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ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW

As animals of largest size

Good folks, you need not be afraid, Corrupt to maggots, worms, and fies;

We are but saints, the hermits said ; A type of modern wit and style,

No hurt shall come to you or yours: The rubbish of an ancient pile.

But for that pack of churlish boors, So chemists boast they have a power

Not fit to live on Christian ground, From the dead ashes of a flower

They and their houses shall be drown'd; Some faint resemblance to produce,

Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, But not the virtue, taste, or juice:

And grow a church before your eyes. So modern rhymers wisely blast

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft The poetry of ages past;

The roof began to mount aloft; Which after they have overthrown,

Aloft rose every beam and rafter; They from its ruins build their own.

The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 1708.

And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show

Its inclination for below:
TREES IN THE PARISI OP CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET.

In vain ; for a superior force,
Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.

Apply'd at bottom, stops its course :
In ancient times, as story tells,

Doom'd ever in suspence to dwell, The saints would often leave their cells,

'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. And stroll about, but hide their quality,

A wooden jack, which had almost To try good people's hospitality.

Lost by disuse the art to roast, It happen’d on a winter's night,

A sudden alteration feels, As authors of the legend write,

Increas'd by new intestine wheels ; Two brother-hermits, saints by trade,

And, what exalts the wonder more, Taking their tour in masquerade,

The number made the motion slower: Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went

The flier, though 't had leaden feet, To a small village down in Kent;

Turu'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't ; Where, in the strollers' canting strain,

But, slacken'd by some secret power, They begg'd from door to door in vain,

Now hardly moves an inch an hour. Tried every tone might pity win;

The jack and chimney, near ally'd, But not a soul would let them in.

Had never left each other's side: Our wandering saints, in woful state,

The chimney to the steeple grown, Treated at this ungodly rate,

The jack would not be left alone; Having through all the village past,

But, up against the steeple rear'd, To a small cottage came at last !

Became a clock, and still adher'd; Where dwelt a good old honest ye’man,

And still its love to household cares, Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon ;

By a shrill voice at noon, declares, Who kindly did these saints invite

Warning the cook-maid not to burn In his poor hut to pass the night;

That roast-meat which it cannot turn. And then the hospitable sire

The groaning-chair began to crawl, Bid goody Baucis mend the fire ;

Like a huge snail, along the wall; While he from out the chimney took

There stuck aloft in public view, A flitch of bacon off the hook,

And, with sınall change, a pulpit grew. And freely from the fattest side

The porringers, that in a row Cut out large slices to be fry'd ;

Hung high, and made a glittering show, Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,

To a less noble substance chang'd, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,

Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. And saw it fairly twice go

The ballads, pasted on the wall, Yet (what is wonderful !) they found,

Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 'Twas still replenish'd to the top,

Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.

The Little Children in the Wood, The good old couple were amaz’d,

Now seem'd to look abundance better, And often on each other gaz'd;

Improv'd in picture, size, and letter; For both were frighten'd to the heart,

And, high in order plac'd, describe And just began to cry,-What ar't!

The heraldry of every tribe. Then softly turn'd aside to view

A bedstead of the antique mode, Whether the lights were burning blue.

Compact of timber many a load, The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,

Such as our ancestors did use, Told them their calling, and their errand ., Was metamorphos'd into pews;

round;

Which still their ancient nature keep

He'll talk of them from noon till night, By lodging folks dispos’d to sleep.

And goes with folks to show the sight: The cottage by such feats as these

On Sundays, after evening-prayer, Grown to a church by just degrees,

He gathers all the parish there ; The hermits then desir'd their host

Points out the place of either yew; To ask for what he fancy'd most.

Here Baucis, there Philemon grew: Philemon, having paus'd a while,

Till once a parson of our town, Return'd them thanks in homely style :

To mend his barn, cut Baucis down ; Then said, My house is grown so fine,

At which 'tis hard to be believed Methinks I still would call it mine;

How much the other tree was griev'd, I'm old, and fain would live at ease;

Grew scrubbed, dy'd a-top, was stunted;
Make me the parson if you please.

So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,

A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING. About each arm a pudding-sleeve;

1709. His waistcoat to a cassock grew, And both assum'd a sable hue ;

Now hardly here and there an hackney coach But, being old, continued just

Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. As threadbare, and as full of dust.

Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, His talk was now of tithes and dues :

And softly stole to discompose her own. He smok'd his pipe, and read the news ;

The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door Knew how to preach old sermons next,

Had par’d the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. Vamp'd in the preface and the text ;

Now Moll had whirld her mop with dext'rous airs, At christenings well could act his part,

Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs. And had the service all by heart ;

The youth with broomy stumps began to trace Wish'd women might have children fast,

The kennel's edge,where wheelshad worn the place. And thought whose sow had farrow'd last ;

The small-coal-man was heard with cadence deep, Against dissenters would repine,

Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep. And stood up firm for right divine;

Duns at his Lordship’s gate began to meet ; Found bis head fill'd with many a system;

And brick-dust Moll had scream'd through half the But classic authors, he ne'er miss'd 'em.

The turnkey now his flock returning sees, (street. Thus having furbish'd up a parson,

Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees : Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.

The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen

And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands. Good pinners edg’d with colberteen ; Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black satin flounc'd with lace. ,

A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER. Plain goody would no longer down;

IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL'S GEORGICS. 1710. 'Twas madam in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise,

Careful observers may foretel the hour And hardly could believe his eyes,

(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower. Amaz'd to see her look so prim;

While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er And she admir'd as much at him.

Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Thus happy in their change of life

Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Were several years this man and wise;

Strike your offending sense with double stink, When on a day, which prov'd their last,

If you be wise, then go not far to dine; Discoursing o'er old stories past,

You'll spend in coach-bire more than save in wine. They went by chance, amidst their talk,

A coming shower your shooting corns presage, To the church-yard to take a walk;

Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage. When Baucis hastily cry'd out,

Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen; My dear, I see your forehead sprout!

He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. Sprout! quoth the man ; what's this you tell us ? Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wings, I hope you don't believe me jealous !

A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, But yet, methinks, I feel it true ;

That swill’d more liquor than it could contain, And really yours is budding too

And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. Nay-now I cannot stir my foot;

Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, It feels as if 'were taking root.

While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope: Description would but tire my Muse ;

Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean In short they both were turn'd to yews.

Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: Old Goodman Dobson of the green

You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop Remembers be the trees has seen ;

To rail; she, singing, still whirls on the mop.

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Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife, Was now dispos’d to crack a jest,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life;

And bid friend Lewis go in quest,
And, wafted with its foe by violent gust,

(This Lewis is a cunning shaver, 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust. And very much in Harley's favour) Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,

In quest who might this parson be,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade ?

What was his name, of what degree;
Sole coat! where dust cemented by the rain If possible, to learn his story,
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!

And whether he were Whig or Tory.
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Lewis his patron's humour knows,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town. Away upon his errand goes,
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, And quickly did the matter sift;
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.

Found out that it was Doctor Swift,
The templar spruce, while every spout’s abroach, A clergyman of special note
Stays till ’uis fair, yet seems to call a coach.

For shunning those of his own coat;
The tuck’d-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, Which made his brethren of the gown
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. Take care betimes to run him down :
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,

No libertine, nor over nice, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed:

Addicted to no sort of vice,
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs

Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought;
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Not rich, but ow'd no man a groat:
Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits,

In state opinions à-la-mode,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, He hated Wharton like a toad,
And ever and anon with frightful din

Had given the faction many a wound,
The leather sounds; he trembles from within. And libel'd all the junto round;
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Kept company with men of wit,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, Who often father'd what he writ:
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, His works were hawk'd in every street,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through) But seldom rose above a sheet:
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,

Of late indeed the paper-stamp
And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.

Did very much his genius cramp:
Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And since he could not spend his fire,
And bear their trophies with them as they go: He now intended to retire.
Filths of all hues and odours seem to tell

Said Harley, “ I desire to know
What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell. From his own mouth if this be so;
They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force, Step to the Doctor straight, and say,
From Smithfield or St. 'Pulchre's shape their course, I'd have him dine with me to-day."
And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn-bridge. Nor would believe my Lord had sent;
Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and So never offer'd once to stir;
blood,

[mud, But coldly said, “ Your servant, sir !" Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in “ Does he refuse me?” Harley cry'd; Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down “ He does, with insolence and pride." the flood.

Some few days after, Harley spies
The Doctor fasten'd by the eyes

At Charing-cross among the rout,
HORACE, BOOK I. EP. VII.

Where painted monsters are hung out;
1713.

He pull'd the string, and stopt his coach,

Beckoning the Doctor to approach. Harley, the nation's great support,

Swift, who could neither fly nor hide, Returning home one day from court,

Came sneaking to the chariot side, (His mind with public cares possess'd,

And offer'd many a lame excuse : All Europe's business in his breast)

He never meant the least abuse Observ'd a parson near Whitehall

My Lord—the honour you design'da Cheapening old authors on a stall.

Extremely proud-but I had din'd The priest was pretty well in case,

I'm sure I never should neglectAnd show'd some humour in his face;

No man alive has more respect," Look'd with an easy, careless mien,

6 Well, I shall think of that no more, A perfect stranger to the spleen;

If you'll be sure to come at four." Of size that might a pulpit fill,

The Doctor now obeys the summons, But more inclining to sit still.

Likes both his company and commons ; My Lord (who if a man may say 't,

Displays his talent, sits till ten; Loves mischief better than his meat)

Next day invited comes again;

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF OXFORD.

66

And

SE

Soon grows domestic, seldom fails

HORACE, BOOK II. SAT. VI. Either at moruing or at meals :

I've often wish'd that I had clear,
Came early, and departed late ;

For life, six hundred pounds a-year,
In short, the gudgeon took the bait.
My Lord would carry on the jest,

A handsome house to lodge a friend,
And down to Windsor takes his guest.

A river at my garden's end, Swift much admires the place and air,

A terrace walk, and half a rood And longs to be a canon there ;

Of land set out to plant a wood.

Well, now I have all this and more,
In summer, round the park to ride;

I ask not to increase my store;
In winter, never to reside.
A canon ! that's a place too mean;

“ But here a grievance seems to lie,

All this is mine but till I die;
No Doctor, you shall be a Dean;
Two dozen canons round your stall,

I can't but think 'twould sound more clever, you the tyrant o'er them all:

To me and to my heirs for ever. You need but cross the Irish seas,

If I ne'er got or lost a groat, To live in plenty, power, and ease.

By any trick, or any fauit; Poor Swift departs; and, what is worse,

And if I pray by reason's rules, With borrow'd money in his purse,

And not like sorty other fools : Travels at least an hundred leagues,

As thus, “ Vouchsafe, oh gracious Maker! And suffers numberless fatigues.

To grant me this and t’other acre ;
Suppose him now a Dean complete,

Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,
Demurely lolling in his seat ;

Direct my plough to find a treasure !” The silver verge, with decent pride,

But only what my station fits, Stuck underneath his cushion side:

And to be kept in my right wits, Suppose him gone through all vexations,

Preserve, Almighty Providence ! Patents, instalments, abjurations,

Just what you gave me, competence : First-fruits and tenths, and chapter-treats ;

And let me in these shades compose Dues, paymeuts, fees, demands, and cheats

Something in verse as true as prose ; (The wicked laity's contriving

Remov'd from all th' ambitious scene, To hinder clergymen from thriving).

Nor puff'd by pride, nor sunk by spleen.” Now all the Doctor's money's spent,

In short, I'm perfectly content, His tenants wrong him in his rent;

Let me but live on this side Trent; The farmers, spitefully combin'd,

Nor cross the Channel twice a year, Force him to take his tithes in kind:

To spend six months with statesmen here. And Parvisol discounts arrears

I must by all means come to town, By bills for taxes and repairs.

'Tis for the service of the Crown. Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd,

“ Lewis, the Dean will be of use ; Not knowing where to turn him next,

Send for him up, take no excuse. Above a thousand pounds in debt,

The toil, the danger of the seas, Takes horse, and in a mighty fret

Great ministers ne'er think of these; Rides day and night at such a rate,

Or let it cost five hundred pound, He soon arrives at Harley's gate ;

No matter where the money's found, But was so dirty, pale, and thin,

It is but so much more in debt,
Old Read would hardly let him in.

And that they ne'er consider'd yet.
Said Harley, “ Welcome, Reverend Dean!

- Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, What makes your worship look so lean ?

Let my Lord know you're come to town.” Why, sure you wou't appear in town

I hurry me in haste away, In that old wig and rusty gown?

Not thinking it is levee-day; I doubt your heart is set on pelf

Aud find his honour in a pound, So much, that you neglect yourself.

Hemm’d by a triple circle round, What! I suppose, now stocks are high

Chequerid with ribbons blue and green: You've some good purchase in your eye?

How should I thrust myself between?

Some Or is your money out at use ?" —

wag observes me thus perplex’d, “ Truce, good my Lord, I beg a truce,"

And, smiling, whispers to the next, (The Doctor in a passion cry'd)

“ I thought the Dean had been too proud, " Your raillery is misapply'd ;

To justle here among the crowd!"
Experience I have dearly bought;
You know I am not worth a groat:

Tells me I have more zeal than wit,
| resolv'd to have your jest ;

“ So eager to express your love, And 'twas a folly to contest ;

You ne'er consider whom you shove, Then, since you have now done your worst,

But rudely press before a duke." Pray leave me where you found me first.”

I own, I'm pleas'd with this rebuke,

Another, in a surly fit,

But

you

They stand amaz’d, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known.

Thus in a sea of folly tost, My choicest hours of life are lost s Yet always wishing to retreat, Oh, could I see my country seat! There leaning near a gentle brook, Sleep, or peruse some ancient book; And there in sweet oblivion drown Those cares that haunt the court and town.

A True and Faithful INVENTORY of the Goods be

longing to Dr. Swift, Vicar of Laracor ;

UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OP WEATH,

TILL HIS PALACE WAS RE-BUILT.

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And take it kindly meant, to show
What I desire the world should know.

I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never saw
Come with petitions fairly penn'd,
Desiring I would stand their friend.

This humbly offers me his case
That begs my interest for a place-
A hundred other men's affairs,
Like bees, are humming in my ears.
“ To-morrow my appeal comes on ;
Without your help the cause is gone
The duke expects my lord and you,
About some great affair, at two_"
“ Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind,
To get my warrant quickly sign'd:
Consider, 'tis my first request."-
Be satisfy'd I'll do my best.
Then presently he falls to teaze,
“ You may for certain, if you please :
I doubt not, if his lordship knew-
And, Mr. Dean, one word from you—"

"Tis (let me see) three years and more,
(October next it will be four)
Since Harley bid me first attend,
And chose me for an humble friend ;
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that;
As, “'What's o'clock?" And, “ How's the wind?"
“ Whose chariot's that we left behind ?"
Or gravely try to read the lines
Writ underneath the country signs;
Or,“ Have you nothing new to-day
From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?"
Such tattle often entertains
My Lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a week we travel down
To Windsor, and again to town,
Where all that passes inter nos
Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross.

Yet some I know with envy swell,
Because they see me us'd so well:
“ How think you of our friend the Dean?
I wonder what some people mean.
My Lord and he are grown so great,
Always together, tête-à-tête ;
What! they admire him for his jokes!
See but the fortune of some folks !"

There flics about a strange report
Of some express arriv'd at court:
I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechis'd in every street.
“ You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great ;
Inform us, will the Emperor treat ?
Or do the prints and papers lie?"
Faith, sir, you know as much as I.
“Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest !
'Tis now no secret"-I protest
'Tis one to me" Then tell us, pray,
When are the troops to have their pay?"
And, though I solemnly declare
I know no more than my lord mayor,

An oaken, broken elbow-chair ; A cawdle-cup, without an ear ; A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead ; A box of deal, without a lid; A pair of tongs, but out of joint; A backsword-poker without point; A pot that's crack'd across, around With an old knotted garter bound; An iron lock, without a key; A wig, with hanging quite grown gray; A curtain, worn to half a stripe : A pair of bellows, without pipe ; A dish, which might good meat afford once ; An Ovid, and an old Concordance; A bottle bottom, wooden platter, One is for meal, and one for water: There likewise is a copper skillet, Which runs as fast out as you fill it; A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all: And thus his household goods you have all. These to your Lordship as a friend, Till you have built, I freely lend: They'll serve your Lordship for a shift; Why not, as well as Doctor Swift?

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CADENUS AND VANESSA.

WRITTEN AT WINDSOR, 1713.
The shepherds and the nymphs were seen
Pleading before the Cyprian Queen.
The counsel for the fair began,
Accusing the false creature man.
The brief with weighty crimes was charg'd,
On which the pleader much enlarg’d;
That Cupid aow has lost his art,
Or blunts the point of every dart;
His altar now no longer smokes,
His mother's aid no youth invokes ;
This tempts freethinkers to refine,
And bring in doubt their powers divine
Now love is dwindled to intrigue,
And marriage grown a money league.

Which crimes aforesaid (with her leave)

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