VERSES TO MR. C.1

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, your 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 MR. GAY,

WHO HAD CONGRATULATED MR. POPE ON FINISHING HIS HOUSE
AND GARDENS.

Ан, friend! 'tis true-this truth you lovers know—
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow;
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens :
Joy lives not here,-to happier seats it flies,
And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.
What are the gay parterre, the chequered shade,
The morning bower, the evening colonnade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds,

To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds?
So the struck deer in some sequestered part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart;
He, stretched unseen in coverts hid from day,
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.

1 Probably Craggs.

ΙΟ

UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S HOUSE AT

WOODSTOCK.

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 BEAUFORT HOUSE GATE AT CHISWICK.

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.

LINES TO LORD BATHURST.

"A WOOD!" quoth Lewis, and with that
He laughed, and shook his sides of fat.
His tongue, with eye that marked his cunning,
Thus fell a-reasoning, not a-running:
"Woods are not to be too prolix-

Collective bodies of straight sticks.

ΙΟ

It is, my lord, a mere conundrum

To call things wood for what grows under 'em.
For shrubs, when nothing else at top is,
Can only constitute a coppice.

But if you will not take my word,

See anno quint. of Richard Third;

And that's a coppice called, when docked,
Witness an. prim. of Harry Oct.
If this a wood you will maintain,
Merely because it is no plain,
Holland, for all that I can see,
May e'en as well be termed the sea,
Or Coningsby1 be fair harangued

An honest man, because not hanged."

INSCRIPTION ON A PUNCH-BOWL,

ΙΟ

20

IN THE SOUTH-SEA YEAR (1720), FOR A CLUB, CHASED WITH JUPITER PLACING CALLISTO IN THE SKIES, AND EUROPA WITH THE BULL.

COME, fill the South Sea goblet full;

The gods shall of our stock take care;

Europa pleased accepts the bull,

And Jove with joy puts off the bear.

EPIGRAM.

My lord2 complains that Pope, stark mad with gardens, Has cut three trees, the value of three farthings. "But he's my neighbour," cries the peer polite: "And if he visit me, I'll waive the right." What! on compulsion, and against my will,

A lord's acquaintance? Let him file his bill!

1 Thomas, first Lord Coningsby a zealous promoter of the Revolution of 1688. – Carruthers.

2 Lord Radnor.- Warton.

EPIGRAM.

EXPLAINED BY CARRUTHERS TO REFER TO THE LARGE SUMS OF
MONEY GIVEN IN CHARITY ON ACCOUNT OF THE SEVERITY
OF THE WEATHER ABOUT THE YEAR 1740.

YES! 'tis the time (I cried,) impose the chain,
Destined and due to wretches self-enslaved;
But when I saw such charity remain,

I half could wish this people should be saved.
Faith lost, and hope, our charity begins;
And 'tis a wise design in pitying heaven,
If this can cover multitude of sins,

To take the only way to be forgiven.

OCCASIONED BY READING THE TRAVELS OF
CAPTAIN LEMUEL GULLIVER.

I. TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN, THE MAN-MOUNTAIN.
AN ODE BY TILLY-TIT, POET LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY

OF LILLIPUT.

IN amaze,

Lost I gaze,

Can our eyes
Reach thy size?

May my lays

Swell with praise,
Worthy thee!
Worthy me!

Muse, inspire,
All thy fire!
Bards of old

Of him told,
When they said
Atlas' head

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH.

Propped the skies :

See! and believe your eyes!

See him stride

Valleys wide,

Over woods,

Over floods!
When he treads,
Mountains' heads
Groan and shake:
Armies quake:
Lest his spurn
Overturn

Man and steed:

Troops, take heed!
Left and right,

Speed your flight!

Lest an host

Beneath his foot be lost.

Turned aside,
From his hide,

Safe from wound,
Darts rebound.

From his nose

Clouds he blows:

When he speaks,

When he eats,

Famine threats!

When he drinks,

Neptune shrinks!
Nigh thy ear,
In mid air,

On thy hand

Let me stand;

So shall I,

Thunder breaks! Lofty poet, touch the sky.

II. THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG.

A PASTORAL.

SOON as Glumdalclitch missed her pleasing care,
She wept, she blubbered, and she tore her hair.
No British miss sincerer grief has known,
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 gently 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,

ΙΟ