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Worthy thee!
Worthy me!
Muse, inspire
All thy fire!
Bards of old

Of him told,

When they said

Atlas' head

Propp'd the skies:

See! and believe your eyes! See him stride

Valleys wide,

Over woods,

Over floods!

When he treads,
Mountains' heads

Groan and shake:

Armies quake;

Lest his spurn
Overturn

Man and steed:

Troops, take heed!

Left and right,

Speed your flight!

Lest an host

Beneath his foot be lost!

Turn'd aside

From his hide

Safe from wound,
Darts rebound.

From his nose

Clouds he blows:

When he speaks,
Thunder breaks !

When he eats,

Famine threats!

When he drinks,

Neptune shrinks!

Nigh thy ear

In mid air,

On thy hand

Let me stand;

So shall I,

Lofty poet! touch the sky.

THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH

FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG.

A PASTORAL.

Soon as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care,
She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair;
No British miss sincerer grief has known,
Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown.
She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd in her thread,
And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed;
Then spread her hands, and with a bounce lot fall
Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall.

and now

In peals of thunder now she roars,
She gently whimpers like a lowing cow:
Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears:
Her locks dishevell'd, and her flood of tears,
Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain,
When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.
In vain she search'd each cranny of the house,
Each gaping chink, impervious to a mouse.
"Was it for this (she cried) with daily care
Within thy reach I set the vinegar,

And fill'd the cruet with the acid tide,

While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied;
Where twin'd the silver eel around thy hook,
And all the little monsters of the brook!
Sure in that lake he dropt; my Grilly's drown'd!"
She dragg'd the cruet, but no Grildrig found.
"Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast!
But little creatures enterprise the most.
Trembling I've seen thee dare the kitten's paw,
Nay, mix with children, as they play'd at taw,
Nor fear the marbles as they bounding flew ;
Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you!

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Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth? Who from a page can ever learn the truta? Vers'd in court tricks, that money-loving boy To some lord's daughter sold the living toy ; Or rent him limb from limb in cruel play, As children tear the wings of flies away. From place to place o'er Brobdingnag I'll roam, And never will return, or bring thee home.

VOL. II.

But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind?
How then thy fairy footsteps can I find?
Dost thou bewilder'd wander all alone

In the green thicket of a mossy stone;

Or, tumbled from the toadstool's slippery round,
Perhaps, all maim'd, lie groveling on the ground?
Dost thou, embosom'd in the lovely rose,
Or, sunk within the peach's down, repose?
Within the kingcup if thy limbs are spread,
Or in the golden cowslip's velvet head,

O show me, Flora, midst those sweets, the flower Where sleeps my Grildrig in the fragrant bower. "But ah! I fear thy little fancy roves

On little females, and on little loves;
Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse,
The baby playthings that adorn thy house,
Doors, windows, chimneys, and the spacious rooms,
Equal in size to cells of honeycombs:

Hast thou for these now ventur'd from the shore,
Thy bark a beanshell, and a straw thy oar?
Or in thy box now bounding on the main,
Shall I ne'er bear thyself and house again?
And shall I set thee on my hand no more,
To see thee leap the lines, and traverse o'er
My spacious palm; of stature scarce a span ̧
Mimic the actions of a real man?

No more behold thee turn my watch's key,
As seamen at a capstan anchors weigh?
How wert thou wont to walk with cautious tread,

A dish of tea, like milkpail, on thy head!

How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away, And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!"

She spoke; but broken accents stopp'd her voice, Soft as the speaking trumpet's mellow noise: She sobb'd a storm, and wip'd her flowing eyes, Which seem'd like two broad suns in misty skies. O squander not thy grief; those tears command To weep upon our cod in Newfoundland : The plenteous pickle shall preserve the fish, And Europe taste thy sorrows in a dish.

TO MR. LEMUEL GULLIVER,

THE GRATEFUL ADDRESS OF THE UNHAPPY HOUYHNHNMS, NOW IN SLAVERY AND BONDAGE IN ENGLAND.

To thee, we wretches of the Houyhnhnm band, Condemn'd to labour in a barbarous land, Return our thanks. Accept our humble lays, And let each grateful Houyhnhnm neigh thy praise.

O happy Yahoo, purg'd from human crimes, By thy sweet sojourn in those virtuous climes, Where reign our sires; there, to thy country's shame.

Reason, you found, and virtue were the same. Their precepts razed the prejudice of youth, And even a Yahoo learn'd the love of truth.

Art thou the first who did the coast explore; Did never Yahoo tread that ground before?

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