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Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compass this, his building is a Town,
His Pond an Ocean, his Parterre a down :
Who but must laugh, the Master when he sees,
A puny insect, shiv’ring at a breeze !
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around !
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground.
Two Cupids squirt before : a Lake behind
Improves the keeness of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On ev'ry side you look, behold the Wall!
No pleasing Intricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene ;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff'ring eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With here a Fountain never to be play'd ;
And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade ;
Here Amphitrite fails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd see the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And swallows rooft in Nilus' dusty Urn.

My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen:
But soft--by regular approach-not yet-
First thro' the length of yon hot Terrace sweat ;
And when up ten steep flops you've drag'd your thighs,
Just at his Study-door he'll bless your eyes,

His Study! with what Authors is it stor'd ?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound,
Lo fome are Vellom, and the rest as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood,
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the Chapel's filver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the Pride of Pray'r:
Light quirks of Music, broken and uneven,
Make the foul dance upon a Jig to Heav'n.
On painted Ceilings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To rest, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

But hark' the chiming Clocks to Dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall :
The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A solemn Sacrifice, perform'd in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each Act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King,
In plenty-starving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, caress’d, and tir’d, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavilh cost, and little skill,
And swear no day was ever paft so ill.

Yet hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed :
Health to himself, and to his infants bread
The Lab’rer bears: what his hard Heart denies,
His charitable Vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden Ear
Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre,
Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil ?
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like BOYLE.
'Tis use alone that sanctifies Expence,
And Splendor borrows all her rays from Sense.

His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he encrease :
Whose chearful Tenants bless their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the soil;
Whose ample lawns are not alham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Whose rifing forests, not for pride or show,
But future Building, future Navies, grow :
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First Made a Country, and then raise a Town.

You too proceed! make falling Arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair ;
Vol. III.

K

Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
"Till Kings call forth th? Ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd,)
Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend,
Bid Temples, worthier of the God, ascend ;
Bid the broad arch the dang'rous Flood contain,
The mole projected break the roring Main;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient Rivers thro' the Land :
These Honours, Peace to happy Britain brings,
These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.

Ε Ρ Ι S Τ Ι Ε

V.

то

MR. ADDISON

Occasioned by his Dialogues on MEDALS.

SEE the wild waste of all devouring years !

How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on Nations spoil'd, Wacre mix'd with Slaves the groaning Martyr toil'd: Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods: Fanes which admiring Gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they ! Some felt the silent stroke of mouldring age, Some hoftile fury, some religious rage. Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruin fav'd from fame, Some bury'd marble half preserves a name; That name the learn’d with fierce disputes pursue, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

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