And to the crow, "O falsë thief," said he,
"I will thee quite anon thy falsë tale.
Thou sung whilom like any nightingale,
Now shalt thou, falsë thief, thy song foregon,
And eke thy whitë feathers every one,
Nor ever in all thy life shalt thou speak;
Thus shall men on a traitor be awreak ;
Thou and thine offspring ever shall be black.
Nor ever sweetë noisë shall ye make,
But ever cry against tempést and rain,

In token that through thee my wife is slain."
And to the crow he start, and that anon,
And pull'd his white feathers every one,

And made him black, and reft him all his song,
And eke his speech, and out at door him flung
Unto the devil, which I him betake;

And for this cause be all crowës black.

A poet of our own times, John G. Saxe, has rendered the same story into verse in his own lively serio-comic fashion. We select from his works, however, the story of Phaethon, son of Apollo.

PHAËTHON; OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

Dan Phaethon - so the histories run

Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun,—
Or rather of Phoebus; but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another!
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora.

Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun," Running, they say,

Trips every day,

(On Sundays and all in a heathenish way,)
All lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's' shay,'
With never a fare, and nothing to pay !
Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means Phoebus's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun !
"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

66

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire."

"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!

For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box and a dashing drive!" "Nay, Phaethon, don't,

Just stop a moment and think upon't!

You're quite too young," continued the sage,

"To tend a coach at your tender

Besides, you see,

'Twill really be

age!

Your first appearance on any stage!

Desist, my child,

The cattle are wild,

And when their mettle is thoroughly 'riled,'

Depend upon't, the coach'll be 'spiled,'

They're not the fellows to draw it mild!

Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day,

So mind and don't be foolish, Pha!"

But the youth was proud,

And swore aloud,

'Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd, He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed!

In vain the boy was cautioned at large,

He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now Phoebus felt exceedingly sorry

He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
He was in for it now and couldn't back out.
So calling Phaethon up in a trice,

He gave the youth a bit of advice;

(A 'stage direction' of which the core is,

"Don't use the whip, they're ticklish things,

But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Mind your eye, and spare your goad,

Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase.
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
Crack- - whack

Whack-crack

Resounded along the horses' backs!
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On-on they sped as swift as a flash,

Through thick and thin away they dash,
(Such rapid driving is always rash!)

When all at once, with a dreadful crash,

6

The whole establishment' went to smash!
And Phaethon, he,

As all agree,

Off the coach was suddenly hurled

Into a puddle, and out of the world!

MORAL.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses,
Nor set it down in your table of forces,
That any one man equals any four horses.
Don't swear by the Styx !

It's one of Old Nick's

Diabolical tricks

To get people into a regular 'fix,'

And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!

In the first book of the "Iliad," Apollo is represented as the god of pestilence. He it is who brings unnumbered woes to Greece by means of a contagious disease which "heaped the camp with mountains of the dead."

The story of Phaëthon gives us Apollo as the sungod. Among the Romans the seven days of the week were dedicated each to a god or goddess, and the first was sacred to Apollo, hence our name Sunday.

The greatest of Christian artists, Raphael, found in these myths subjects not unworthy of his genius, and among the famous paintings in the Vatican galleries are seven by this master, called "The Days of the Week," representing Apollo, Diana, Mars, Mercury, Jove, Venus, and Saturn.

DIANA, Lat.; SĒLĒ'NE, Gr.

SELENE, daughter of Hyperion and Thea, represented the moon. The name signifies wanderer among the stars. She was supposed to drive her chariot across the sky whilst her brother Apollo was reposing after the toils of the day.

When the shades of evening began to enfold the earth, the two milk-white steeds of Selene rose out of the mysterious depths of Oceanus. Seated in a silvery chariot appeared the mild and gentle queen of the night, with a crescent on her fair brow, a gauzy veil flowing behind, and a lighted torch in her hand.

It was said that Selene loved Endym'ion, on whom Jupiter had bestowed the gift of perpetual youth, but united with perpetual sleep, and that she descended to gaze on him every night on the summit of Mount Lăt'mos, the place of his repose.

The name Endymion denotes the sudden plunge of the sun into the sea.

Longfellow makes use of this myth in the following

poem.

D

ENDYMION.

The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,

Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.