse
   The properest of Goddesses;
So all sat round in attitudes
   Of various dejection,
As with a hem! the queen of prudes
   Began her grave prelection.

At the first pause Zeus said, “Well sung! —
   I mean — ask Phœbus, — he knows.”
Says Phœbus, “Zounds! a wolf’s among
   Admetus’s merinos!
Fine! very fine! but I must go;
   They stand in need of me there;
Excuse me!” snatched his stick, and so
   Plunged down the gladdened ether.

With the next gap, Mars said, “For me
   Don’t wait, — naught could be finer;
But I’m engaged at half-past three, —
   A fight in Asia Minor!”
Then Venus lisped, “How very thad!
   It rainth down there in torinth;
But I mutht go, becauthe they’ve had
   A thacrifithe in Corinth!”

Then Bacchus, — “With those slamming doors
   I lost the last half dist—(hic!)
Mos’ bu’ful se’ments! what's the Chor’s?
   My voice shall not be missed—(hic!)”
His words woke Hermes; “Ah!” he said,
   “I so love moral theses!”
Then winked at Hebe, who turned red,
   And smoothed her apron’s creases.

Just then Zeus snored, — the Eagle drew
   His head the wing from under;
Zeus snored, — o’er startled Greece there flew
   The many-volumed thunder;
Some augurs counted nine, —some, ten, —
   Some said, ’twas war, — some, famine, —
And all, that other-minded men
   Would get a precious ——.

Proud Pallas sighed, “It will not do;
   Against the Muse I’ve sinned, oh!”
And her torn rhymes sent flying through
   Olympus’s back window.
Then, packing up a peplus clean,
   She took the shortest path thence,
And opened, with a mind serene,
   A Sunday-school in Athens.

The verses? Some, in ocean swilled,
   Killed every fish that bit to ’em;
Some Galen caught, and, when distilled,
   Found morphine the residuum;
But some that rotted on the earth
   Sprang up again in copies,
And gave two strong narcotics birth, —
   Didactic bards and poppies.

Years after, when a poet asked
   The Goddess’s opinion,
As being one whose soul had basked
   In Art’s clear-aired dominion, —
“Discriminate,” she said, “betimes;
   The Muse is unforgiving;
Put all your beauty in your rhymes,
   Your morals in your living.”