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HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.
Atria longe patent; sed nec cœnantibus usquam
Nec somno locus est: quam bene non habitas!
SEE, sir, here's the grand approach,
This way is for his Grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and here's the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock,
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mark how wide the hall is made!
The chimneys are so well designed,
They never smoke in any wind.
This gallery's contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber for debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
"Thanks, sir," cried I, "'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling."
ON AN OLD GATE AT CHISWICK.
O GATE, how camest thou here?
I was brought from Chelsea last year,
Battered with wind and weather;
Inigo Jones put me together;
Sir Hans Sloane let me alone;
Burlington brought me hither.
ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN, AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, JULY 9, 1739.
WITH no poetic ardour fired,
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he loved, or here expired,
Begets no numbers, grave or gay.
Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred,
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretched out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.
EPIGRAM TO LORD RADNOR.
My lord' complains that Pope, stark mad with gardens,
Has lopt three trees, the value of three farthings:
"But he's my neighbour," cries the peer polite:
"And if he'll visit me, I'll waive the right.'
What! on compulsion, and against my will,
A lord's acquaintance? Let him file his bill!
ST. JAMES'S PALACE, LONDON, OCT. 22.
FEW words are best; I wish you well
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here;
Some morning walks along the Mall,
And evening friends, will end the year.
If, in this interval, between
The falling leaf and coming frost,
You please to see, on Twit'nam green,
Your friend, you poet, and your host;
For three whole days you here may rest
From office business, news and strife;
And (what most folks would think a jest)
Want nothing else, except your wife.
TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN, THE MAN
AN ODE BY TILLY-TIT, POET LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY OF LILLIPUT. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH.
Man and steed:
Troops, take heed!
Left and right,
Speed your flight!
Lest an host
Beneath his foot be lost.
From his hide,
Safe from wound,
From his nose
Clouds he blows:
When he speaks,
When he eats,
When he drinks,
Nigh thy ear,
In mid air,
On thy hand
Let me stand;
So shall I,
Lofty poet, touch the sky.
1 Gulliver. The poem is supposed to be written by a Lilliputian poet.
THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH' FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG.
Soon as Glumdalclitch missed her pleasing care, She wept, she blubbered, and she tore her hair. No British miss sincerer grief has shown, Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown. She furled her sampler, and hauled in her thread, And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed;
Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall
Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall.
In peals of thunder now she roars, and now
She genlty whimpers like a lowing cow:
Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears,
Her locks dishevelled, 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 searched 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 filled the cruet with the acid tide,
While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied;
Where twined the silver eel around thy hook,
And all the little monsters of the brook.
Sure in that lake he dropped; my Grilly's drowned.".
She dragged 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 played at taw,
Nor fear the marbles as they bounding flew;
Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to
'Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth? Who from a page can ever learn the truth? Versed 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.
1 See the voyage to Brobdingnag, "Gulliver's Travels."
From place to place o'er Brobdingnag I'll roam,
And never will return or bring thee home.
But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind?
How, then, thy fairy footsteps can I find?
Dost thou bewildered wander all alone,
In the green thicket of a mossy stone;
Or tumbled from the toadstool's slippery round,
Perhaps all maimed, lie grovelling on the ground?
Dost thon, embosomed in the lovely rose,
Or sunk within the peach's down, repose?
Within the king-cup if thy limbs are spread,
Or in the golden cowslip's velvet head:
O show me, Flora, 'midst those sweets, the flow'r
Where sleeps Grildrig in his favorite bow'r.
"But ah! I fear thy little fancy roves
On little females, and on little loves;
Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse,
Thy 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 ventured from the shore,
Thy bark a bean-shell, 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 capstern anchors weigh?
How wert thou wont to walk with cautious tread,
A dish of tea like milk-pail on thy head!
How chaste the mite that bore thy cheese away,
And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!"
She said, but broken accents stopped her voice,
Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise:
She sobbed a storm, and wiped her flowing eyes,
Which seemed 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.