« VorigeDoorgaan »
make this stir about
Is but a still which wants a spout.
The reverend Dr. * Raymond guess’d
More probably than all the rest;
He said, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.
The doctor's family came by,
And little miss began to cry ;
Give me that house in my own hand !
Then madam bade the chariot stand,
Callid to the clerk, in manner mild,
Pray, reach that thing here to the child':
That thing, I mean, among the kale ;
And here's to buy a pot of ale.
The clerk said to her, in a heat,
What ! fell my master's country feat,
Where he comes every week from town!
He would not sell it for a crown.
Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother ;
In half an hour thou 'lt make another.
Says + Nancy, I can make for miss
A finer house ten times than this;
The dean will give me willow-sticks,
And Joe my apron-full of bricks.
* Minister of Trim.
+ The waiting-woman.
SID HAMET THE MAGICIAN'S ROD.
HE rod was bụt a harmless wand,
While Moses held it in his hand;
But, soon as e'er he laid it down,
''Twas a devouring serpent grown.
Our great magician, Hamer Şid,
Reverses what the prophet did :
His rod was honest English wood,
That senseless in a corner food,
Till, metamorphos'd by his grasp,
It grew an all-devouring aspi
Would hiss, and sting, and roll, and twist,
By the mere virtue of his fift;
But, when he laid it down, as quick
Resum'd the figure of a stick.
So to her midnight-feasts the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
That, rais’d by magick of her breech,
O'er sea and land conveys the witch ;
But with the morning-dawn resumes
The peaceful state of common brooms.
They tell us something strange and odd
About a certain magic rod *,
The virgula divina, said to be attracted by minerals.
That, bending down its top, divines
Whene'er the soil has golden mines;
Where there are none, it stands erect,
Scorning to shew the least respect;
As ready was the wand of Sid
To bend where golden mines were hid ;
In Scottish hills found precious ore *,
Where none e'er look'd for it before;
And by a gentle bow divin'd
How well a cully's purse was lind;
To a forlorn and broken rake
Stood without motion, like a stake.
The rod of Hermes was renown'd
For charms above and under ground;
To sleep could mortal eye-lids fix,
And drive departed souls to Styx.
That rod was just a type of Sid's,
Which o'er a British fenate's lids
Could scatter opium full as well,
And drive as many fouls to bell.
Sid's rod was sender, white, and tall,
Which oft he us'd to fill withal;
A plaice was fasten’d to the hook,
And many score of gudgeons took :
Yet still so happy was his fate,
He caught his fish, and fav’d his bait.
Sid's brethren of the conjuring tribe A circle with their rod defcribe,
* Supposed to allude to the Union.
Which proves a magical redoubt
To keep mischievous spirits out.
Sid's rod was of a larger stride,
And made a circle thrice as wide,
Where spirits throng'd with hideous din,
And he stood there to take them in :
But, when th’inchanted rod was broke,
*They vanish'd in a stinking smokc.
Achilles' sceptre was of wood,
Like Sid's, but nothing near so good;
That down from ancestors divine
Transmitted to the hero's line ;
Thence, through a long defcent of kings,
Came an HBIR-LOOM, as Homer sings.
Though this description looks so big,
That fceptre was a fapless twig,
Which, from the fatal day, when first
It left the forest where 'twas nurs'd,
As Homer tells us o'er and o'er,
Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor blotTom, borc.
Sid's sceptre, full of juice, did shoot
In golden boughs, and golden fruit ;
And he, the dragon never sleeping,
Guarded each fair Hesperian pippin.
No hobby-borse, with gorgcous top,
The dearest in Charles Mather's * shop,
Or glittering tinfel of May-fair,
Could with this rod of Sid compare.
An eminent toyman in Fleet-street.
Dear Sid, then, why wert thou so mad
To break thy rod like naughty lad !
You should have kifs'd it in your distress,
And then return'd it to your mistress;
Or made it a Newmarket * switch,
And not a rod for thy own breech,
But since old Sid has broken this,
His next may be a rod in piss.
ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE.
LORD TREASURER OXFORD. 1710.
ATLAS, we read in ancient song,
Was so exceeding tall and strong, He bore the skies upon his back, Just as a pedlar does his pack : But, as a pedlar overprefs’d Unloads upon a ftall to rest, Or, when he can no longer stand, Desires a friend to lend a hand; So Atlas, left the ponderous sphere's Should sink, and fall about his ears, Got Hercules to bear the pile, That he might fit and rest a while. * Lord Godolphin is satirized by Mr. Pope for a strong attachment to the turf. See his Moral Eflays.