Innumerous; in fields grotesque and wild
They with implicit curls the oak entwine,
And load with fruit divine his spreading boughs;
Sight most delicious! not an irksome thought,
Or of left native isle, or absent friends,
Or dearest wife, or tender sucking babe,
His kindly-treacherous memory now presents;
The jovial god has left no room for cares.
Celestial 1 quor! thou that didst inspire Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian bard, With lofty numbers, and heroic strains Unparallel'd; with eloquence profound, And arguments convictive, didst enforce Fam'd Tully, and Demosthenes renown'd: Ennius, first fam'd in Latin song, in vain Drew Heliconian streams, ungrateful whet To jaded Muse, and oft, with vain attempt, Heroic acts, in flagging numbers dull, With pains essay'd; but, abject still and low, His unrecruited Muse could never reach The mighty theme, till, from the purple fount Of bright Lenaan fire, her barren drought He quench'd and with inspiring nectarous juice Her drooping spirits cheer'd;-aloft she towers, Borne on stiff pennons, and of war's alarms, And trophies won, in loftiest numbers sings. 'Tis thou the hero's breast to martial acts, And resolution bold, and arlour brave, Excit'st thou check'st inglorious, lolling ease, And sluggish minds with generous fires inflam'st. O thou that first my quicken'd soul didst warm, Still with thy aid assist me, that thy praise, Thy universal sway o'er all the world, In everlasting numbers, like the theme, I may record, and sing thy matchless worth. Had the Oxonian bard thy praise rehears'd, His Muse had yet retain'd her wonted height; Such as of late o'er Blenheim's field she soar'd Aerial: now in Ariconian bogs
She lies inglorious floundering, like her theme Languid and faint, and on damp wing, immerg'd In acid juice, in vain attempts to rise.
With what sublimest joy from noisy town,
At rural seat, Lucretelus retir'd:
Flaccus, untainted by perplexing cares,
Where the white pɅplar, and the lofty pine,
Join neighbouring boughs, sweet hospitable shade
Creating, from Phœbean rays secure,
A cool retreat, with few well-chosen friends,
On flowery mead recumbent, spent the hours
In mirth innocuous, and alternate verse!
With roses interwoven, poplar wreaths
Their temples bind, dress of sylvestrian gods!
Choicest nectarean juice crown'd largest bowls,
And overlook'd the brim, alluring sight,
Of fragrant scent, attractive, taste divine!
Whether from Formian grape depress'd, Falern,
Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine,
Lesbian or Cocuban, the cheering bowl
Mov'd briskly round, and spurr'd their heighten'd
To sing Mæcenas' praise, their patron kind.
But we not as our pristine sires repair
Tumbrageous grot or vale; but, when the Sun
Faintly from western skies his rays oblique'
Darts sloping, and to Thetis' watery lap
Hastens in prone career, with friends select
Swiftly we hie to Devil', young or old,
Jocund and boon, where at the entrance stands
The Devil-tavern, Temple-bar, frequented by bis friends.
A stripling, who with scrapes and humil cringe
Greets us in winning speech, and accent bland;
With lightest bound, and safe, unerring step,
He skips before, and nimbly climbs the stairs:
Melampus thus, panting with lolling tongue,
And wagging tail, gambols, and frisks before
His sequent lord, from pensive walk return'd,
Whether in shady wood, or pasture green,
And waits his coming at the well-known gate.-
Nigh to the stairs' ascent, in regal port,
Sits a majestic dame, whose looks denounce
Command and sovereignty; with haughty air,
And studied mien, in semicircular throne
Enclos'd, she deals around her dread commands;
Behind her (dazzling sight!) in order rang'd,
Pile above pile, crystalline vessels shine;
Attendant slaves with eager strides advance,
And, after homage paid, bawl out aloud
Words unintelligible, noise confus'd:
She knows the jargon sounds, and straight describes,
In characters mysterious, words obscure;
More legible are algebraic signs,
Or mystic figures by magicians drawn,
When they invoke th' infernal spirits aid,
Drive hence the rude and barbarous dissonance
Of savage Thracians, and Croatian boors;
The loud Centaurian broi's with Lapithæ
Sound harsh and grating to Lenaan god;
Chase brutal feuds of Belgian skippers hence
(Amid their cups, whose innate temper's shown),
In clumsy fist wielding scymmetrian knife,
Who slash each other's eyes and blubber'd face,
Profaning Bacchanalian, solemn rites:
Music's harmonious numbers better suit
His festivals, from instruments or voice,
Or Gasperini's hand the trembling string
Should touch; or from the dulcet Tuscan dames,
Or warbling Toft's far more melodious tongue,
Sweet symphonies should flow, the Delian god
For airy Bacchus is associate meet.
The stairs ascent now gain'd, our guide unbars The door of spacious room, and creeking chairs (To ear offensive) round the table sets. We sit, when thus his florid speech begins: "Name, sirs, the wine that most invites your taste, Champaign, or Burgandy, or Florence pure, Or Hock antique, or Lisbon new or old, Bourdeaux, or neat French wine, or Alicant." For Bourdeaux we with voice unanimous Declare (such sympathy's in boon compeers). He quits the room alert, but soon returns; One hand capacious glistering vessels bears Resplendent; t' other, with a grasp secure, A bottle (mighty charge!) upstaid, full-fraught With goodly wine. He, with extended hand Rais'd high, pours forth his sanguine frothy juice, O'erspread with bubbles, dissipated soon: We straight to arms repair, experienc'd chiefs; Now glasses clash with glasses (charming sound!) And glorious Anna's health, the first, the best, Crowns the full glass;-at her inspiring name, The sprightly wine results, and seems to smile; With hearty zeal, and wish unanimous, Her health we drink, and in her health our own. A pause ensues; and now with grateful chat W' improve the interval; and joyous mirth Engages our rais'd souls, pat repartee, Or witty joke, our airy senses moves
To pleasant laughter; straight the echoing room With universal peals and shouts resounds.
The royal Dane, blest consort of the queen,
Next crowns the ruby'd nectar, all whose bliss
In Anna's plac'd:-with sympathetic flame,
And mutual endearments, all her joys,
Like the kind turtle's pure untainted love,
Centre in him, who shares the grateful hearts
Of loyal subjects with his sovereign queen;
For, by his prudent care, united shores
Were sav'd from hostile fleets invasion dire.
The hero Marlborough next, whose vast exploits
Fame's clarion sounds; fresh laurels, triumphs new,
We wish, like those he won at Hochstet's field.
Next Devonshire illustrious, who from race
Of noblest patriots sprang, whose worthy soul
Is with each fair and virtuous gift adorn'd,
That shone in his most worthy ancestors:
For then distinct in separate breasts were seen
Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.
Prudent Godolphin, of the nation's weal
Frugal, but free and generous of his own',
Next crowns the bowl, with faithful Sunderland,
And Halifax, the Muses' darling son,
In whom conspicuous, with full lustre, shine
The surest judgment, and the brightest wit,
Himself Mæcenas and a Flaccus too-
And all the worthies of the British realm,
In order rang'd, succeed; such healths as tinge
The dulcet wine with a more charming gust.
Now each his mistress toasts, by whose bright eye
He's fir'd; Cosmelia fair, or Dulcibell',
Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes
Piercing; or airy Cælia, sprightly maid!-
Insensibly thus flow unnumber'd hours;
Glass succeeds glass, till the Dircean god
Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent rays
Enlightens our glad looks with lovely dye;
All blithe and jolly, that, like Arthur's knights,
Of rotund table, fam'd in old records,
Now most we seem'd-such is the power of WINE.
Thus we the winged hours in harmless mirth
And joys unsully'd pass, till humid Night
Has half her race perform'd; now all abroad
Is hush'd and silent, nor the rumbling noise
Of coach or cart, or smoky link-boy's call,
Is heard but universal silence reigns:
When we in merry plight, airy and gay,
Surpris'd to find the hours so swiftly fly,
With hasty knock, or twang of pendant cord,
Alarm the drowsy youth from slumbering nod;
Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the stairs
Erroneous and with busy knuckles plies
His yet clung eye-lids, and with staggering reel
Enters confus'd, and, muttering, asks our wills;
When we with liberal hand the score discharge,
And homeward each his course with steady step
Unerring steers, of cares and coin bereft.
LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG'.
SOON as Glumdalelitch miss'd her pleasing care, She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair.
1 In Faulkner's edition this poem is ascribed to Pope, and the Lilliputian Ode to Arbuthnot.
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 hauds, and with a bounce let fall
Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall.
In peals of thunder now she roars, and now
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 cry'd) "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 supply'd,
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 enterprize the most. Trembling, I've seen thee dare the kitten's paw, Nay, mix with children as they play'd at taw, Nor fear'd the marbles, as they bounding flew : Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you.
Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth! Who from a page can ever learn the truth? 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. 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 king-cup 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 his 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 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 seaman at a capstan anchors weigh?
How wast thou wont to walk with cautious tread,
A dish of tea, like milk-pail, on thy head!
How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away,
And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!"
She said; but broken accents stopt her voice,
Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise.
Undid creation at a jirk,
And of redemption made damn'd work.
Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her
Full in the middle of the Scripture.
What wonders there the man, grown old, did!
Sternhold himself he out-Sternholded,
Made David 10 seem so mad and freakish,
All thought him just what thought king Achish.
No mortal read his Solomon 11,
But judg'd Re'boam his own son.
Moses he serv'd as Moses Pharaoh,
And Deborah 12, as she Sise-rah :
Made Jeremy 13 full sore to cry,
And Job 14 himself curse God and die.
What punishment all this must follow?
Shall Arthur use him like king Tollo?
Shall David as Uriah slay him?
Or dex'trous Deborah Sisera-him?
Or shall Eliza lay a plot,
To treat him like her sister Scot?
Shall William dub his better end 15,
Or Marlborough serve him like a friend?
No!-none of these!-Heaven spare his life!
But send him, honest Job, thy wife!
Creation, a poem, in seven books.
Redemption, another heroic poem, in six
You may buy it, or steal. In a few pieces cut it: In a stewing pan put it. Salt, pepper, and mace, Must season this knuckle; Then what's join'd to a place' With other herbs muckle; That which killed king Will; And what never stands still 3. Some sprigs of that bed Where children are bred, Which much you will mend, if Both spinnage and endive, And lettuce, and beet, With marygold meet. Put no water at all; For it maketh things small, Which, lest it should happen, A close cover clap on. Put this pot of Wood's metal' In a hot boiling kettle,
Bring me a hundred reeds, of decent growth,
To make a pipe for my capacious mouth;
In soft enchanting accents let me breathe
Sweet Galatea's beauty, and my love.
Whither, fairest, art thou running,
Still my warm embraces shunning?
The lion calls not to his prey;
Nor bids the wolf the lambkin stay.
Thee Polyphemus, great as Jove,
Calls to empire, and to love:
To his palace in the rock,
To his dairy, to his flock;
To the grape of purple hue,
To the plumb of glossy blue;
Wildings which expecting stand,
Proud to be gather'd by thy hand.
Of infant limbs to make my food,
And swill full draughts of human blood!
Go, monster! bid some other guest:
I loath the host; I loath the feast.
Cease to beauty to be suing:
Ever whining love disdaining,
And take me dying to your deep abodes!
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