WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK.
PERUSE my leaves through every part, And think thou seest my owner's heart, Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite As hard, as senseless, and as light; Expos'd to every coxcomb's eyes, But hid with caution from the wise. Here you may read, 'Dear charming Saint,' Beneath, 'A new receipt for paint;' Here in bean-spelling, 'Tru tel deth,' There in her own, Far an ell breth;' Here,Lovely Nymph, pronounce my doom,' There, 'A safe way to use perfume;' Here, a page fill'd with billet-doux, On t'other side, 'Laid out for shoes;' Madam, I die without your grace;' Item, For half a yard of lace.'--
Who that had wit would place it here, For every peeping fop to jeer, In power of spittle and a clout, Whene'er he please, to blot it out; And then, to heighten the disgrace, Clap his own nonsense in the place? Whoe'er expects to hold his part In such a book and such a heart, If he be wealthy and a fool, Is in all points the fittest tool; Of whom it may be justly said, He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead,
BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT.
In times of old, when Time was young, And poets their own verses sung, A verse could draw a stone or beam, That now would overload a team; Lead them a dance of many a mile, Then rear them to a goodly pile: Each number had its different pow'r: Heroic strains could build a tow'r; Sonnets or elegies to Chloris
Might raise a house about two stories; A lyric ode would slate; a catch Would tile; an epigram would thatch. But to their own or Landlord's cost, Now poets feel this art is lost; Not one of all our tuneful throng Can raise a lodging for a song: For Jove consider'd well the case, Observ'd they grew a numerous race, And should they build as fast as write, "Twould ruin undertakers quite. This evil therefore to prevent, He wisely chang'd their element; On earth the god of Wealth was made Sole patron of the building-trade, Leaving the wits the spacious air, With licence to build castles there;
And 'tis conceiv'd their old pretence To lodge in garrets comes from thence. Premising thus, in modern way, The better half we have to say: Sing, Muse! the House of Poet Van In higher strains than we began. Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) Is both a herald and a poet; No wonder then if nicely skill'd In both capacities to build. As herald, he can in a day Repair a House gone to decay, Or by achievement, arms, device, Erect a new one in a trice; And as a poet, he has skill
To build in speculation still.
'Great Jove! (he cried,) the art restore To build by verse as heretofore, And make my Muse the architect; What palaces shall we erect! No longer shall forsaken Thames Lament his old Whitehall in flames; A pile shall from its ashes rise, Fit to invade or prop the skies.'
Jove smil'd, and, like a gentle god, Consenting with his usual nod, Told Van he knew his talent best, And left the choice to his own breast: So Van resolv'd to write a farce; But, well perceiving wit was scarce, With cunning that defect supplies, Takes a French play as lawful prize, Steals thence his plot and every joke, Not once suspecting Jove would smoke,
And, like a wag, sat down to write, Would whisper to himself, ‘A bite;' Then from the motley-mingled style Proceeded to erect his pile.
So men of old, to gain renown, did Build Babel with their tongues confounded. Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best To turn the matter to a jest.
Down from Olympus' top he slides, Laughing as if he'd burst his sides:
'Ay, (thought the god,) are these your tricks? Why, then old plays deserve old bricks; And since you're sparing of your stuff, Your building shall be small enough.' He spake, and, grudging, lent his aid;
The' experienced bricks, that knew their trade, (As being bricks at second-hand) Now move, and now in order stand.
The building, as the poet writ,
Rose in proportion to his wit, And first, the prologue built a wall So wide as to encompass all:
The scene, a wood, produc'd no more Than a few scrubby trees before: The plot as yet lay deep, and so A cellar next was dug below; But this a work so hard was found, Two acts it cost him under ground: Two other acts, we may presume, Were spent in building each a room. Thus far advanc'd, he made a shift To raise a roof with act the fift; The epilogue behind did frame A place not decent here to name.
Now poets from all quarters ran To see the House of Brother Van;
Look'd high and low, walk'd often round, But no such House was to be found. One asks the waterman hard by, Where may the poet's palace lie? Another of the Thames inquires If he has seen its gilded spires ?- At length they in the rubbish spy A thing resembling a goose-pye: Thither in haste the poets throng, And gaze in silent wonder long, Till one in raptures thus began To praise the pile and builder Van.
'Thrice happy Poet! who may'st trail Thy House about thee like a snail; Or harness'd to a nag, at ease Take journeys in it like a chaise; Or in a boat, whene'er thou wilt, Canst make it serve thee for a tilt. Capacious House! 'tis own'd by all
Thou'rt well contriv'd, though thou art small; For every wit in Britain's isle
May lodge within thy spacious pile. Like Bacchus thou, as poets feign, Thy mother burnt, art born again, Born like a phoenix from the flame, But neither bulk nor shape the same: As animals of largest size
Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies, A type of modern wit and style, The rubbish of an ancient pile; So chemists boast they have a pow'r From the dead ashes of a flow'r
« ПредишнаНапред » |