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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, art born again, Born like a phenix 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.”
THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE.
Van saw, but seem'd not to regard,
But, when he found the boys at play,
From such deep rudiments as these,
For building fam’d, and justly reckon’d,
But, raillery at once apart,
*“ However partial the Court was to Vanbrugh, every body was not blind to his defects. Switt ridiculed both his own diminutive 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 po 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 bandsome 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 Joho 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.
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.*
ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO
YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE,
IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID,
IN ancient times, as story tells,
It happen'd on a winter night,
Our wandering saints, in woeful state,
* This poem is very fine, and though in the same strain with Prior's Ladle, is yet superior. GOLDSMITH.
While he from out the chimney took
They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fasten’d to a joist,