Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 71, No. 436, February 1852

Loosely were the joinings set
Both without it and within:
You had sworn in any weather
That it could not hold together
Longer than a year or so.
But no sooner was the god
Ushered to his new abode,
Than he wrought a change; for, lo!
Bright and fresh the place became,
Renovated in its frame.
With a lustre shone the wood
As it were from opal hewed;
And the vases twain, that stood
On its top, both cracked and grey,
Glistened with metallic ray,
As if golden jars were they.
Every thing grew bright and fair,
For the God of Love was there.

As a bird within a cage
So that it be tended well,
Careth not elsewhere to dwell;
Will not leave its hermitage,
Even for the wild and free
Chorus of the greenwood tree —
So the god, though famed for changing,
Never seemed to think of ranging.
Were the seasons dry or wet —
Rose the sun, or did it set —
Still he kept his Cabinet.

And he sang so loud and clear,
That the people clustered round
In the hope that they might hear
Something of that magic sound;
Though the words that Cupid sung
None could fathom, old nor young.
Sometimes, listening from afar,
You might catch a note of war,
Like the clarion's call; and often
Would his voice subside, and soften
To a tone of melancholy,
Ending in a long-drawn note,
Like that from Philomela's throat —
'Twas, "Proto-proto-proto-colly!"

But at last the Archon died,
And another filled his place —
He was a man of ancient race,
But jaundiced all with bitter pride,
Oppressed with jealousy and care;
Though quite unfitted to excel,
Whate'er the task, he could not bear
To see another do it well!
No soul had he for wanton strains,
Or strains indeed of any kind:
To nature he was deaf and blind,
His deepest thoughts were bent on drains.
Yet in his ear were ever ringing
The notes the little god was singing.

"Peace, peace! thou restless creature – peace!
I cannot bear that voice of thine —
'Tis not more dulcet, sure, than mine! —
From thy perpetual piping cease!
Why come the people here to hearken?
The asses, dolts! both dull and stupid!
Why listen to a silly Cupid,
Preferring him to me, their Archon?
Hush, sirrah, hush! and never more,
While I am here, presume to sing!"
Yet still, within the mystic door,
Was heard the rustling of the wing,
And notes of witching melancholy,
Called – "Proto-proto-proto-colly!"

In wrath the furious Archon rose —
"Bring levers here!" he loudly cried,
"If he must sing – though Pallas knows
His voice is tuneless as a crow's —
E'en let him sit and sing outside!"
They burst the door. The bird was caught,
And to the open window brought —
"Now get thee forth to wood or spray,
Thou tiresome, little, chattering jay!"

Paused the fair boy, ere yet he raised
His wing to take his flight;
And on the Archon's face he gazed,
As stars look on the night.
No woe was there – he only smiled,
As if in secret scorn,
And thus with human speech the child
Addressed the nobly born, —
"Farewell! You'll rue the moment yet
You drove me from your Cabinet!"

He sped away. And scarce the wind
Had borne him o'er the garden wall,
Ere a most hideous crash behind