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120

The suffering eye inverted nature sees,
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
With here a fountain, never to be played;
And there a summer-house, that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers;
There gladiators 1 fight or die in flowers;
Unwatered see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.

My lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen :
But soft,-by regular approach, -not yet,-
First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat;2 130
And when up ten steep slopes you've dragged your

thighs, Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.

His study! with what authors is it stored?3 In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round: These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. Lo, some are vellum, 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. 140

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,

1 The two statues of the Gladiator pugnans and Gladiator moriens.

2 The approaches and communications of house with garden, or of one part with another, ill judged, and inconvenient.

3 The false taste in books; a satire on the vanity in collecting them, more frequent in men of fortune than the study to understand them. Many delight chiefly in the elegance of the print, or of the binding; some have carried it so far, as to cause the upper shelves to be filled with painted books of wood; others pique themselves so much upon books in a language they do not understand, as to exclude the most useful in one they do.

150

That summons you to all the pride of prayer:1
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven.
On painted ceilings? you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre 3
On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all paradise before your eye.
To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite. 4

But hark! the chining clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall:
The rich buffet well-coloured serpents grace,5
And gaping tritons spew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.6
A solemn sacrifice, performed in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there.
Between each act the trembling salvers ring,

160

1 The false taste in music, improper to the subjects, as of light airs in churches, often practised by the organist, &c.

* And in painting (from which even Italy is not free) of naked figures in churches, &c., which has obliged some Popes to put draperies on some of those of the best masters.

3 Verrio (Antonio) painted many ceilings, &c., at Windsor, Hampton Court, &c., and Laguerre at Blenheim Castle, and other places.

4 This is a fact; a reverend Dean preaching at court, threatened the sinner with punishment in “a place which he thought it not decent to name in so polite an assembly.”

5 Taxes the incongruity of ornaments (though sometimes practised by the ancients) where an open mouth ejects the water into a fountain, or where the shocking images of serpents, &c., are introduced in grottoes or buffets.

6. The proud festivals of some men are here set forth to ridicule, where pride destroys the ease, and formal regularity all the pleasur: able enjoyment of the entertainment.

From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the king.
In plenty starving, tantalised in state,
And complaisantly helped to all I hate,
Treated, caressed, and tired, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,
And swear no day was ever past so ill.

Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed;1
Health to himself, and to his infants bread

170 The lab’rer bears: what his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has planned, And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil?
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle.
'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,
And splendour borrows all her rays from sense. 180

His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase:
Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil,
Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil;
Whose ample lawns are not ashamed to feed
The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
But future buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,

1 The moral of the whole, where Providence is justified in giving wealth to those who squander it in this manner. . A bad taste employs more hands, and diffuses expense more than a good one. This recurs to what is laid down in Book 1. Ep. ii. ver. 230-7; and in the Epistle preceding this, ver, 161, &c.

190

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 the ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what such hands designed,)
Bid harbours open, public ways extend,
Bid temples, worthier of the God, ascend;
Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient rivers through the land:
These honours peace to happy Britain brings,
These are imperial works, and worthy kings.

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EPISTLE V.

TO MR. ADDISON. OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS. This was originally written in the year 1715, when Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of medals ; it was some time before he was Secretary of State ; but not published till Mr. Tickell's edition of his works; at which time the verses on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were added, viz., in 1720. SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years ! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanished like their dead ! Imperial wonders raised on nations spoiled, Where mixed with slaves the groaning martyr toiled: Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,

Now drained a distant country of her floods:
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey,
Statues of men, scarce less alive than they !
Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins saved from flame,
Some buried marble half preserves a name;
That name the learned with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sighed : she found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust: . 20
Huge moles, whose shadow stretched from shore to

shore,
Their ruins perished, and their place no more!
Convinced, she now contracts her vast design,
And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps;
Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps;
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Through climes and ages bears each form and name :
In one short view subjected to our eye
Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie.
With sharpened sight pale antiquaries pore,
The inscription value, but the rust adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years !
To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes,

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