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Greatness, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compass this, his building is a Town,
His Pond an Ocean, his Parterre a down:
Who but muft laugh, the Mafter when he fees,
A puny infect, fhiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground.
Two Cupids fquirt before: a Lake behind
Improves the keenefs of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On ev'ry fide you look, behold the Wall!
No pleasing Intricacies intervene,
No artful wildnefs to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The fuff'ring eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With here a Fountain never to be play'd;
And there a Summer-houfe, that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite fails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dufty Urn.
My Lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: But foft-by regular approach-not yetFirst thro' the length of yon hot Terrace sweat; And when up ten steep flops you've drag'd your thighs, Juft at his Study-door he'll blefs your eyes.
His Study! with what Authors is it flor'd?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
Thefe Aldus printed, thofe Du Sueil has bound.
Lo fome are Vellom, and the rest as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.
And now the Chapel's filver bell you hear,
That fummons you to all the Pride of Pray'r:
Light quirks of Mufic, broken and uneven,
Make the foul dance upon a Jig to Heav'n.
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 reft, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
But hark' the chiming Clocks to Dinner call;
A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble Hall:
The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons fpew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A folemn Sacrifice, perform'd in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd fwear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each A&t the trembling falvers ring,
From foup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King,
In plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaifantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curfe fuch lavish cost, and little skill,
And fwear no day was ever past so ill.
Yet hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed:
Health to himself, and to his infants bread
The Lab'rer bears: what his hard Heart denies,
His charitable Vanity supplies.
Another age fhall fee the golden Ear Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres re-affume the land.
Who then shall grace, or who improve the foil?
Who plants like BATHURST, or who builds like BOYLE. 'Tis ufe alone that fanctifies Expence,
And Splendor borrows all her rays from Senfe.
His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he encrease:
Whofe chearful Tenants blefs their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the foil;
Whofe ample lawns are not afham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deferving steed;
Whofe rifing forefts, not for pride or show,
But future Building, future Navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a Country, and then raise a Town.
You too proceed! make falling Arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
"Till Kings call forth th' Ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what fuch hands design'd,)
Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend,
Bid Temples, worthier of the God, afcend;
Bid the broad arch the dang'rous Flood contain,
The mole projected break the roring Main;
Back to his bounds their fubject fea command,
And roll obedient Rivers thro' the Land:
Thefe Honours, Peace to happy Britain brings,
These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.
Occafioned by his Dialogues on MEDALS.
SEE the wild waste of all devouring years!
How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears,
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanish like their dead!
Imperial wonders rais'd on Nations spoil'd,
Where mix'd with Slaves the groaning Martyr toil'd:
Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods:
Fanes which admiring Gods with pride furvey,
Statues of men, fcarce lefs alive than they!
Some felt the filent ftroke of mouldring age,
Some hostile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal, confpire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruin fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preferves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce difputes purfue,
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due.