I saw thee raised to high renown, Supporting half the British crown; And often have I seen thee grace The chaste Diana"s infant face; And whensoe"er you please to shine, Less useful is her light than thine: Thy numerous fingers know their way, And oft in Celia"s tresses play.
To place thee in another view, I"ll show the world strange things and true; What lords and dames of high degree May justly claim their birth from thee!
The soul of man with spleen you vex; Of spleen you cure the female s.e.x.
Thee for a gift the courtier sends With pleasure to his special friends: He gives, and with a generous pride, Contrives all means the gift to hide: Nor oft can the receiver know, Whether he has the gift or no.
On airy wings you take your flight, And fly unseen both day and night; Conceal your form with various tricks; And few know how or where you fix: Yet some, who ne"er bestow"d thee, boast That they to others give thee most.
Meantime, the wise a question start, If thou a real being art; Or but a creature of the brain, That gives imaginary pain?
But the sly giver better knows thee; Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.
ON A CORKSCREW
Though I, alas! a prisoner be, My trade is prisoners to set free.
No slave his lord"s commands obeys With such insinuating ways.
My genius piercing, sharp, and bright, Wherein the men of wit delight.
The clergy keep me for their ease, And turn and wind me as they please.
A new and wondrous art I show Of raising spirits from below; In scarlet some, and some in white; They rise, walk round, yet never fright.
In at each mouth the spirits pa.s.s, Distinctly seen as through a gla.s.s: O"er head and body make a rout, And drive at last all secrets out; And still, the more I show my art, The more they open every heart.
A greater chemist none than I Who, from materials hard and dry, Have taught men to extract with skill More precious juice than from a still.
Although I"m often out of case, I"m not ashamed to show my face.
Though at the tables of the great I near the sideboard take my seat; Yet the plain "squire, when dinner"s done, Is never pleased till I make one; He kindly bids me near him stand, And often takes me by the hand.
I twice a-day a-hunting go; Nor ever fail to seize my foe; And when I have him by the poll, I drag him upwards from his hole; Though some are of so stubborn kind, I"m forced to leave a limb behind.
I hourly wait some fatal end; For I can break, but scorn to bend.
THE GULF OF ALL HUMAN POSSESSIONS 1724
Come hither, and behold the fruits, Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits.
Take wise advice, and look behind, Bring all past actions to thy mind.
Here you may see, as in a gla.s.s, How soon all human pleasures pa.s.s; How will it mortify thy pride, To turn the true impartial side!
How will your eyes contain their tears, When all the sad reverse appears!
This cave within its womb confines The last result of all designs: Here lie deposited the spoils Of busy mortals" endless toils: Here, with an easy search, we find The foul corruptions of mankind.
The wretched purchase here behold Of traitors, who their country sold.
This gulf insatiate imbibes The lawyer"s fees, the statesman"s bribes.
Here, in their proper shape and mien, Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen.
Necessity, the tyrant"s law, All human race must hither draw; All prompted by the same desire, The vigorous youth and aged sire.
Behold the coward and the brave, The haughty prince, the humble slave, Physician, lawyer, and divine, All make oblations at this shrine.
Some enter boldly, some by stealth, And leave behind their fruitless wealth.
For, while the bashful sylvan maid, As half-ashamed and half-afraid, Approaching finds it hard to part With that which dwelt so near her heart; The courtly dame, unmoved by fear, Profusely pours her offering here.
A treasure here of learning lurks, Huge heaps of never-dying works; Labours of many an ancient sage, And millions of the present age.
In at this gulf all offerings pa.s.s And lie an undistinguish"d ma.s.s.
Deucalion,[1] to restore mankind, Was bid to throw the stones behind; So those who here their gifts convey Are forced to look another way; For few, a chosen few, must know The mysteries that lie below.
Sad charnel-house! a dismal dome, For which all mortals leave their home!
The young, the beautiful, and brave, Here buried in one common grave!
Where each supply of dead renews Unwholesome damps, offensive dews: And lo! the writing on the walls Points out where each new victim falls; The food of worms and beasts obscene, Who round the vault luxuriant reign.
See where those mangled corpses lie, Condemn"d by female hands to die; A comely dame once clad in white, Lies there consign"d to endless night; By cruel hands her blood was spilt, And yet her wealth was all her guilt.
And here six virgins in a tomb, All-beauteous offspring of one womb, Oft in the train of Venus seen, As fair and lovely as their queen; In royal garments each was drest, Each with a gold and purple vest; I saw them of their garments stript, Their throats were cut, their bellies ript, Twice were they buried, twice were born, Twice from their sepulchres were torn; But now dismember"d here are cast, And find a resting-place at last.
Here oft the curious traveller finds The combat of opposing winds; And seeks to learn the secret cause, Which alien seems from nature"s laws; Why at this cave"s tremendous mouth, He feels at once both north and south; Whether the winds, in caverns pent, Through clefts oppugnant force a vent; Or whether, opening all his stores, Fierce aeolus in tempest roars.
Yet, from this mingled ma.s.s of things, In time a new creation springs.
These crude materials once shall rise To fill the earth, and air, and skies; In various forms appear again, Of vegetables, brutes, and men.
So Jove p.r.o.nounced among the G.o.ds, Olympus trembling as he nods.
[Footnote 1: Ovid, "Metam.," i, 383.]
LOUISA[1] TO STREPHON. 1724
Ah! Strephon, how can you despise Her, who without thy pity dies!
To Strephon I have still been true, And of as n.o.ble blood as you; Fair issue of the genial bed, A virgin in thy bosom bred: Embraced thee closer than a wife; When thee I leave, I leave my life.
Why should my shepherd take amiss, That oft I wake thee with a kiss?
Yet you of every kiss complain; Ah! is not love a pleasing pain?
A pain which every happy night You cure with ease and with delight; With pleasure, as the poet sings, Too great for mortals less than kings.
Chloe, when on thy breast I lie, Observes me with revengeful eye: If Chloe o"er thy heart prevails, She"ll tear me with her desperate nails; And with relentless hands destroy The tender pledges of our joy.
Nor have I bred a spurious race; They all were born from thy embrace.
Consider, Strephon, what you do; For, should I die for love of you, I"ll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghost; And all my kin, (a numerous host,) Who down direct our lineage bring From victors o"er the Memphian king; Renown"d in sieges and campaigns, Who never fled the b.l.o.o.d.y plains: Who in tempestuous seas can sport, And scorn the pleasures of a court; From whom great Sylla[2] found his doom, Who scourged to death that scourge of Rome, Shall on thee take a vengeance dire; Thou like Alcides[3] shalt expire, When his envenom"d shirt he wore, And skin and flesh in pieces tore.
Nor less that shirt, my rival"s gift, Cut from the piece that made her shift, Shall in thy dearest blood be dyed, And make thee tear thy tainted hide.
[Footnote 1: The solution is, _phtheirhiasis_ morbus pedicularis. With this piece may be read Peter Pindar"s epic, "The Lousiad."--W. E. B_.]
[Footnote 2: Plutarch tells how Sylla"s body was so corrupted with these vermin, that they streamed from him into every place: _pasan estheta kai loutron kai aponimma kai sition anapimplasthai tou reumatos ekeinon kai tes phthoras. tosouton exenthei._ "Vita Syllae," x.x.xvi.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Hercules, who died from wearing the shirt (given him by his wife as a charm against his infidelities) stained with the blood of Nessus, the centaur, whom Hercules had slain with a poisoned arrow. Ovid, "Epist. Heroid. Deianira Herculi," and "Metam.," lib. ix, 101.--_W. E. B._]
A MAYPOLE. 1725
Deprived of root, and branch and rind, Yet flowers I bear of every kind: And such is my prolific power, They bloom in less than half an hour; Yet standers-by may plainly see They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round, And yet I firmly stand my ground: All over naked I am seen, And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land E"er join"d such numbers hand in hand.
I join"d them fairly with a ring; Nor can our parson blame the thing.
And though no marriage words are spoke, They part not till the ring is broke; Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, I"m but an idol raised on high; And once a weaver in our town, A d.a.m.n"d Cromwellian, knock"d me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old post restored all three-- I mean the church, the king, and me.
ON THE MOON
I with borrow"d silver shine What you see is none of mine.
First I show you but a quarter, Like the bow that guards the Tartar: Then the half, and then the whole, Ever dancing round the pole.