Redeemed from tapers and defrauded pies, Inspired he seizes. These an altar raise; A hecatomb of pure, unsullied lays That altar crowns; a folio Commonplace Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base; 160 First in my care, and ever at my heart! 165 With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end, E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig was praise, To the last honours of the butt and bays; O thou, of business the directing soul To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 170 Which, as more pond'rous, made its aim more true, And, lest we err by wit's wild dancing light, 175 Guard the sure barrier between that and sense; Or quite unravel all the reas'ning thread, And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! 180 As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, The wheels above urged by the load below; 185 Some demon stole my pen (forgive th' offence), And once betrayed me into common sense; Else all my prose and verse were much the same: This, prose on stilts; that, poetry fall'n lame. 190 Did on the stage my fops appear confined? My life gave ampler lessons to mankind. Yet sure, had Heav'n decreed to save the state, 195 Could Troy be saved by any single hand, This grey-goose weapon must have made her stand. 200 205 210 To serve his cause, O Queen, is serving thine. 215 Ev'n Ralph repents, and Henley writes no more. This brazen brightness, to the squire so dear; This polished hardness, that reflects the peer; 220 This mess, tossed up of Hockley Hole and White's, Where dukes and butchers join to wreathe my crown, "O born in sin, and forth in folly brought! 225 Works damned or to be damned (your father's fault)! Go; purified by flames, ascend the sky, My better and more Christian progeny, Unstained, untouched, and yet in maiden sheets, While all your smutty sisters walk the streets. 230 Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland, Sent with a pass, and vagrant through the land; 235 O, pass more innocent, in infant state, To the mild limbo of our father Tate; 240 Soon to that mass of nonsense to return, Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn." Stole from the master of the sev'nfold face; 245 And thrice he dropt it from his quiv'ring hand; Then lights the structure, with averted eyes. The op'ning clouds disclose each work by turns: 250 No merit now the dear "Nonjuror" claims— 255 Roused by the light, old Dulness heaved the head, Then snatch'd a sheet of "Thule" from her bed; Sudden she flies, and whelms it o'er the pyre; Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire. 260 Her ample presence fills up all the place; A veil of fogs dilates her awful face; Great in her charms as when on shrieves and may'rs She looks and breathes herself into their airs. She bids him wait her to her sacred dome; 265 Well pleased he entered, and confessed his home: So spirits, ending their terrestrial race, Ascend, and recognize their native place. 270 How random thoughts now meaning chance to find, 275 Now leave all memory of sense behind; How prologues into prefaces decay, And these to notes are frittered quite away; How index-learning turns no student pale, 280 How, with less reading than makes felons 'scape, Small thanks to France and none to Rome or Greece, 285 The goddess then, o'er his anointed head, 290 295 300 305 310 315 Till senates nod to lullabies divine, And all be sleep, as at an ode of thine?" She ceased. Then swells the chapel-royal throat: "God save King Cibber!" mounts in ev'ry note. 320 325 And "Coll!" each butcher roars at Hockley Hole. And the hoarse nation croaked, "God save King Log!" 330 1726. 1728. EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT P. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said. The Dog-star rages! nay, 't is past a doubt All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out. Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. ΙΟ No place is sacred, not the church is free; Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me: Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Is there a parson much be-mused in beer, 15 A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza when he should engross? Is there who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desp'rate charcoal round his darkened walls? 20 Imputes to me and my damned works the cause. Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 25 |