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UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S
HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.
Atria longe patent; sed nec conantibus usquam
“Thanks, sir,” cried I, “'tis very fine, .
ON AN OLD GATE AT CHISWICK.
O GATE, how camest thou here?
Inigo Jones put me together;
Burlington brought me hither.
VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE,
ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN, AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONG
ING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, JULY 9, 1739.
With no poetic ardour fired,
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
Begets no numbers, grave or gay.
Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred,
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife ;
When freedom is more dear than life.
EPIGRAM TO LORD RADNOR. My lord' complains that Pope, stark mad with
gardens, Has lopt three trees, the value of three farthings: “But he's my neighbour,” cries the peer polite: “And if he'll visit me, I'll waive the right.” What! on compulsion, and against my will, A lord's acquaintance? Let him file his bill!
VERSES TO MR. CRAGGS.
ST. JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON, OCT. 22.
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here;
Note to the "Dunciad.”
If, in this interval, between
The falling leaf and coming frost,
Your friend, you poet, and your host;
From office business, news and strife ;
Want nothing else, except your wife.
(From the Miscellany.]
TRANJLATED INTO ENGLISH,
Man and steed:
Troops, take heed !
Left and right,
Speed your flight!
Lest an host
From his hide,
Safe from wound,
From his nose
Clouds he blows:
When he eats,
When he drinks,
Nigh thy ear,
In mid air,
On thy hand
So shall I,
THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH'
FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG.
Soon as Glumdalclitch missed her pleasing care, She wept, she blubbered, and she tore her hair. No British miss sincerer grief has shown, Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown. She furled her sampler, and hauled in her thread, And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed; Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall. In peals of thunder now she roars, and now She genlty whimpers like a lowing cow: Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears, Her locks dishevelled, and her flood of tears Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain, When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.
In vain she searched each cranny of the house, Each gaping chink'impervious to à mouse. . .“ Was it for this” (she cried) “with daily care Within thy reach I set the vinegar, And filled the cruet with the acid tide, While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied; Where twined the silver eel around thy hook, And all the little monsters of the brook. Sure in that lake he dropped; my Grilly's drowned.”.She dragged the cruet, but no Grildrig found.
“ Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast; But little creatures enterprise the most. Trembling, I've seen thee dare the kitten's paw, Nay, mix with children, as they played at taw, Nor fear the marbles as they bounding flew; Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you.
“Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth? Who from a page can ever learn the truth? Versed in court tricks, that money-loving boy To some lord's daughter sold the living toy; Or rent him limb from limb in cruel play, As children tear the wings of flies away.
1 See the voyage to Brobdingnag, “Gulliver's Travels.”
From place to place o'er Brobdingnag I'll roam,
“But ahl I fear thy little fancy roves
She said, but broken accents stopped her voice, Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise: She sobbed a storm, and wiped her flowing eyes, Which seemed like two broad suns in misty skies. O squander not thy grief; those tears command To weep upon our cod in Newfoundland: The plenteous pickle shall preserve the fish; And Europe taste thy sorrows in a dish.