No Hurt fhall come to you, or yours,
But, for that Pack of churlish Boors,
Not fit to live on Chriftian Ground,
They and their Houfes fhall be drown'd;
Whilft you fhall fee your Cottage rife,
And grow a Church before your Eyes.
They fcarce had fpoke, when, fair and foft,
The Roof began to mount aloft:
Aloft rofe ev'ry Beam and Rafter,
The heavy Wall climb'd flowly after.
The Chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a Steeple with a Spire.
The Kettle to the Top was hoift,
And there ftood faften'd to a joift;
But with the upfide down, to fhew
Its Inclination for below:
In vain; for a fuperior Force,
Apply'd at Bottom, ftops its Courfe,
Doom'd ever in Sufpence to dwell;
'Tis now no Kettle, but a Bell.
A wooden Jack, which had almost
Loft, by Difufe, the Art to Roalt,
A fudden Alteration feels,

Increas'd by new Inteftine Wheels;
And, what exalts the Wonder nore,
The Number made the Motion flow'r."
The Flyer, tho't had Leaden Feet,
Turn'd round fo quick, you fearce could feet:
But flacken'd by fome fecret Pow'r
Now hardly moves an Inch an Hour
The Jack and Chimney near ally'd,
Had never left each other's Side;
The Chimney to a Steeple grown,
The Jack would not be left alone;
But up againft the Steeple rear'd,
Becanie a Clock, and ftill adher'd:

A:

And ftill its Love to Houfhold Cares
By a Shrill Voice, at Noon declares,
Warning the Cook-Maid not to burn
That Roaft-Meat which it cannot turn...
The Groaning-Chair began to Crawl,
Like a huge Snail, along the Wall;
There fuck aloft, in publick View,
And, with fmall Change, a Pulpit grew..
The Porringers, that in a Row
Hung high, and made a glitt'ring fhow,
To a lefs noble Subftance chang'd,
Were now but leathern Buckets rang'd..
The Ballads pafted on the Wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair-Rofamond and Robin-Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood;
Now feem'd to look abundance better;
Improv'd in Picture, Size and Letter;
And, high in Order plac'd, defcribe
The Heraldry of ev'ry Tribe.
A Beadftead of the antique Mode,
Compact of Timber many a Load,
Such as our Ancestors did ufe,
Was metamorphos'd into Pews;
Which ftill their ancient Nature keep;
By Lodging Folks dispos'd to Sleep.
The Cottage, by fuch Feats as thefe,
Grown to a Church by juft Degrees,
The Hermits then defir'd their Hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd moft..
Philemon having paus'd a while,
Return'd 'em Thanks in homely Stile:
Then faid, my Houfe is grown fo fine,
Methinks, I ftill would call itmine:
I'm old, and fain wou'd live at Eafe,
Make me the Parfon, if you please...

Me

He spoke, and prefently he feels
His Grazier's Coat fall down his Heels:
He fees, yet hardly can believe,
About each Arm à Pudding-Sleeve :
His Waftcoat to a Caffock grew,
And both affum'd a Sable Hue;
But being old, continu'd juft

As Thread-bare, and as full of Duft.
His Talk was now of Tythes and Dues,
Could fmoak his Pipe, and read the News;
Knew how to preach old Sermons next,
Vampt in the Preface and the Text;.
At Chriftnings well could act his Part,
And had the Service all by Heart;
Wish'd Women might have Children faft,
And thought whofe Som had farrow'd last;
Against Diffenters would repine,
And stood up firm for Right Diving
Found his Head fill'd with many a Syftem.
But Claffic Authors he ne'er mifs'd 'em.
Thus having furbish'd upa Parfon,

Dame Baucis next they play'd their Farce on:
Inftead of Home-fpun Coifs were feen
Good Pinners edg'd with Colberteen;
Her Petticoat transform'd a-pace,
Became black Sattin flounc'd with Lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down,
'Twas Madam, in her Grogram Gown.
Philemm was in great furprize,
And hardly could believe his Eyes,
Amaz'd to fee her look fo prin
And fhe admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy, in their Change of Life,
Were feveral Years this Man and Wife;
When on a Day, which prov'd their laft,
Difcourfing on old Stories past,

They

They went by Chance, amidft their Talk,
To the Church-yard to take a Walk;
When Baucis haftily cry'd out,

My Dear, I fee your Fore-head fprout,
Sprout, quoth the Man, What's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me Jealous:
But yet, methinks I feel it true;

And truly, you's is buding too

Nay,

now I cannot ftir my Foot;

It feels, as if'twere taking Root-
Defcription would but tire my Mufe:
In fhort they both were turned to Tems.
Old Goodman Dobfon of the Green
Remembers, he the Trees has feen;
He'll talk of them from Noon till Night,
And goes with Folks to fhew the Sight
On Sundays, after Ev'ning Pray',
He gathers all the Parish there,

Points out the Place of either Tew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew :
Till once a Parfon of our Town,
To niend his Barn, cut Baucis down::
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd,
How much the other Tree was griev'd..
Grew Scrubby, died a-top, was ftunted,
So the next Parfon ftubb'd and burnt it.

CA

CXX.

The Bleffings of Religion.

ARUS by hardy Epicurus taught, From Greece to Rome his impious System brought, Then War with Heav'n he did infulting Wage, And breath'd against the Gods immortal Rage:

See

See, he exclaims, the fource of all our Woe!
Our Fears and Suff'rings from Religion flow.
We grant a Train of Mischiefs oft proceeds
From fuperftitious Rites, and penal Creeds;
But view Religion in her Native Charms:
Difperfing Bleflings with indulgent Arms,
From her fair Eyes what heav'nly Rays are fpread?
What blooming Joys fimile round her blissful Head?
Offspring Divine! by thee we blefs the Caufe,
Who form'd the World, and rules it by his Laws;
His Independent being we adore,

Extol his Goodness, and revere his Pow'r.
Our wondring Eyes his high Perfections view,
The lofty Contemplation we purfue,

Till ravish'd we the great Idea find,
Shining in bright Impreffions on our Mind.
Infpir'd by thee, Gueft of Celeftial Race,
With generous Love, we Human-kind embrace;
We Provocations unprovok'd receive.
Patient of wrong, and eafie to forgive;
Protect the Orphan, plead the Widow's Caufe,
Nor deviate from the Line unerring Justice draws.
Thy Luftre, bleft Effulgence, can difpel
The Clouds of Error, and the Gloom of Hell;
Can to the Soul impart Etherial Light,
Give Life Divine, and Intellectual Sight:
Before our ravish'd Eyes thy Beanis display,
-The opening Scenes of Blifs, and endless Day;
By which incited we with Ardour rife,
Scorn this inferior Ball, and claim the Skies.
Tyrants to thee a change of Nature owe,
Break all their Tortures, and indulgent grow.
Ambitious Conquerors in their mad Career,
Check'd by thy Voice,lay down the Sword and Spear.
The boldeft Champions of Impiety,

Scornful of Heav'n, fubdu'd or won by thee,
Before thy hallow'd Altars bend the Knee.

}