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The whole a labour'd quarry above ground.
side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other. The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; With here a fountain never to be play'd, And there a summerhouse that knows no shade; Here Amphitrité sails through myrtle bowers, There gladiators fight or die in flowers; Unwater'd, see the drooping seahorse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn. My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: But soft-by regular approach-not yet—
First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your
Just at his study door he'll bless your eyes.
His study with what authors is it stor`d? In books, not authors, curious is my lord? To all their dated backs he turns you round; These Aldus printed, those du Suëil has bound! Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good, For all his lordship knows, but they are wood!
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look ;
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, That summons you to all the pride of prayer: Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all paradise before your eye. To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, Who never mentions hell to ears polite.
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The labourer bears: what his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity supplies.
Another age shall see the golden ear
Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre,
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,
And splendour borrows all her rays from sense.
Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind,
Bid temples worthier of the God ascend,
Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain, The mole projected break the roaring main, Back to his bounds their subject sea command, And roll obedient rivers through the land: These honours peace to happy Britain brings; These are imperial works, and worthy kings.
EPISTLE TO MR. ADDISON.
OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS.
SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years!
Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame,
Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust; Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!