And cambric handkerchiefs reward the song.
But soon as coach or cart drives rattling on,
The rabble part, in shoals they backward run.
So Jove's loud bolts the mingled war divide,
And Greece and Troy retreat on either side.
Let constant vigilance thy footsteps guide, And wary circumspection guard thy side;
Then shalt thou walk unharmed the dang'rous night,
Nor need th' officious link-boy's smoky light.
Thou never wilt attempt to cross the road,
Where ale-house benches rest the porter's load,
Grievous to heedless shins; no barrow's wheel,
That bruises oft the truant school-boy's heel,
Behind thee rolling, with insidious pace,
Shall mark thy stocking with a miry trace.
Let not thy vent'rous steps approach too nigh,
Where gaping wide, low steepy cellars lie;
Should thy shoe wrench aside, down, down you fall,
And overturn the scolding huckster's stall,
The scolding huckster shall not o'er thee moan,
But pence exact for nuts and pears o'erthrown.
Though you through cleanlier alleys wind by day,
To shun the hurries of the public way,
Yet ne'er to those dark paths by night retire;
Mind only safety and contemn the mire,
Then no impervious courts thy haste detain,
Let not the chairman, with assuming stride,
Press near the wall, and rudely thrust thy side:
155 The laws have set him bounds; his servile feet
Should ne'er encroach where posts defend the street.
Yet who the footman's arrogance can quell,
Whose flambeau gilds the sashes of Pell-mell,
When in long rank a train of torches flame,
160 To light the midnight visits of the dame?
Others, perhaps, by happier guidance led,
May where the chairman rests, with safety tread;
Whene'er I pass, their poles unseen below,
Make my knee tremble with the jarring blow.
FABLE XLV. -THE POET AND THE ROSE
I HATE the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame.
Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own.
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decried.
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister awkward creature;
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.
As in the cool of early day
A Poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And ev'ry stalk with odour bends.
A rose he plucked, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing as the Muse inspired:
Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;
How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place
With never-fading love!
There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die!
Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there;
I see thy with'ring head reclined
With envy and despair!
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.
Spare your comparisons, replied
An angry Rose who grew beside.
Of all mankind, you should not flout us;
What can a Poet do without us?
In ev'ry love-song roses bloom,
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade?
MR. POPE'S WELCOME FROM GREECE
LONG hast thou, friend, been absent from thy soil, Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy;
I have been witness of thy six years' toil,
Thy daily labours and thy night's annoy, 5 Lost to thy native land with great turmoil,
On the wide sea, oft threatening to destroy: Methinks with thee I've trod Sigæan ground, And heard the shores of Hellespont resound.
Did I not see thee when thou first sett'st sail ΙΟ To seek adventures fair in Homer's land? Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail
And wish thy bark had never left the strand? Even in mid ocean often didst thou quail
And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand, 15 Praying the virgin dear and saintly choir, Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.
Cheer up, my friend, thy dangers now are o'er;
Methinks - nay, sure the rising coasts appear;
Hark how the guns salute from either shore
As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair:
Shouts answering shouts from Kent and Essex roar,
And bells break loud from ev'ry gust of air:
Bonfires do blaze, and bones and cleavers ring,
As at the coming of some mighty king.
Now pass we Gravesend with a friendly wind,
And Tilbury's white fort, and long Blackwall;
Greenwich where dwells the friend of human kind,
More visited than either park or hall.
Withers the good, and (with him ever joined)
Facetious Disney greet thee first of all:
I see his chimney smoke, and hear him say:
'Duke! that's the room for Pope, and that for Gay.
'Come in, my friends, here shall ye dine and lie,
And here shall breakfast and here dine again,
And sup and breakfast on (if ye comply)
For I have still some dozens of champagne:'
His voice still lessens as the ship sails by;
He waves his hand to bring us back in vain;
For now I see, I see proud London's spires;
Greenwich is lost, and Deptford Dock retires:
Oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder quay!
The sky reëchoes with new shouts of joy:
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