Epist. IV.
And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your
Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. [thighs,
His study with what authors is it stor❜d?
In books, not authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round; 135
These Aldus printed, those Du Sueïl has bound!
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good,
For all his Lordship knows, but they are wood!
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look;
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of pray'r:
Light quirks of music, broken and unev3n,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to heav'n.
On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To rest the cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

But, hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall :
The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, it's a temple and a hecatomb;
A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

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150

155

So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread Doctor and his wand were there. 160

Between each act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweet wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,

Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave 165
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavish cost and little skill,
And swear no day was ever past so ill.

170

Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed; Health to himself and to his infants bread The lab'rer bears: what his hard heart denies His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre ; Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd, 175 And laughing Ceres reassume the land.

Who then shall grace or who improve the soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle? 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expence,

And splendour borrows all her rays from sense. 180
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his neighbours glad if he increase;
Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil,
Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil;
Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed 185
The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Whose rising forests not for pride or show,
But future buildings, future navies, grow;
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a country, and then raise a town. 190

You, too, proceed! make falling arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair; Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,

And be whate'er Vitruvius, was before :

Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind, 195 (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd) Bid harbours open, public ways extend,

200

Bid temples worthier of the God ascend;
Bid the broad arch the dang'rous flood contain,
The mole projected. break the roaring main;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient rivers thro' the land:
These honours Peace to happy Britain brings;
These are imperial works, and worthy kings., 204

TO MR. ADDISON.

5

[Occasioned by his Dialogues on Medals.] SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples, spread ! The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd: Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods; Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage: Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety and Gothic fire.

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15

Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preserves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

20

Ambition sigh'd; she found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust; Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more: [shore, Convinc'd she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a Coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps.

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Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll`d,

And little Eagles wave their wings in gold." 30

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The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Thro' climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye, Gods, emp'rors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd; And Curio, restless by the fair-one's side, Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride. Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine : Touch'd by thy hand again Rome's glories shine; Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blush these studies thy regard engage; These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.

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Oh! when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living Medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold?

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