Forth from the heap she pick'd her vot'ry's pray'r,
And plac'd it next him, a distinction rare!
(Oft, as he fish'd her nether realms for wit,
The Goddess favour'd him, and favours yet)
Renew'd by ordure's sympathetic force,
As oil'd with magic juices for the course,
Vig'rous he rises, from th' effluvia strong
Imbibes new life and scours and stinks along :
Repasses Lintot, vindicates the race,

Nor heeds the brown dishonours of his face.

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And now the victor stretch'd his eager hand Where the tall Nothing stood, or seem'd to stand; A shapeless shade, it melted from his sight, Like forms in clouds, or visions of the night! To seize his papers, Curl, was next thy care; His papers light, fly diverse, tost in air : Songs, sonnets, epigrams, the winds uplift, And whisk 'em back to Evans, Younge, and Swift. Th' embroider'd suit, at least, he deem'd his prey, That suit, an unpaid tailor snatch'd away! No rag, no scrap, of all the beau, or wit,

That once so flutter'd, and that once so writ.

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Heav'n rings with laughter: of the laughter vain, Dulness, good Queen, repeats the jest again. Three wicked imps of her own Grub-street choir, 115 She deck'd like Congreve, Addison, and Prior; Mears, Warner, Wilkins, run: delusive thought! Breval, Besaleel, Bond, the varlets caught. Curl stretches after Gay, but Gay is gone, He grasps an empty Joseph for a John: So Proteus, hunted in a nobler shape, Became, when seiz'd, a puppy, or an ape.

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To him the Goddess. Son! thy grief lay down, And turn this whole illusion on the town. As the sage dame, experienc'd in her trade,

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By names of Toasts retails each batter'd jade,
(Whence hapless Monsieur much complains at Paris
Of wrongs from Dutchesses and Lady Mary's)
Be thine, my stationer! this magic gift;
Cook shall be Prior, and Concanen, Swift;
So shall each hostile name become our own,
And we too boast our Garth and Addison.
With that, she gave him (piteous of his case,
Yet smiling at his rueful length of face)

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A shaggy tap'stry, worthy to be spread
On Codrus' old, or Dunton's modern bed;
Instructive work! whose wry-mouth'd portraiture
Display'd the fates her confessors endure.
Ear-less on high, stood unabash'd Defoe,

And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge, below: 140
There Ridpath, Roper, cudgell'd might ye view,
The very worsted still look'd black and blue :
Himself among the storied Chiefs he spies,
As from the blanket high in air he flies,

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And oh! (he cried) what street, what lane, but knows
Our purgings, pumpings, blanketings, and blows?
In ev'ry loom our labours shall be seen,
And the fresh vomit run for ever green !

See in the circle next, Eliza plac'd ;

Two babes of love close clinging to her waist; 150
Fair as before her works she stands confess'd,
In flow'rs and pearls by bounteous Kirkall dress'd.
The Goddess then: "Who best can send on high
The salient spout, far-streaming to the sky :

His be yon Juno of majestic size,

With cow-like udders, and with ox-like eyes.
This China-Jordan, let the chief o'ercome
Replenish, not ingloriously, at home."

155

Chapman and Curl accept the glorious strife (Tho' one his son dissuades, and one his wife), 160 This on his manly confidence relies,

That on his vigour and superior size.

First Chapman lean'd against his letter'd post;
It rose, and labour'd to a curve at most.

So Jove's bright bow displays its wat'ry round, 165
(Sure sign, that no spectator shall be drown'd)
A second effort brought but new disgrace,
The wild Meander wash'd the Artist's face:
Thus the small jet which hasty hands unlock,
Spirts in the gard'ner's eyes who turns the cock. 170
Not so from shameless Curl; impetuous spread
The stream, and smoking, flourish'd o'er his head.
So (fam'd like thee for turbulence and horns)
Eridanus his humble fountain scorns;

Thro' half the heav'ns he pours th' exalted urn; 175
His rapid waters in their passage burn.

Swift as it mounts, all follow with their eyes;
Still happy Impudence obtains the prize.

Thou triumph'st, Victor of the high-wrought day,
And the pleas'd dame, soft-smiling leads away. 180
Chapman, thro' perfect modesty o'ercome,
Crown'd with the Jordan, walks contented home.
But now for Authors nobler palms remain;

Room for my Lord! three Jockeys in his train:
Six huntsmen with a shout precede his chair; 185
He grins, and looks broad nonsense with a stare.

His honour'd meaning Dulness thus exprest; "He wins this Patron who can tickle best."

He chinks his purse, and takes his seat of state: With ready quills the Dedicators wait,

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Now at his head the dext'rous task commence,

And instant, fancy feels th' imputed sense;
Now gentle touches wanton o'er his face,
He struts Adonis, and affects grimace:
Rolli the feather to his ear conveys,
Then his nice taste directs our Operas:

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Bentley his mouth with classic flatt'ry opes,
And the puff'd orator bursts out in tropes.
But Welsted most the poet's healing balm
Strives to extract, from his soft, giving palm; 200
Unlucky Welsted! thy unfeeling master,

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The more thou ticklest, gripes his fist the faster.
While thus each hand promotes the pleasing pain,
And quick sensations skip from vein to vein,
A youth unknown to Phœbus, in despair,
Puts his last refuge all in heav'n and pray'r.
What force have pious vows! the Queen of Love
His Sister sends, her vot'ress, from above.
As taught by Venus, Paris learnt the art
To touch Achilles' only tender part;
Secure, thro' her, the noble prize to carry,
He marches off, his Grace's Secretary.

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Now turn to diff'rent sports (the Goddess cries), And learn, my sons, the wondrous pow'r of Noise. To move, to raise, to ravish, ev'ry heart, With Skakspeare's nature, or with Jonson's art, Let others aim: 'tis yours to shake the soul With Thunder rumbling from the mustard bowl, 2 A

VOL. V.

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With horns and trumpets now to madness swell,
Now sink in sorrows with a tolling Bell,
Such happy arts attention can command,
When fancy flags, and sense is at a stand.
Improve we these. Three Cat-calls be the bribe,
Of him, whose chatt'ring shames the Monkey tribe,
And his this Drum, whose hoarse heroic base 225
Drowns the loud clarion of the braying Ass.

235

Now thousand tongues are heard in one loud din : The Monkey-mimics rush discordant in: 'Twas chatt'ring, grinning, mouthing, jabb'ring all, And Noise, and Norton, Brangling, and Breval, 230 Dennis, and Dissonance; and captious art, And snip-snap short, and interruption smart. Hold! (cry'd the Queen) A Cat-call each shall win, Equal your merits! equal is your din! But that this well-disputed game may end, Sound forth, my Brayers, and the welkin rend. As when the long-ear'd milky mothers wait At some sick miser's triple-bolted gate, For their defrauded, absent foals they make A moan so loud, that all the Guild awake; Sore sighs Sir Gilbert, starting, at the bray, From dreams of millions, and three groats to pay! So swells each wind-pipe; Ass intones to Ass, Harmonic twang, of leather, horn, and brass; Such, as from lab'ring lungs th' Enthusiast blows, High sounds, attemper'd to the vocal nose. 246 But far o'er all, sonorous Blackmore's strain; Walls, steeples, skies, bray back to him again : In Tot'nam fields, the brethren with amaze Prick all their ears up, and forget to graze;

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