Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE FABLE OF MIDAS, by JONATHAN SWIFT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE FABLE OF MIDAS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Midas, we are in story told
Last Line: With asses' ears, and dirty hands.
Subject(s): Midas


Midas, we are in story told,
Turned everything he touched to gold:
He chipped his bread, the pieces round
Glittered like spangles on the ground:
A codling e'er it went his lip in,
Would straight become a golden pippin:
He called for drink, you saw him sup
Potable gold in golden cup.
His empty paunch that he might fill,
He sucked his vittles through a quill:
Untouched it passed between his grinders,
Or't had been happy for gold finders.
He cocked his hat, you would have said
Mambrino's helm adorned his head.
Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay,
On magazines of corn or hay,
Gold ready coined appeared, instead
Of paltry provender and bread:
Hence we are by wise farmers told
Old hay is equal to old gold;
And hence a critic deep maintains,
We learned 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 Phoebus' harp decreed,
And gave it for Pan's oaten reed:
The god of wit to show his grudge,
Clapped asses' ears upon the judge,
A good 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 percent?
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 choose,
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 plumbs 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 asses' ears;
Where every fool his mouth applies,
And whispers in a thousand lies;
Such gross delusions could not pass,
Through any ears but of an ass.
But gold defiles with frequent touch,
There's nothing fouls the hands so much:
And scholars give it for the cause,
Of British Midas' dirty paws;
Which while the senate strove to scour,
They washed away the chemic power.
While he his utmost strength applied,
To swim against this pop'lar 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 it do 'em that have caught 'um.
And Midas now neglected stands,
With asses' ears, and dirty hands.






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