 | Knitting-work |  |
SONNET TO PAN.
O Pan! once held the deity of woods,
Now changed thy place, — thy former state forgot, —
We see thee ranked amongst our household goods —
Not gods — thy sacredness all “gone to pot.”
Thy ministers are cooks, an unctuous crew,
Who all thy old austerities ignore;
The grateful incense of the morning dew
Goes up from off thine altar never more;
But odorous fries wake gustatory qualms,
And simmering compounds scent the ambient air,
The “siss” of sausages ascends like psalms,
The fume of mutton rises like a prayer.
Thus do we change; O Pan! with heathen man;
Thou wast a god — now thou 'rt a dripping Pan.
Now changed thy place, — thy former state forgot, —
We see thee ranked amongst our household goods —
Not gods — thy sacredness all “gone to pot.”
Thy ministers are cooks, an unctuous crew,
Who all thy old austerities ignore;
The grateful incense of the morning dew
Goes up from off thine altar never more;
But odorous fries wake gustatory qualms,
And simmering compounds scent the ambient air,
The “siss” of sausages ascends like psalms,
The fume of mutton rises like a prayer.
Thus do we change; O Pan! with heathen man;
Thou wast a god — now thou 'rt a dripping Pan.
| Knitting-work | |