Long Chanc'ry-lane retentive rolls the sound,
And courts to courts return it round and round:
Thames wafts it thence to Rufus' roaring hall,
And Hungerford re-echoes bawl for bawl.
All hail him victor in both gifts of song,
Who sings so loudly, and who sings so long.
This labour past, by Bridewell all descend,
(As morning-pray'r and flagellation end)
To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams
Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames, 260
The King of dykes! than whom no sluice of mud
With deeper sable blots the silver flood.
"Here strip my children! here at once leap in!
Here prove who best can dash thro' thick and thin,
And who the most in love of dirt excel,
Or dark dexterity of groping well.
Who flings most filth, and wide pollutes around
The stream, be his the Weekly Journals bound;
A pig of lead to him who dives the best :
A peck of coals a-piece shall glad the rest.”
In naked majesty Oldmiron stands,
And Milo-like, surveys his arms and hands,
Then sighing, thus. "And am I now threescore?
Ah why, ye Gods! should two and two make four?
He said, and climb'd a stranded Lighter's height,
Shot to the black abyss, and plung'd down-right. 276
The Senior's judgment all the crowd admire,
Who but to sink the deeper, rose the higher.
Next Smedley div'd; slow circles dimpled o'er The quaking mud, that clos'd, and op'd no more. All look, all sigh, and call on Smedley lost; Smedley in vain resounds thro' all the coast.
Then essay'd; scarce vanish'd out of sight,
He buoys up instant, and returns to light:
He bears no token of the sabler streams,
And mounts far off among the Swans of Thames.
True to the bottom, see Concanen creep,
A cold, long-winded, native of the deep!
If perseverance gain the Diver's prize,
Not everlasting Blackmore this denies :
No noise, no stir, no motion, canst thou make,
Th' unconscious flood sleeps o'er thee like a lake.
Not so bold Arnall; with a weight of scull,
Furious he sinks, precipitately dull.
Whirlpools and storms his circling arm invest, 295
With all the might of gravitation blest.
No crab more active in the dirty dance,
Downward to climb, and backward to advance.
He brings up half the bottom on his head,
And loudly claims the Journals and the Lead. 300
Sudden, a burst of thunder shook the flood:
Lo Smedley rose in majesty of mud!
Shaking the horrors of his ample brows,
And each ferocious feature grim with ooze.
Greater he looks, and more than mortal stares; 305
Then thus the wonders of the deep declares.
First he relates, how sinking to the chin,
Smit with his mien, the mud-nymphs suck'd him in
How young Lutetia, softer than the down,
Nigrina black, and Merdamante brown,
Vied for his love in jetty bow'rs below;
As Hylas fair was ravish'd long ago.
Then sung, how shewn him by the nut-brown maids A branch of Stya here rises from the Shades,
That tinctur'd as it runs with Lethe's streams, And wafting vapours from the land of Dreams (As under seas Alphaus' secret sluice
Bears Pisa's offerings to his Arethuse),
Pours into Thames: each City bowl is full
Of the mixt wave, and all who drink grow dull. 320
How to the banks where bards departed doze,
They led him soft; how all the bards arose,
Taylor, sweet Swan of Thames, majestic bows,
And Shadwell nods the poppy on his brows;
While Milbourn there, deputed by the rest,
Gave him the cassock, surcingle, and vest;
And "Take (he said) these robes which once were mine,
Dulness is sacred in a sound Divine."
He ceas'd, and shew'd the robe; the crowd confess The rev'rend Flamen in his lengthen'd dress. Slow moves the Goddess from the sable flood, (Her Priest preceding) thro' the gates of Lud. Her Critics there she summons, and proclaims A gentler exercise to close the games.
Here you! in whose grave heads, as equal scales,
I weigh what author's heaviness prevails;
Which most conduce to soothe the soul in slumbers,
My Henley's periods, or my Blackmore's numbers?
Attend the trial we propose to make:
If there be man who o'er such works can wake, 340
Sleep's all subduing charms who dares defy,
And boasts Ulysses' ear with Argus' eye;
To him we grant our amplest pow'rs to sit
Judge of all present, past, and future wit,
To cavil, censure, dictate, right or wrong,
Full, and eternal privilege of tongue.
Three Cambridge Sophs and three pert Templars
The same their talents, and their tastes the same,
Each prompt to query, answer, and debate,
And smit with love of Poesy and Prate,
The pond'rous books two gentle readers bring,
The heroes sit; the vulgar form a ring.
The clam'rous crowd is hush'd with mugs of Mum, Till all tun'd equal, send a gen'ral hum.
Then mount the clerks, and in one lazy tone,
Thro' the long, heavy, painful page, drawl on;
Soft creeping, words on words, the sense compose,
At ev'ry line, they stretch, they yawn, they doze.
As to soft gales top-heavy pines bow low
Their heads, and lift them as they cease to blow;
Thus oft they rear, and oft the head decline,
As breathe, or pause, by fits, the airs divine:
And now to this side, now to that, they nod,
As verse, or prose, infuse the drousy God,
Thrice Budgel aim'd to speak, but thrice supprest
By potent Arthur, knock'd his chin and breast. 366
Toland and Tindal, prompt at priests to jeer,
Yet silent bow'd to Christ's No kingdom here.
Who sate the nearest, by the words o'ercome
Slept first, the distant nodded to the hum.
Then down are roll'd the books; stretch'd o'er 'em
Each gentle clerk, and mutt'ring seals his eyes.
At what a Dutchman plumps into the lakes,
One circle first, and then a second makes,
What Dulness dropt among her sons imprest 375
Like motion, from one circle to the rest;
So from the mid-most the nutation spreads
Round, and more round, o'er all the sea of heads. At last Centlivre felt her voice to fail,
Motteur himself unfinish'd left his tale,
Boyer the State, and Law the Stage gave o'er,
Nor Kelsey talk'd, nor Naso whisper'd more;
Norton, from Daniel and Ostræa sprung,
Bless'd with his father's front, and mother's tongue,
Hung silent down his never-blushing head;
And all was hush'd, as Folly's self lay dead.
Thus the soft gifts of Sleep conclude the day,
And stretch'd on bulks, as usual, Poets lay.
Why should I sing what bards the nightly Muse
Did slumbering visit, and convey to stews :
Who prouder march'd, with magistrates in state,
To some fam'd round-house, ever open gate :
How Laurus lay inspir'd beside a sink,
And to mere mortals seem'd a Priest in drink :
While others, timely, to the neighbouring Fleet 395
(Haunt of the Muses) made their safe retreat.
THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
|