Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent,
And all the furies issued at the vent.
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.
O wretched maid! she spread her hands and cried,
(While Hampton's echoes, wretched maid! replied).
Was it for this you took such constant care
The bodkin, comb, and essence, to prepare?
For this your locks in paper durance bound,
For this with torturing irons wreathed around?
For this with fillets strain'd your tender head,
And bravely bore the double loads of lead?
Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare?
Honour forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.
Methinks already I your tears survey,
Already hear the horrid things they say,
Already see you a degraded toast,
And all your honour in a whisper lost!
How shall I then your helpless fame defend?
"Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize,
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes,
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park circus grow,
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow!
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall,
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!
She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs:
(Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain,
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane)
With earnest eyes and round unthinking face,
He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case,
And thus broke out-" My Lord, why, what the
Z-ds! damn the Lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil!
Plague on't! 'tis past a jest-nay prithee, pox!
Give her the hair"-he spoke, and rapp'd his box.
It grieves me much (replied the peer again)
Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain;
But by this Lock, this sacred Lock, I swear,
(Which never more shall join its parted hair;
Which never more its honour shall renew,
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew)
That while my nostrils draw the vital air,
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread
The long-contended honours of her head.
But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so;
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow.
Then, see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,
Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears;
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head,
Which, with a sigh, she raised : and thus she said:
For ever cursed be this detested day,
Which snatch'd my best, my favourite curl away!
Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been,
If Hampton-court these eyes had never seen!
Yet am I not the first mistaken maid
By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd.
Oh, had I rather unadmired remain'd
In some lone isle, or distant northern land;
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea!
There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye!
Like roses that in deserts bloom and die.
What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam!
Oh, had I staid, and said my prayers at home!
"Twas this, the morning omens seem'd to tell,
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;
The tottering china shook without a wind,
Nay, Poll sat Mute, and Shock was most unkind!
A sylph, too, warn'd me of the threats of fate,
In mystic visions, now believed too late!
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
My hand shall rend what even thy rapine spares:
These, in two sable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;
The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone,
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands,
And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands.
Oh, hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!
SHE said: the pitying audience melt in tears; But fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears. In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails? Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, While Anna begg'd and Dido raged in vain. Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan; Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began.
Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd
The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast?
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why angel's call'd and angel-like adored?
Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved
beaux!
Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains;
That men may say when we the front-box grace,
Behold the first in virtue as in face!
Oh! if to dance all night and dress all day,
Charm'd the small-pox, or chased old age away;
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares
produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing to use?
To patch, nay ogle, may become a saint;
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay;
Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to gray;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a man must die a maid;
What then remains, but well our power to use,
And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose?
And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding
fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul,
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude. To arms, to arms! the fierce virago cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. All side in parties, and begin th' attack; [crack: Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, And brass and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapon in their hands are found; Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height Clapp'd his glad wings, and sat to view the fight: Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perish'd in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song. "O cruel nymph! a living death I bear," Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward cast, "Those eyes are made so killing"*-was his last. Thus on Meander's flowery margin lies Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau revived again.
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair. The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. See fierce Belinda on the Baron flics, With more than usual lightning in her eyes: Nor fear'd the chief the unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, She with one finger and a thumb subdued: Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ; The gnomes direct, to every atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust. Sudden, with starting tears, each eye o'erflows, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.
Now meet thy fate, incensed Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. (The same, his ancient personage to deck, Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:
[* From a song in the once favourite opera of Camilla, with which Vanbrugh opened his new house in the Haymarket.]
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Boast not my fall, (he cried,) insulting foe!
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than so, ah! let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive.
Restore the Lock, she cries, and all around, Restore the Lock! the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, In every place is sought, but sought in vain: With such a prize no mortal must be blest, So heaven decrees! with heaven who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer cases: There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound; The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
But trust the Muse-she saw it upward rise, Though mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes: (So Rome's great founder to the heavens withTo Proculus alone confess'd in view :) A sudden star it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, The heaven bespangling with dishevell❜d light. The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, And pleased pursue its progress through the skies. This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with music its propitious ray. This the blest lover shall for Venus take, And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake, This Partridget soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
[† The famous Almanack-maker, the Lily, Gadbury, and Murphy of his day.]
[Born, 1667. Died, 1744.]
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.†
ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE
PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1708.
Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.
IN ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happen'd on a winter-night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother-hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain;
Tried every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful!) they found "Twas still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed;
[* Mr. Campbell's silence upon Swift is less to be regretted, as we seem now, with the narratives of Lord Orrery, Sheridan, Delany, Mr. Swift, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Mitford, Sir Walter Scott, and the collected circumstances of Monck Mason and Dr. Barret, to know enough of Cadenus or the Dean, who gains on our dislike rather than our esteem by additional acquaintance. The life of this hateful fellow was one continuous growl of discontent. His loves, if loves they were, a series of shuffles, to be accounted for alone by a charitable supposition, that the malady which overthrew his intellect, touched his heart, before he became "The driveller and the show," of Johnson's verses; "The solitary idiot" of Byron's Letters.
"His Muse," says Smollet, "was mere misanthropy," he might have added,-and nastiness. He is as obscene and outspoken as Lord Rochester, and writes rather in the
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,-What art?
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errand:
Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints, the hermits said;
No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.
They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down to show
Its inclination for below:
In vain for a superior force,
Applied at bottom, stops its course;
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
"Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower :
The flier, though 't had leaden feet,
Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't;
But, slacken'd by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side:
style of the stews than the pulpit. "Almost all his works," says Jeffrey, "are libels, generally upon individuals, sometimes upon sects and parties, sometimes upon human nature." No one's writings need castration more. This done, and the clergyman and his beastliness forgotten, how indignant and admirable is his satire, how pleasant and pointed his humour! He lived to verify the prediction of Dryden, and was not a poet but a wit: a word which in this signification merits revival.
For some sensible remarks on Swift see Lord Mahon's Hist. of Eng. vol. i. p. 68.]
[†This poem is very fine.-GOLDSMITH.
At Addison's suggestion, in the short poem of Baucis and Philemon, Swift struck out forty verses, added forty verses, and altered the same number.-Sir Walter Scott & Life of Swift, p. 430.]
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cookmaid not to burn
That roast-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, 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 glittering show,
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.
The ballads, pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter;
And, high in order placed, describe
The heraldry of every tribe.
A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.
The cottage by such feats as these
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon, having paused a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style:
Then said, My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson, if you please.
He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues;
He smoked his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;
Against dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a system:
But classic authors:-he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a parson, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. Instead of homespun coifs, were seen Good pinners edged with colberteen; Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black satin flounced with lace. Plain Goody would no longer down; "Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes, Amazed to see her look so prim; And she admired as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife; When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the church-yard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, My dear, I see your forehead sprout? Sprout! quoth the man: what's this you tell us? I hope you don't believe me jealous ; But yet, methinks, I feel it true; And really, yours is budding tooNay, now I cannot stir my foot; It feels as if 'twere taking root.
Description would but tire my Muse;
In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the Green
Remembers, he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight:
On Sundays after evening prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:
Till once a Parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believed,
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grew scrubbled, died a-top, was stunted;
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
ALL human race would fain be wits,
And millions miss for one that hits.
Young's Universal Passion, pride,
Was never known to spread so wide.
Say, Britain, could you ever boast
Three poets in an age at most?
Our chilling climate hardly bears
A sprig of bays in fifty years;
[* Here follows one of the best versified poems in our language, and the most masterly production of its author. The severity with which Walpole is here treated, was in consequence of that minister's having refused to provide for Swift in England, when applied to for that purpose, in the year 1725, if I remember right. The severity of a poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneasiness. A man whose schemes, like this minister's, seldom extended beyond the exigency of the year, but little regarded the contempt of posterity.-GOLDSMITH.]
While every fool his claim alleges,
As if it grew in common hedges.
What reason can there be assign'd
For this perverseness in the mind?
Brutes find out where their talents lie:
A bear will not attempt to fly;
A founder'd horse will oft debate
Before he tries a five-barr'd gate;
A dog by instinct turns aside,
Who sees the ditch too deep and wide.
But man we find the only creature,
Who, led by Folly, combats Nature;
Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear,
With obstinacy fixes there;
And, where his genius least inclines,
Absurdly bends his whole designs.
Not empire to the rising sun
By valour, conduct, fortune won;
Not highest wisdom in debates
For framing laws to govern states;
Not skill in sciences profound,
So large to grasp the circle round;
Such heavenly influence require,
As how to strike the Muse's lyre.
Not beggar's brat on bulk begot;
Not bastard of a pedlar Scot:
Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes,
The spawn of Bridewell or the stews;
Not infants dropt, the spurious pledges
Of gipsies littering under hedges;
Are so disqualified by fate
To rise in church, or law, or state,
As he whom Phœbus in his ire
Hath blasted with poetic fire.
What hope of custom in the fair,
While not a soul demands your ware?
Where you have nothing to produce
For private life, or public use?
Court, city, country, want you not;
You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.
For poets, law makes no provision;
The wealthy have you in derision:
Of state affairs you cannot smatter;
Are awkward when you try to flatter.
Your portion, taking Britain round,
Was just one annual hundred pound;
Now not so much as in remainder,
Since Cibber brought in an attainder;
For ever fix'd by right divine
(A monarch's right) on Grub-street line.
Poor starveling bard, how small thy gains!
How unproportion'd to thy pains!
And here a simile comes pat in:
Though chickens take a month to fatten,
The guests in less than half an hour
Will more than half a score devour.
So, after toiling twenty days
To earn a stock of pence and praise,
Thy labours, grown the critic's prey,
Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea;
Gone to be never heard of more,
Gone where the chickens went before.
How shall a new attempter learn
Of different spirits to discern,
And how distinguish which is which,
The poet's vein, or scribbling itch?
Then hear an old experienced sinner,
Instructing thus a young beginner.
Consult yourself; and if you find
A powerful impulse urge your mind,
Impartial judge within your breast
What subject you can manage best;
Whether your genius most inclines
To satire, praise, or humorous lines,
To elegies in mournful tone,
Or prologues sent from hand unknown.
Then, rising with Aurora's light,
The Muse invoked, sit down to write;
Blot out, correct, insert, refine,
Enlarge, diminish, interline;
Be mindful, when invention fails,
To scratch your head, and bite your nails
Your poem finish'd, next your care
Is needful to transcribe it fair.
In modern wit all printed trash is
Set off with numerous breaks and dashes.
To statesmen would you give a wipe,
You print it in Italic type.
When letters are in vulgar shapes,
"Tis ten to one the wit escapes:
But, when in capitals exprest,
The dullest reader smokes the jest:
Or else perhaps he may invent
A better than the poet meant ;
As learn'd commentators view
In Homer, more than Homer knew.
Your poem in its modish dress,
Correctly fitted for the press,
Convey by penny-post to Lintot,
But let no friend alive look into 't.
If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost,
You need not fear your labour lost:
And how agreeably surprised
Are you to see it advertised!
The hawker shows you one in print,
As fresh as farthings from the mint:
The product of your toil and sweating;
A bastard of your own begetting.
Be sure at Will's the following day,
Lie snug, and hear what critics say;
And, if you find the general vogue
Pronounces you a stupid rogue,
Damns all your thoughts as low and little, Sit still, and swallow down your spittle. Be silent as a politician,
For talking may beget suspicion:
Or praise the judgment of the town,
And help yourself to run it down.
Give up your fond paternal pride,
Nor argue on the weaker side:
For poems read without a name
We justly praise or justly blame;
And critics have no partial views,
Except they know whom they abuse:
And, since you ne'er provoke their spite,
Depend upon 't their judgment's right.
But if you blab, you are undone :
Consider what a risk you run:
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