Agamemnon - Poem by Laura E. Richards

About a king I have to tell,
Of all the woes that him befell
Through those who should have served him well,
Poor Agamemnon!
How he was huffed and cuffed about,
And tossed from windows, in and out,
With jest and gibe and eldritch shout,
Poor Agamemnon!

Of worsted was the monarch made,
Of gayest colors neatly laid
In each imaginable shade,
Poor Agamemnon!
His trousers were of scarlet hue,
His jacket of celestial blue,
With snow-white tunic peeping through,
Poor Agamemnon!

When he was young and in his prime,
On Christmas tree, in Christmas time,
He glowed like bird of tropic clime,
Poor Agamemnon!
His swarthy cheek, his beard of brown,
His gay attire and golden crown,
Showed him a king of high renown,
Poor Agamemnon!

The children, learning then to pore
O'er Father Homer's god-like lore,
Cried, "See! the king of men once more,
Great Agamemnon!
Now, when we play the siege of Troy,
Achilles, Hector, Ajax boy,
With us the fighting he'll enjoy,
Great Agamemnon!"

But well-a-day! the war began,
And Greek and Trojan, man to man,
In god-like fury raged and ran,
Poor Agamemnon!
'Twas Ajax seized the king, I trow,
And, using him as weapon now,
Did smite bold Hector on the brow,
Poor Agamemnon!

Then fierce and fell the contest grew;
From hand to hand the monarch flew,
Still clutched and hurled with fury new,
Poor Agamemnon!
His beaded eyes wept tears of shame,
His worsted cheeks with wrath did flame;
In vain he called each hero's name,
Poor Agamemnon!

At length great Hector seized the king
And gave his mighty arm a swing,
Then upward soared with sudden fling,
Poor Agamemnon!
Upon the high-pitched roof fell he,
And there, from Greek and Trojan free,
He lay for all the world to see,
Poor Agamemnon!

The fierce sun beat upon his head,
The rain washed white his trousers red,
The moon looked down on him and said,
"Poor Agamemnon!"
His gold and blue were gray and brown,
When Ajax, chief of high renown,
The roof-tree scaled, and brought him down,
Poor Agamemnon!

And now within the nursery,
In doll-house parlor you may see
His dim and faded majesty,
Poor Agamemnon!
And still each little naughty boy,
Ranging the cupboards for some toy,
Cries out, "Aha! the siege of Troy!
Poor Agamemnon!"