Say, by what witchcraft, or what demon led, | Preferr'st thou litter to the marriage bed!

Some say the devil himself is in that mare :
If so, our dean shall drive him forth by prayer.
Some think you mad, some think you are possess'd;
That Bedlam and clean straw will suit you best.
Vain means, alas! this frenzy to appease,
That straw, that straw, would heighten the disease.

My bed (the scene of all our former joys,
Witness two lovely girls, two lovely boys,)
Alone I press; in dreams I call my dear,
I stretch my hand, no Gulliver is there!
I wake, I rise, and, shivering with the frost,
Search all the house, -my Gulliver is lost!
Forth in the street I rush with frantic cries;
The windows open, all the neighbours rise;
"Where sleeps my Gulliver? O tell me where!"
The neighbours answer, "With the sorrel mare."

At early morn, I to the market haste, (Studious in everything to please thy taste ;) A curious fowl and sparagrass I chose (For I remember you were fond of those); Three shillings cost the first, the last seven groats; Sullen you turn from both, and call for oats.

Others bring goods and treasure to their houses, Something to deck their pretty babes and spouses; My only token was a cup like horn, That's made of nothing but a lady's corn. 'Tis not for that I grieve; no, 'tis to see The groom and sorrel mare preferred to me!

These, for some moments when you deign to quit, And (at due distance) sweet discourse admit, 'Tis all my pleasure thy past toil to know, For pleased remembrance builds delight on woe. At every danger pants thy consort's breast, And gaping infants squall to hear the rest. How did I tremble, when, by thousands bound, I saw thee stretch'd on Lilliputian ground? When scaling armies climb'd up every part, Each step they trod, I felt upon my heart. But when thy torrent quench'd the dreadful blaze, King, queen, and nation, staring with amaze,

Full in my view how all my husband came,
And what extinguish'd theirs, increased my flame.
Those spectacles, ordain'd thine eyes to save,
Were once my present; love that armour gave.
How did I mourn at Bolgolam's decree!
For when he sign'd thy death, he sentenced me.

When folks might see thee all the country round

For sixpence, I'd have given a thousand pound.
Lord! when the giant-babe that head of thine
Got in his mouth, my heart was up in mine!
When in the marrow-bone I see thee ramm'd;
Or on the house-top by the monkey cramm'd,
The piteous images renew my pain,
And all thy dangers I weep o'er again.
But on the maiden's nipple when you rid,
Pray Heaven, 'twas all a wanton maiden did!
Glumdalclitch too! - with thee I mourn her case:
Heaven guard the gentle girl from all disgrace!
O may the king that one neglect forgive,
And pardon her the fault by which I live!
Was there no other way to set him free?
My life, alas! I fear proved death to thee.

O teach me, dear, new words to speak my flame!
Teach me to woo thee by thy best-loved name!
Whether the style of Grildrig please thee most,
So call'd on Brobdignag's stupendous coast,
When on the monarch's ample hand you sate,
And hollow'd in his ear intrigues of state;
Or Quinbus Flestrin more endearment brings;
When like a mountain you looked down on kings:
If ducal Nardac Lilliputian peer,

Or Glumglum's humbler title soothe thy ear:
Nay, would kind Jove my organs so dispose,
To hymn harmonious Houyhnhnm through the nose,
I'd call thee Houyhnhnm, that high sounding name;
Thy children's noses all should twang the same.
So might I find my loving spouse of course
Endued with all the virtues of a horse.

TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN, THE MAN-MOUNTAIN.

A LILLIPUTIAN ODE.

N amaze

IN

Lost, I gaze,

Can our eyes

Reach thy size?

May my lays
Swell with praise,
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,
Mountain heads
Groan and shake:
Armies quake:
Let 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.

HYMN.

[The following translation exists in the handwriting of Mr. Fermor, of Tusmore, the last of the name, who devised his estates in trust for his

the desire of the Rev. Mr. Brown, chaplain to Mr. Caryl, of Lady-holt, a Roman Catholic gentleman, on Mr. Pope, our celebrated poet, making a visit there, who, being requested by Mr. Brown to translate the following hymn or rythmus, composed by St. Francis Xavier, Apostle of the Indies, on the morn. ing after produced what follows."-A copy of the Hymn was sent to the Gentleman's Magazine, by a correspondent from Baltimore, and appears in the number for October, 1791. The correspondent of the magazine says he received it, nearly forty years before, from Mr. Brown, who died some time after, aged about ninety. "This venerable man had lived in England, as domestic chaplain in the family of the Mr. Caryl to whom Mr. Pope inscribes the Rape of the Lock, in the beginning of that poem; and at whose house he spent much of his time in the early and gay part of his life. I was informed by Mr. Brown, that, seeing the poet often amuse the family with verses of gallantry, he took the liberty one day of requesting him to change the subject of his compositions, and to devote his talents to the translating of the Latin hymn."]

THOU art my God, sole object of my love;

Not for the hope of endless joys above;

Not for the fear of endless pains below,
Which they who love thee not must undergo.
For me, and such as me, thou deign'st to bear
An ignominious cross, the nails, the spear:
A thorny crown transpierced thy sacred brow,
While bloody sweats from every member flow.
For me in tortures thou resign'st thy breath,
Embraced me on the cross, and saved me by thy death.
And can these sufferings fail my heart to move?
What but thyself can now deserve my love?
Such as then was, and is, thy love to me,
Such is, and shall be still, my love to thee-
To thee, Redeemer! mercy's sacred spring!
My God, my Father, Maker, and my King!1

1 Oratio à Sancto Xaverio composita.
O Deus! ego amo te:

Nec amo te ut salves me,
Aut quià non amantes te
Æterno punis igne.

Tu, tu, mî Jesu! totum me

Amplexus es in cruce.
Tulisti clavos, lanceam,
Multamque ignominiam;
Innumeros dolores,
Sudores, et angores,