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Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands, or when lap-dogs, breathe their last!

Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high,
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie!

Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine
(The victor cried), the glorious prize is mine!
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,
Or in a coach-and-six the British fair,
As long as Atalantis* shall be read,
Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed,
While visits shall be paid on solemn days,
When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze,
While nymphs take treats, or assignations give,
So long my honour, name, and praise, shall live!
What time would spare, from steel receives its date,
And monuments, like men, submit to fate!
Steel could the labour of the gods destroy,
And strike to dust the imperial powers of Troy:
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
What wonder then, fairnymph! thy hairs should feel
The conquering force of unresisted steel?

CANTO IV,

Bur anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd,
And secret passions labour'd in her breast.
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss,
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinn'd awry,
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,
As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravish'd hair.
For, that sad moment, when the sylphs withdrew,
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,
As ever sullied the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
Repair'd to search the gloomy cave of Spleen.
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome,
And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome.
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows.
Here in a grotto, shelter'd close from air,
And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare,
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head.

Two handmaids wait the throne; alike in place,
But differing far in figure and in face.
Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,
Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd;
With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and

noons,

Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons.

[* A book full of court and party scandal, written by Mrs. Manley.]

There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside,
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride;
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
Wrapp'd in a gown, for sickness, and for show.
The fair ones feel such maladies as these,
When each new night-dress gives a new disease.
A constant vapour o'er the palace flies;
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise;
Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades,
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires:
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,
And crystal domes, and angels in machines.

Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen, Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out, One bent; the handle this, and that the spout : A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks ; Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks ; Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works, And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.

[queen!

Safe pass'd the gnome through this fantastic band, A branch of healing spleen-wort in his hand, Then thus address'd the power :-Hail, wayward Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen: Parent of vapours, and of female wit, Who give the hysteric or poetic fit, On various tempers act by various ways, Make some take physic, others scribble plays; Who cause the proud their visits to delay, And send the godly in a pet to pray. A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains, And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. But oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame, Or change complexions at a losing game; If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, Or caused suspicion where no soul was rude, Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude, Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ; That single act gives half the world the spleen. The goddess with a discontented air

Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. A wonderous bag with both her hands she binds, Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; There she collects the force of female lungs. Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. A vial next she fills with fainting fears,

Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, Spreads his black wings and slowly mounts to day.

Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. 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
devil?

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,

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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!

CANTO V.

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 most,
The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast?
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why angels call'd and angel-like adored? [beaux !
Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved
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 scornwhat 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,

Which snatch'd my best, my favourite curl away! And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose?

Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been,

If Hampton-court these eyes had never seen!

Yet am not I the first mistaken maid

By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd.

And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; [fail.
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; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack: Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, And bass 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 gives

way,

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 upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killing"-was his last. Thus on Mæander'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 flies, 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 withdrew, To 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 Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galilæo'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 ravish'd
hair,

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 Lilly, Gadbury, and Murphy of his day.]

JONATHAN SWIFT*.

[Born, 1667. Died, 1744.]

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON †.

ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET,

In ancient times, as story tells,

1708.

Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.

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,

[* 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 grow! 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 Smollett, "was mere misanthropy," he might have added,—and nastiness. He is as obscene and outspoken as Lord Rochester, and writes rather in the 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 Raucis and Philemon, Swift struck out forty verses, added forty verses and altered the same number. Sir Walter Scott's Life of Swift, p. 430.]

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 ;
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;

384

kettle,

but

a bell.

Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no
A wooden

jack which had almost

Lost by disuse the

A sudden

art

to roast,

alteration feels,

exalts

the wonder

more,

Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what
The number
The flier,

made

though

't

the motion

slower :

had leaden feet,

Turn'd round so quick,

But, slacken'd
Now hardly

JONATHAN SWIFT.

you scarce could see 't;

by some secret power,

moves

an

inch

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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.

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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

To the

by chance, amidst their talk,

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 too-

Nay, 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,
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.

Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted;

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