The Fable Of Midas.[1]

Collated with Stella's copy. - Forster.     Midas, we are in story told,[2]     Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold:     He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round     Glitter'd like spangles on the ground:     A codling, ere it went his lip in,     Would straight become a golden pippin.     He call'd for drink; you saw him sup     Potable gold in golden cup:     His empty paunch that he might fill,     He suck'd his victuals thro' a quill.     Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders,     Or't had been happy for gold-finders:     He cock'd his hat, you would have said     Mambrino's[3] helm adorn'd his head;     Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay     On magazines of corn or hay,     Gold ready coin'd appear'd instead     Of paltry provender and bread;     Hence, we are by wise farmers told[4]     Old hay is equal to old gold:[5]     And hence a critic deep maintains     We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains.         This fool had got a lucky hit;     And people fancied he had wit,     Two gods their skill in music tried     And both chose Midas to decide:     He against Ph[oelig]bus' harp decreed,     And gave it for Pan's oaten reed:     The god of wit, to show his grudge,     Clapt asses' ears upon the judge,     A goodly pair, erect and wide,     Which he could neither gild nor hide.         And now the virtue of his hands     Was lost among Pactolus' sands,     Against whose torrent while he swims     The golden scurf peels off his limbs:     Fame spreads the news, and people travel     From far, to gather golden gravel;     Midas, exposed to all their jeers,     Had lost his art, and kept his ears.         This tale inclines the gentle reader     To think upon a certain leader;     To whom, from Midas down, descends     That virtue in the fingers' ends.     What else by perquisites are meant,     By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.?     By places and commissions sold,     And turning dung itself to gold?     By starving in the midst of store,     As t'other Midas did before?         None e'er did modern Midas chuse     Subject or patron of his muse,     But found him thus their merit scan,     That Phoebus must give place to Pan:     He values not the poet's praise,     Nor will exchange his plums [6] for bays.     To Pan alone rich misers call;     And there's the jest, for Pan is ALL.     Here English wits will be to seek,     Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.         Besides, it plainly now appears     Our Midas, too, has ass's ears:     Where every fool his mouth applies,     And whispers in a thousand lies;     Such gross delusions could not pass     Thro' any ears but of an ass.         But gold defiles with frequent touch,     There's nothing fouls the hand so much;     And scholars give it for the cause     Of British Midas' dirty paws;     Which, while the senate strove to scour,     They wash'd away the chemic power.[7]     While he his utmost strength applied,     To swim against this popular tide,     The golden spoils flew off apace,     Here fell a pension, there a place:     The torrent merciless imbibes     Commissions, perquisites, and bribes,     By their own weight sunk to the bottom;     Much good may't do 'em that have caught 'em!     And Midas now neglected stands,     With ass's ears, and dirty hands.