And stir within me ev'ry source of love.

I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake no more I hear, no more I view;

The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.

I call aloud; it hears not what I say:

I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.

To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more! methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tow'r pale ivy creeps,
And low-browed rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul,
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come; with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;

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Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;

Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;

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Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;

Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

-No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole!
Rise Alps beween us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee!
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;

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Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.

Fair eyes and tempting looks (which yet I view!),
Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu!

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Oh, Grace serene! oh, Virtue heav'nly fair!

Divine Oblivion of low-thoughted care!

Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!

The mighty mother and her son, who brings
The Smithfield Muses to the ear of kings,
I sing. Say you, her instruments the great,
Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate,
You by whose care, in vain decried and cursed,
Still dunce the second reigns like dunce the first,
Say how the goddess bade Britannia sleep,
And poured her spirit o'er the land and deep.
In eldest time, ere mortals writ or read,
Ere Pallas issued from the Thund'rer's head,
Dulness o'er all possessed her ancient right,
Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night:
Fate, in their dotage, this fair idiot gave,
Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave;
Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind,
She ruled in native anarchy the mind.
Still her old empire to restore she tries,
For, born a goddess, Dulness never dies.

Oh thou, whatever title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver;
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rab'lais' easy chair,
Or praise the court or magnify mankind,
Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind;
From thy Boeotia though her pow'r retires,
Mourn not, my Swift, at aught our realm acquires;
Here, pleased, behold her mighty wings outspread
To hatch a new Saturnian age of lead.

Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne,
And laughs to think Monroe would take her down,
Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand,
Great Cibber's brazen brainless brothers stand,

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One cell there is, concealed from vulgar eye,

The cave of Poverty and Poetry.

Keen hollow winds howl through the bleak recess,
Emblem of music caused by emptiness.

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Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down,
Escape in monsters, and amaze the town.
Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast

Of Curll's chaste press and Lintot's rubric post;
Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines;
Hence Journals, Medleys, Merc'ries, Magazines,
Sepulchral lies, our holy walls to grace,

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And new-year odes, and all the Grub Street race.
In clouded majesty here Dulness shone.
Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne:
Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears
Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears;
Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake
Who hunger and who thirst for scribbling sake;
Prudence, whose glass presents th' approaching gaol;
Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale,

Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,
And solid pudding against empty praise.
Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep,
Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep,
Till genial Jacob or a warm third day
Call forth each mass, a poem or a play:
How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie;
How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry;
Maggots, half formed, in rhyme exactly meet,
And learn to crawl upon poetic feet.

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Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance;
How Tragedy and Comedy embrace;

How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race;
How Time himself stands still at her command,
Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land,
Here gay description Egypt glads with show'rs,

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Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flow'rs;
Glitt'ring with ice here hoary hills are seen,
There painted valleys of eternal green;
In cold December fragrant chaplets blow,
And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
All these and more the cloud-compelling queen
Beholds through fogs, that magnify the scene:
She, tinseled o'er in robes of varying hues,
With self-applause her wild creation views;
Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,
And with her own fools-colours gilds them all.

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'T was on the day, when ** rich and grave,

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Like Cimon, triumphed both on land and wave

(Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces,

Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces).

Now night descending, the proud scene was o'er,

But lived in Settle's numbers one day more.

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Now may'rs and shrieves all hushed and satiate lay,

Yet ate, in dreams, the custard of the day;
While pensive poets painful vigils keep,
Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep.
Much to the mindful queen the feast recalls
What city swans once sung within the walls;
Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise,
And sure succession down from Heywood's days.
She saw, with joy, the line immortal run,
Each sire impressed and glaring in his son;
So watchful bruin forms, with plastic care,
Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear.
She saw old Prynne in restless Daniel shine,
And Eusden eke out Blackmore's endless line;
She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's poor page,
And all the mighty mad in Dennis rage.

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In each she marks her image full exprest,
But chief in Bayes's monster-breeding breast;
Bayes, formed by nature stage and town to bless,
And act, and be, a coxcomb with success.
Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce,
Rememb'ring she herself was Pertness once.
Now (shame to Fortune!) an ill run at play
Blanked his bold visage, and a thin third day:

Swearing and supperless the hero sate,

Blasphemed his gods the dice, and damned his fate;
Then gnawed his pen, then dashed it on the ground,
Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound;
Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there;
Yet wrote and floundered on in mere despair.
Round him much embryo, much abortion lay,

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Much future ode, and abdicated play;

Nonsense precipitate, like running lead,

That slipped through cracks and zigzags of the head;

All that on Folly Frenzy could beget,

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Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit.

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll,

In pleasing memory of all he stole

How here he sipped, how there he plundered snug,
And sucked all o'er, like an industrious bug.
Here lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes, and here
The frippery of crucified Molière;

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There hapless Shakespear, yet of Tibbald sore,
Wished he had blotted for himself before.
The rest on outside merit but presume,
Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room:
Such with their shelves as due proportion hold,
Or their fond parents dressed in red and gold;
Or where the pictures for the page atone,
And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own;
Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great;

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There, stamped with arms, Newcastle shines complete;

Here all his suff'ring brotherhood retire,

And 'scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire:

A Gothic library! of Greece and Rome

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Well purged, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome.

But, high above, more solid learning shone,

The classics of an age that heard of none:

There Caxton slept, with Wynkyn at his side,

One clasped in wood, and one in strong cow-hide;

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There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year,
Dry bodies of divinity appear-

De Lyra there a dreadful front extends,
And here the groaning shelves Philemon bends.

Of these, twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,

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