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This way is for his Grace's coach:

There lies the bridge, and here's the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock,

The spacious court, the colonnade,

And mark how wide the hall is made!
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind.
This gallery's contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council chamber for debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,

But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling1.

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ON BEAUFORT HOUSE (GATE AT CHISWICK.

[THE Lord Treasurer Middlesex's house at Chelsea, after passing to the Duke of Beaufort, was called Beaufort House. It was afterwards sold to Sir Hans Sloane. When the House was taken down in 1740, its gateway, built by Inigo Jones, was given by Sir Hans Sloane to the Earl of Burlington, who removed it with the greatest care to his garden at Chiswick, where it may be still seen. See Cunningham's London.]

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[IN illustration Mitford refers to Pope's letter to Lord Bathurst of September 13, 1732, where Mr L.' is spoken of as 'more inclined to admire God in his greater works, the tall timber.' From Mr Mitford's notes to his edition of Gray's Correspondence with the Rev. Norton Nichols. As to Lord Bathurst's improvements at Cirencester, to which these lines allude, see Moral Essays, Ep. IV. vv. 186 ff.]

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It is, my lord, a mere conundrum

To call things woods for what grows under 'em.

For shrubs, when nothing else at top is,

Can only constitute a coppice.

But if you will not take my word,

See anno quint. of Richard Third;

And that's a coppice call'd, when dock'd,
Witness an. prim. of Harry Oct.
If this a wood you will maintain,
Merely because it is no plain,
Holland, for all that I can see,
May e'en as well be term'd the sea,
Or C-by1 be fair harangued

An honest man, because not hang'd."

INSCRIPTION ON A PUNCH-BOWL,

IN THE SOUTH-sea year [1720], FOR A CLUB, CHASED WITH JUPITER PLACING CALLISTO IN THE SKIES, AND EUROPA WITH THE BULL.

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VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.

Un Jour dit un Auteur, etc.3

NCE (says an Author; where, I need not say)
Two Trav'lers found an Oyster in their way;
Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong,
While Scale in hand Dame Justice past along.
Before her each with clamour pleads the Laws,
Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.
Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful Right,
Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight.
The cause of strife remov'd so rarely well,
"There take" (says Justice) "take ye each a Shell.
We thrive at Westminster on Fools like you:
'Twas a fat Oyster-Live in peace-Adieu."

1 Thomas, first Lord Coningsby, a zealous promoter of the Revolution of 1688. Carru

thers.

[There seems no doubt that these terms originated in the South-Sea year; and that they gradually came into general use. See a lively discussion of the subject, and of the meaning of the terms, in Notes and Queries for 1859.]

3 [This famous fable is narrated at the close

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of Boileau's Second Epistle; and is said to be originally derived from an old Italian comedy. La Fontaine, who also versified the fable, substituted a judge (named Perrin Dandin) for 'Justice'; wherein, according to Boileau's opinion, he erred; inasmuch as it is not the judges only, but all the officers of justice, who empty the pockets of litigants. From a note to Amsterdam edition (1735) of Euvres de Boileau.]

M

EPIGRAM.

Y Lord1 complains that Pope, stark mad with gardens,
Has cut three trees, the value of three farthings.

"But he's my neighbour," cries the peer polite:

"And if he visit me, I'll waive the right."

What! on compulsion, and against my will,

A lord's acquaintance? Let him file his bill!

EPIGRAM.

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[EXPLAINED by Carruthers to refer to the large sums of money given in charity on account of the severity of the weather about the year 1740.]

YES! 'tis the time, (I cried,) impose the chain,

YES!

Destined and due to wretches self-enslaved;

But when I saw such charity remain,

I half could wish this people should be saved.

Faith lost, and Hope, our Charity begins;
And 'tis a wise design in pitying Heaven,

If this can cover multitude of sins,

To take the only way to be forgiven.

OCCASIONED BY READING THE TRAVELS OF CAPTAIN
LEMUEL GULLIVER.

ON the publication of Gulliver's Travels Pope wrote several pieces of humour intended to accompany the work, which he sent to Swift; and they were printed in 1727 under the title of Poems occasioned by reading the Travels of Captain Lemuel Gulliver explanatory and commendatory. Roscoe. [I. II. IV. were also published in the joint Miscellanies.]

I.

TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN, THE MAN-MOUNTAIN.

An Ode by Tilly-Tit, Poet Laureate to His Majesty of Lilliput.
Translated into English.

N amaze,
Lost I gaze,

Can our eyes

Reach thy size?

May my lays
Swell with praise,
Worthy thee!
Worthy me!

Muse, inspire,

All thy fire!
Bards of old
- Of him told,

When they said
Atlas' head

Propp'd the skies:

See! and believe your eyes!

See him stride

Valleys wide,

1 Lord Radnor.

Warton.

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LOSS OF GRILDRIG.

A PASTORAL.

OON as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care,
She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair.

No British miss sincerer grief has known,

Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown.

She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd 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 gently whimpers like a lowing cow:
Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears,

Her locks dishevell'd, 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 search'd each cranny of the house,
Each gaping chink impervious to a mouse.
"Was it for this" (she cry'd) "with daily care
Within thy reach I set the vinegar!

And fill'd the cruet with the acid tide,

While pepper-water worms thy bait supply'd;
Where twined the silver eel around thy hook,
And all the little monsters of the brook.

Sure in that lake he dropp'd; my Grilly's drown'd."
She dragg'd the cruet, but no Grildrig found.
"Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast;
But little creatures enterprise the most.

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Trembling, I've seen thee dare the kitten's paw,
Nay, mix with children, as they play'd at taw,
Nor fear the marbles, as they bounding flew;
Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you.

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'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 linb from limb in cruel play,
As children tear the wings of flies away.
From place to place o'er Brobdingnag I'll roam,
And never will return or bring thee home.
But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind?
How, then, thy fairy footsteps can I find?
Dost thou bewilder'd wander all alone,

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Perhaps all maim'd, lie grov'lling on the ground?

Dost thou, embosom'd in the lovely rose,

Or sunk within the peach's down, repose?

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Within the king-cup if thy limbs are spread,

Or in the golden cowslip's velvet head:

O show me, Flora, midst those sweets, the flower

Where sleeps my Grildrig in his fragrant bower. "But ah! I fear thy little fancy roves

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On little females, and on little loves;

Thy pygmy children, and thy tiny spouse,

Thy baby playthings that adorn thy house,

Doors, windows, chimneys, and the spacious rooms,
Equal in size to cells of honeycombs.

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Hast thou for these now ventured from the shore,
Thy bark a bean-shell, and a straw thy oar?
Or in thy box, now bounding on the main,
Shall I ne'er bear thyself and house again?
And shall I set thee on my hand no more,
To see thee leap the lines, and traverse o'er
My spacious palm? Of stature scarce a span,
Mimic the actions of a real man?

No more behold thee turn my watch's key,
As seamen at a capstern anchors weigh?

How wert thou wont to walk with cautious tread,

A dish of tea like milk-pail on thy head?
How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away,
And keep the rolling maggot at a bay?"

She said, but broken accents stopp'd her voice,
Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise:
She sobb'd a storm, and wip'd her flowing eyes,
Which seem'd 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.

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