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“Thrice happy Poet! who mayst trail Thy house about thee like a snail : Or, harness'd to a nag, at ease Take journies in it like a chaise; Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt, Canst make it serve thee for a tilt! Capacious house! 'tis own’d by all Thou’rt well contriv'd, though thou art small: For every Wit in Britain's isle May lodge within thy spacious pile. Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign, Thy mother burnt, årt born again, Born like a phænix from the flame; But neither bulk nor shape the same; As animals of largest size Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies; A type of modern wit and style, The rubbish of an ancient pile : So chemists boast they have a power, From the dead ashes of a flower Some faint resemblance to produce, But not the virtue, taste, or juice. So modern rhymers wisely blast The poetry of ages past; Which, after they have overthrown, They from its ruins build their own.”



WHEN mother Clud had rose from play,
And call'd to take the cards away,
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Van saw, but seem'd not to regard,
How Miss pick'd every painted card,
And busy both with hand and eye,
Soon rear'd a house two stories high,
Vau's genius, without thought or lecture,
Is hugely turn’d to architecture:
He view'd the edifice, and smil'd,
Vow'd it was pretty for a child :
It was so perfect in its kind,
He kept the model in his mind.

But, when he found the boys at play,
And saw them dabbling in their clay,
He stood behind a stall to lurk,
And mark the progress of their work;
With true delight observ'd them all
Raking up mud to build a wall.
The plan he much admir'd, and took
The model in his tablebook:
Thought himself now exactly skill'd,
And so resolv'd a house to build:
A real house, with rooms, and stairs,
Five times at least as big as theirs;
Taller than Miss's by two yards;
Not a sham thing of clay or cards :
And so he did; for, in a while,
He built up such a monstrous pile,
That no two chairmen could be found
Able to lift it from the ground.
Still at Whitehall it stands in view,
Just in the place where first it grew:
There all the little schoolboys run,
- Envying to see themselves outdone.

From such deep rudiments as these,
Van is become, by due degrees,




For building fam'd, and justly reckon'd,
At court, Vitruvius the second :
No wonder, since wise authors show,
That best foundations must be low :
And now the duke has wisely ta'en him
To be his architect at Blenheim.

But, raillery at once apart,
If this rule holds in every art;
Or if his grace were no more skill'd in
The art of battering walls than building,
We might expect to see next year,
A mouse-trap man chief engineer.

* " However partial the Court was to Vanbrugh, every body was not blind to his defects. Swift ridiculed both his own dimin nutive house at Whitehall, and the stupendous pile at Blenheim. Thus far the satirist was well founded. Party rage warped his understanding, when he censured Vanbrugh's Plays, and left him no more judgment to see their beauties than sir John had when he perceived not that they were the only beauties that he was formed to compose.” Lord Orford's Anecdotes of Painting, vol. jii. p. 152.—This noble writer, perhaps, was not aware of the handsome apology Dr. Swift and Mr Pope have made, in the joint preface to their Miscellanies: "In regard to two persons only we wish our raillery, though ever so tender, or resentment, though ever so just, had not been indulged. We speak of sir John Vanbrugh, who was a man of wit, and of honour; and of Mr. Addison, whose name deserves all the respect from every lover of learning." N.





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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,
Disguis'd 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 then 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;

* This poem is very fine, and though in the same strain with Prior's Ladle, is yet superior. GOLDSMITH.

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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 fry’d;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fillid 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 amaz’d,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frightend to the heart,
And just began to cry, "What ar’t!"
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;

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,


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