Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WHAT HAS BECOME OF THE GODS, by JOHN GODFREY SAXE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WHAT HAS BECOME OF THE GODS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Full often I have heard it said
Last Line: Repeat their old olympic labors.
Subject(s): Mythology - Classical; New York City; Manhattan; New York, New York; The Big Apple


FULL often I have heard it said,
As something quite uncontroverted,
"The gods and goddesses are dead,
And high Olympus is deserted":
And so, while thinking of the gods,
I made, one night, an exploration,
(In fact or fancy, -- where's the odds?)
To get authentic information.

I found -- to make a true report,
As if I were a sworn committee --
They all had left the upper court,
And settled in Manhattan city;
Where now they live, as best they may,
Quite unsuspected of their neighbors,
And in a humbler sort of way,
Repeat their old Olympic labors.

In human frames, for safe disguise,
They come and go through wooden portals,
And to the keen Detective's eyes
Seem nothing more than common mortals;
For mortal-like they're clad and fed,
And, still to blind the sharp inspector,
Eat, for ambrosia, baker's bread,
And tipple -- everything but nectar.

Great Jove, who wore the kingly crown,
And used to make Olympus rattle,
As if the sky was coming down,
Or all the Titans were in battle, --
Is now a sorry playhouse wight,
Content to make the groundlings wonder,
And earn some shillings every night,
By coining cheap theatric thunder.

Apollo, who in better times
Was poet-laureate of th' Elysians,
And, adding medicine to rhymes,
Was chief among the court physicians,
Now cures disease of every grade, --
Lucina's cares and Cupid's curses, --
And, still to ply his double trade,
Bepuffs his pills in doggerel verses!

Minerva, famous in her day
For wit and war, -- though often shocking
The gods by overmuch display
Of what they called her azure stocking, --
Now deals in books of ancient kind
(Where Learning soars and Fancy grovels),
And, to indulge her warlike mind,
Writes very sanguinary novels.

And Venus, who on Ida's seat
In myrtle-groves her charms paraded,
Displays her beauty in the street,
And seems, indeed, a little faded;
She's dealing in the clothing-line
(If at her word you choose to take her),
In Something Square you read the sign: --
"MISS CYTHEREA, MANTUA-MAKER."

Mars figures still as god of war,
But not with spear and iron hanger,
Erect upon the ponderous car
That rolled along with fearful clangor;
Ah! no; of sword and spear bereft,
He stands beside his bottle-holder,
And plumps his right, and plants his left,
And strikes directly from the shoulder.

And Bacchus, reared among the vines
That flourished in the fields Elysian,
And ruddy with the rarest wines
That ever flashed upon the vision, --
A licensed liquor-dealer now,
Sits pale and thin from over-dosing
With whiskey, made -- the deuce knows how,
And brandy of his own composing.

And cunning Mercury, -- what d'ye think
Is now the nimble rogue's condition?
Of course 't was but a step, to sink
From Peter Funk to politician;
Though now he neither steals nor robs,
But just secures a friend's election,
And lives and thrives on little jobs
Connected with the Street Inspection.

Thus all the gods, in deep disguise,
Go in and out of wooden portals,
And, to the sharpest human eyes,
Seem nothing more than common mortals.
And so they live, as best they may,
Quite unsuspected of their neighbors,
And, in a humbler sort of way,
Repeat their old Olympic labors.





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