BOOK I.

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Books and the Man I sing, the first who brings The Smithfield Muses to the Ear of Kings. Say, great Patricians! (since yourselves inspire These wondrous works: so Jove and Fate require) Say from what cause, in vain decry'd and curst, Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first. In eldest time, e'er mortals writ or read, E'er Pallas issu'd from the Thund'rer's head, Dulness o'er all possess'd her ancient right, Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night : Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave, Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave, Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, She rul❜d in native Anarchy, the mind.

Still her old empire to confirm, she tries,
For born a Goddess, Dulness never dies.

O THOU! whatever Title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver,
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rab'lais easy Chair,
Or praise the Court, or magnify Mankind,
Or thy griev'd Country's copper chains unbind;
From thy Boeotia tho' Her Pow'r retires,

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Grieve not, my SWIFT, at ought our realm requires, Here pleas'd behold her mighty wings out-spread, To hatch a new Saturnian Age of Lead.

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Where wave the tatter'd ensigns of Rag-fair,
A yawning ruin hangs and nods in air;

Keen, hollow winds howl thro' the bleak recess,
Emblem of Music caus'd by Emptiness.

Here in one bed two shiv'ring Sisters lie,
The Cave of Poverty and Poetry.

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This, the Great Mother dearer held than all
The clubs of Quidnuncs, or her own Guild-hall.
Here stood her Opium, here she nurs'd her Owls,
And destin❜d here the imperial seat of fools.
Hence springs each weekly Muse, the living boast
Of Curl's chaste press, and Lintot's rubric post,
Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lay,

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Hence the soft sing-song on Cecilia's day,
Sepulchral Lies, our holy walls to grace,
And New-year Odes, and all the Grub-street race.
"Twas here in clouded majesty she shone:
Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne ;
Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears
Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears:
Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake
Who hunger, and who thirst, for scribbling sake:
Prudence, whose glass presents th' approaching jail :
Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale;

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Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise.

Here she beholds the Chaos dark and deep, Where, nameless Somethings in their causes sleep, Till genial Jacob, or a warm Third-day Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play:

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How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry,

Maggots half-form'd, in rhyme exactly meet,
And learn to crawl upon poetic feet.

Here one poor word a hundred clenches makes,
And ductile dulness new meanders takes;
There motley Images her fancy strike,
Figures ill-pair'd, and Similes unlike.

She sees a Mob of Metaphors advance,
Pleas'd with the madness of the mazy dance:

How Tragedy and Comedy embrace;

How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race;

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How Time himself stands still at her command, 69
Realms shift their place, and Ocean turns to land.
Here gay Description Egypt glads with show'rs,
Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flow'rs;
Glitt'ring with ice here hoary hills are seen,
There painted valleys of eternal green,
On cold December fragrant chaplets blow,
And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
All these and more, the cloud-compelling Queen
Beholds thro' fogs, that magnify the scene:
She, tinsell❜d o'er in robes of varying hues,
With self-applause her wild creation views,
Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,
And with her own fools-colours gilds them all.

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'Twas on the day, when Thorold, rich and grave, Like Cimon triumph'd both on land and wave: 84 (Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces, Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad

faces)

Now Night descending, the proud scene was o'er, But liv'd, in Settle's numbers, one day more.

Now May'rs and Shrieves all hush'd and satiate

lay,

Yet eat, in dreams, the custard of the day;
While Pensive Poets painful vigils keep,
Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep.
Much to the mindful Queen the feast recalls
What City Swans once sung within the walls;
Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise,
And sure succession down from Heywood's days.
She saw with joy the line immortal run,
Each sire imprest and glaring in his son;
So watchful Bruin forms with plastic care
Each growing lump, and brings it to a Bear.
She saw old Pryn in restless Daniel shine,
And Eusden eke out Blackmore's endless line
She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's poor page,
And all the mighty Mad in Dennis rage.

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In each she marks her image full exprest, But chief, in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast: Sees Gods with Demons in strange league engage, And earth, and heav'n, and hell, her battles wage.

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She ey'd the Bard, where supperless he sate, And pin'd, unconscious of his rising fate; Studious he sate, with all his books around, Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! Plung'd for his sense, but found no bottom there; Then writ, and flounder'd on, in mere despair. He roll'd his eyes that witness'd huge dismay, 115 Where yet unpawn'd, much learned lumber lay: Volumes, whose size the space exactly fill'd, Or which fond authors were so good to gild,

Or where, by sculpture made for ever known,
The
page admires new beauties, not its own.
Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great:

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There, stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines complete : Here all his suff'ring brotherhood retire,

And 'scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire;

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A Gothic Vatican! of Greece and Rome
Well purg'd, and worthy Withers, Quarles, and Blome.
But high above, more solid Learning shone,
The Classics of an Age that heard of none;
There Carton slept, with Wynkin at his side,
One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide,
There, sav'd by spice, like mummies, many a year,
Old Bodies of Philosophy appear:

De Lyra there a dreadful front extends,

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And here, the groaning shelves Philemon bends.
Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,
Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies,
Inspir'd he seizes: these an altar raise :

A hecatomb of pure, unsullied lays

That altar crowns: a folio Common-place

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Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base;
Quartos, octavos, shape the less'ning pyre;

And last, a little Ajax tips the spire.

Then he. Great Tamer of all human art!

First in my care, and nearest at my heart :

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Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, 145
With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end!
O thou, of business the directing soul,
To human heads like bias to the bowl,

Which as more pond'rous makes their aim more true,
Obliquely waddling to the mark in view.

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