Imitated from the Eighth Book of OVID.
N ancient times, as ftory tells,
The faints would often leave their cells,
And ftrole 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 ftroller's canting ftrain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win;
But not a foul would let them in.
Our wand'ring faints in weeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village pafs'd,
To a small cottage came at last;
Where dwelt a good old honeft ye'man,
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon,
Who kindly did these faints invite
poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable fire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fatteft fide
Cut out large flices to be fry'd;
Then stepp'd afide to fetch 'em drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And faw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
"Twas ftill replenish'd to the top,
As if they had not touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,-What ar't!
Then foftly turn'd afide to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, foon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errant ;
Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but faints, the hermits faid;
No hurt fhall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on chriftian ground,
They and their houfes fhall be drown'd;
Whilft you fhall fee your cottage rife,
And grow a church before your eyes.
They scarce had spoke: when fair and foft
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rofe ev'ry beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd flowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoift,
And there ftood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upfide down, to fhow
Its inclination for below:
In vain; for a fuperior force
Apply'd at bottom ftops its courfe :
Doom'd ever in fufpenfe to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Loft by difufe the art to roast,
A fudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion flow'r.
The flyer, thou 't had leaden feet,
Turn'd round fo quick, you scarce could fee't;
But, flacken'd by fome fecret pow'r,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's fide:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone ;
But, up against the fteeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adher'd;
And still its love to houfhold cares,
By a fhrill voice at noon declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roaft-meat, which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge fnail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glitt'ring fhow,
To a lefs noble fubftance chang'd,
Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads pafted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rofamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little children in the wood,
Now feem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, fize, and letter ;
And, high in order plac'd, defcribe
The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.
A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos'd into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks difpos'd to fleep.
The cottage by fuch feats as these
Grown to a church by juft degrees,
The hermits then defir'd their hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd moft.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return'd 'em thanks in homely ftyle;
Then faid, my house is grown fo fine,
Methinks, I ftill would call it mine:
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parfon, if you please.
He spoke; and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels
He fees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both affum'd a fable hue;
But, being old, continued juft
As thread bare, and as full of duft.
His talk was now of tythes and dues;
He fmok'd his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old fermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christ'nings well could act his part,
And had the fervice all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whofe fow had farrow'd laft;
Against Diffenters would repine,
And stood up firm for Right Divine;
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