tricks?

So men of old, to gain renown, did
Build Babel with their tongues confounded.
Jove faw the cheat, but thought it best
To turn the matter to a jeft:
Down from Olympus' top he slides,
Laughing as if he 'd burst his fides:
Ay, thought the God, are these your
Why then old plays deferve old bricks;
And, fince you're fparing of your stuff,
Your building fhall be small enough.
He fpake, and, grudging, lent his aid:
Th' experienc'd bricks, that knew their trade
(As being bricks at fecond-hand),
Now move, and now in order ftand.

The building, as the poet writ,

Rofe in proportion to his wit :
And first the prologue built a wall
So wide as to encompass all.

The fcene, a wood, produc'd no more
Than a few scrubby trees before.
The plot as yet lay deep; and fo
A cellar next was dug below:
But this a work fo hard was found,
Two acts it coft him under ground.
Two other acts, we may prefume,
Were spent in building each a room :
Thus far advanc'd, he made a fhift
To raise a roof with act the fifth.
The epilogue behind did frame
A place not decent here to name.

Now

Now poets from all quarters ran
To fee the house of brother Van;

Look'd high and low, walk'd often round;
But no fuch houfe was to be found.
One asks the watermen hard-by,
"Where may the poet's palace lie?"
Another of the Thames inquires,
If he has feen its gilded fpires?
At length they in the rubbish spy
A thing refembling a goofe-pye.
Thither in haste the poets throng,
And gaze in filent wonder long,
Till one in raptures thus began
To praise the pile and builder Van.

Thrice happy poet! who may'ft trail
Thy house about thee like a fnail :
Or, harness'd to a nag, at ease
Take journeys in it like a chaife;
Or in a boat, whene'er thou wilt,
Canft make it ferve thee for a tilt!
Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all

Thou 'rt well contriv'd, though thou art fmall:
For every wit in Britain's ifle

May lodge within thy fpacious pile.

Like Bacchus thou, as poets feign,

Thy mother burnt, art born again,
Born like a phoenix from the flame;
But neither bulk nor fbape the fame :
As animals of largest size

Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies

;

A type

A

type of modern wit and style
The rubbish of an ancient pile.

So chemifts boaft they have a power
From the dead afhes of a flower
Some faint resemblance to produce,
But not the virtue, taste, or juice.
So modern rhymers wifely blast
The poetry of ages paft;

Which after they have overthrown,

They from its ruins build their own.

THE

HISTORY OF

VAN BRUGH'S HOUSE*.

WHEN mother Clud had rofe from play

And call'd to take the cards away,

Van faw, but feem'd not to regard,
How Mifs pick'd every painted card,
And, bufy both with hand and eye,
Soon rear'd a houfe two ftories high.
Van's genius, without thought or lecture,
Is hugely turn'd to architecture:
He view'd the edifice, and fmil'd,
Vow'd it was pretty for a child :
It was fo perfect in its kind,

He kept the model in his mind.

* Dr. Swift made Sir John Vanbrugh ample amends for the pointed raillery of this and the preceding poem, in the Preface to his Mifcellanics, 1727.

But,

But, when he found the boys at play,
And faw them dabbling in their clay,
He ftood behind a stall to lurk,
And mark the progress of their work
With true delight obferv'd them all
Raking up mud to build a wall.
The plan he much admir'd, and took
The model in his table-book;
Thought himself now exactly skill'd,
And fo refolv'd a house to build;
A real houfe, with rooms, and flairs,
Five times at least as big as theirs ;
Taller than Miss's by two yards;
Not a fham thing of clay or cards:
And fo he did; for, in a while,
He built up fuch a monftrous pile,
That no two chairmen could be found
Able to lift it from the ground.
Still at Whitehall it ftands in view,
Juft in the place where first it grew:
There all the little school-boys run,
Envying to fee themselves out-done.

From fuch deep rudiments as thefe,
Van is become by due degrees
For building fam'd, and juftly reckon'd,
At court, Vitruvius the second:
No wonder, fince wife authors fhow,
That beft foundations must be low:
And now the Duke has wifely ta'en him
To be his architect at Blenheim.

But,

But, raillery for once apart,

If this rule holds in every art;

Or if his Grace were no more skill'd in
The art of battering walls than building,
We might expect to see next year
A moufe-trap-man chief engineer!

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

On the ever-lamented Lofs of the Two YEW-TREES in the Parish of Chilthorne, Somerset. 1708.

Imitated from the Eighth Book of OVID.

IN ancient times, as ftory tells,

The faints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, "To try good people's hofpitality.

It happen'd on a winter-night,

As authors of the legend write,
"Two brother-hermits, faints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Difguis'd in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent ;
Where, in the ftrollers' canting ftrain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a foul would let them in.

Our wandering faints, in woful ftate,
Treated at this ungodly rate,

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