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A waving gloom the bloomy beds display,
Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus
99 Where all cries out, “What sums are thrown away! So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there. Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a drought 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, shivering at a breeze ! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around ! The whole a labour'd quarry above ground. 110 Two Cupids squirt before ; a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wind. His gardens next your admiration call, On every 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 suffering eye inverted nature sees, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
Wi ?re a fountain never to be play'd,
ere a summer-house that knows no shade ;
My lord advances with majestic mien,
His study! with what authors is it stored ?
150 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 eal
So quick requires each Aying course, you 'd swear
Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed ;
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 Boylo. 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense, And splendour borrows all her
from sense. 180 His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his neighbours glad if he increase : Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil, Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil; Whose ample lawns are not ashamed to feed The milky beiser and deserving steed; Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, But future buildings, future navies, grow : Let his plantations stretch from down to down, First shade a country, and then raise a town. 190
You, too, proceed! make falling arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair ; Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before : Till kings call forth the idea of your mind, Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd;)
Bid harbours open, public ways extend,
TO MR. ADDIS ON.
Occasioned by his Dialogues on Medals.
This was originally written in the year 1715, when Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of medals; it was some time before he was secretary of state ; but not published till Mr. Tickell's edition of his works; at which time his verses on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were added, viz. in 1720.
As the third Epistle treated of the extremes of avarice and profusion ; and the fourth took up one particular branch of the latter, namely, the vanity of expense in people of wealth and quality, and was therefore a corollary to the third; so this treats of one circumstance of that vanity, as it appears in the common collectors of old coin; and is, therefore,. corollary to the fourth.
SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears! With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead!
Imperia. wonders raised on nations spoil'd,
Ambition sigh'd; she found in vain to trust
shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Convinced, she nuw contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps, Now scantier limits i be proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine ; A small Euphrates through the piece is rollid. And little eagles ware their wings in gold. 30
The medal faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages oears each form ana
name: In one short view subjected to our eye, Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd sight pa e antiquaries pore, The inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of iwice ton hundred years ! To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. 40