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THE

V. IR TUES

O F

SID HAMET THE MAGICIAN'S ROD.

THE

1710.

HE rod was but a harmlefs wand,
While Mofes held it in his hand;
But, foon as e'er he laid it down,
'Twas a devouring ferpent grown.
Our great magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the prophet did :
His rod was honest English wood,
That fenfeless in a corner flood,
Till, metamorphos'd by his grafp,
It grew an all-devouring afp;

Would hifs, and fting, and roll, and twift,

By the mere virtue of his fift;

But, when he laid it down, as quick
Refum'd the figure of a stick.

So to her midnight-feafts the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
That, rais'd by magick of her breech,
O'er fea and land conveys the witch;
But with the morning-dawn refumes
The peaceful state of common broom's.
They tell us fomething strange and odd
About a certain magic rod *,

*The virgula divina, faid to be attracted by minerals.

VOL. I.

F

That,

That, bending down its top, divines
Whene'er the foil has golden mines;
Where there are none, it ftands erect,
Scorning to fhew the least respect;
As ready was the wand of Sid
To bend where golden mines were hid;
In Scottish hills found precious ore *,
Where none e'er look'd for it before;
And by a gentle bow divin'd
How well a cully's purfe was lin'd;
To a forlorn and broken rake
Stood without motion, like a stake.

The rod of Hermes was renown'd
For charms above and under ground;
To fleep could mortal eye-lids fix,
And drive departed fouls to Styx.
That rod was just a type of Sid's,
Which o'er a British fenate's lids
Could scatter opium full as well,
And drive as many fouls to hell.

Sid's rod was flender, white, and tall,
Which oft he us'd to fish withal;
A plaice was faften'd to the hook,
And many score of gudgeons took :
Yet ftill fo happy was his fate,
He caught his fib, and fav'd his bait.

Sid's brethren of the conjuring tribe A circle with their rod defcribe,

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Which proves a magical redoubt
To keep mischievous fpirits out.
Sid's rod was of a larger stride,
And made a circle thrice as wide,
Where fpirits throng'd with hideous din,
And he ftood there to take them in:
But, when th' inchanted rod was broke,
They vanish'd in a stinking smoke.
Achilles' fceptre was of wood,
Like Sid's, but nothing near fo good;
That down from ancestors divine
Tranfmitted to the hero's line;

Thence, through a long defcent of kings,
Came an HEIR-LOOM, as Homer fings.
Though this defcription looks fo big,
That fceptre was a faplefs twig,

Which, from the fatal day, when first
It left the foreft where 'twas nurs'd,
As Homer tells us o'er and o'er,
Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor blossom, bore.
Sid's fceptre, full of juice, did fhoot
In golden boughs, and golden fruit;
And he, the dragon never fleeping,
Guarded each fair Hefperian pippin.
No hobby-horfe, with gorgeous top,
The dearest in Charles Mather's fhop,
Or glittering tinfel of May-fair,
Could with this rod of Sid compare.

*

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Dear Sid, then, why wert thou fo mad
To break thy red like naughty lad!
You should have kifs'd it in your diftrefs,
And then return'd it to your mistress;
Or made it a Newmarket * fwitch,
And not a rod for thy own breech.
But fince old Sid has broken this,
His next may be a rod in pifs.

ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE.

ΤΟ THE

LORD TREASURER OXFORD. 1710.

ATLAS, we read in ancient fong,

Was fo exceeding tall and strong,

He bore the skies upon his back,
Juft as a pedlar does his pack:
But, as a pedlar overprefs'd
Unloads upon a stall to rest,
Or, when he can no longer ftand,
Defires a friend to lend a hand;
So Atlas, left the ponderous fpheres
Should fink, and fall about his ears,
Got Hercules to bear the pile,

That he might fit and rest a while.

*Lord Godolphin is fatirized by Mr. Pope for a ftrong attachment to the turf. See his Moral Effays.

Yet

Yet Hercules was not fo ftrong,
Nor could have borne it half fo long.
Great statesmen are in this condition;
And Atlas is a politician,

A premier minifter of state;

Alcides one of fecond rate.

Suppose then Atlas ne'er so wise;
Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies
Too long upon his fingle fhoulders,
Sink down he muft, or find upholders.

A TOWN

ECLOGU E. 1710.

Scene, THE ROYAL EXCHANGE.

CORYDON.

Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er,

No hail defcends, and frofts can pinch no more,
Whilft other girls confefs the genial spring,
And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties fing,
Secure from cold their lovely necks display,
And throw each useless chafing-difh away;
Why fits my Phillis difcontented here,
Nor feels the turn of the revolving year?
Why on that brow dwell forrow and difmay,

Where Loyes were wont to fport, and Smiles to play?
PHILLIS. Ah, Corydon ! furvey the 'Change around,
Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found:
Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid,
Was to your rooms in Lincoln's-Inn betray'd;
Then how you swore, how many vows you made!

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