To fwell the Terras, or to fink the Grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot.
But treat the Goddess like a modeft fair,
Nor over-drefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.
Confult the Genius of the Place in all; That tells the Waters or to rife or fall; Or helps th'ambitious Hill the heav'ns to fcale, Or fcoops in circling theatres the Vale; Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades, Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from fhades ; Now breaks, or now directs, th'intending Lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, defigns. IBID. P. 162.
MAGNIFICENCE,
AT Timon's Villa let us pass a day,
Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown away!"
So proud, fo grand; of that flupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatness, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compafs this, his Building is a Town,
His Pond an Ocean, his Parterre a Down :
Who but muft laugh, the Mafter when he fees,
A puny infect, fhiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground.
Two Cupids fquirt before; a Lake behind
Improves the keennefs of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call;
On ev'ry fide you look, behold the wall!
No pleasing intricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at Grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff'ring eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as Trees;
With here a Fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a Summer-house, that knows no fhade:
Here Amphitrite fails through myrtle bow'rs;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs:
Unwater'd fee the drooping Sea-horse mourn ;
And swallows rooft in Nilus' dufty Urn.
My Lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : But foft-by regular approach-not yet
First through the length of yon hot Terrace fweat; And when up ten fteep Slopes you've dragg'd your thighs,
Juft at his Study-door he'll blefs your eyes.
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; These Aldus printed, thofe Du Sueil has bound.
Lo! fome are Vellom; and the reft 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 filver bell you hear, That fummons you to all the Pride of Pray'r. Light quirks of Mufic, broken and uneven, Make the foul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted Cielings you devoutly ftare, Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre; Or gilded clouds in fair expanfion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye. To reft, the Cushion and soft Dean invite, Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
But, hark! the chiming Clocks to Dinner call;
A hundred footsteps fcrape 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; 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb:
A folemn Sacrifice, perform'd in ftate;
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each A&t the trembling falvers ring,
From foup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaifantly help'd to all I hate;
Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curfe fuch lavish coft, and little skill,
And fwear no day was ever paft fo ill.
Yet hence the Poor are cloath'd, the Hungry
Health to himself, and to his Infants bread,
The Lab'rer bears. What his hard Heart denies, His charitable Vanity supplies.
THE MEDA L.
AMBITION figh'd: fhe found it vain to truft
The faithlefs Column and the crumbling Buft:
Huge Moles, whofe fhadow ftretch'd from fhore to
Thore,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, the now contracts her vaft defign,
And all her Triumphs fhrink into a Coin.
A narrow orb each crouded Conqueft keeps;
Beneath her Palm here fad Judea weeps:
Now fcantier limits the proud Arch confine,
And scarce are seen the proftrate Nile or Rhine ;
A fmall Euphrates through the Piece is roll'd,
And little Eagles wave their wings in gold.
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 fharpen'd fight pale Antiquaries pore,
Th'infcription value, but the ruft adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pefcennius one employs his schemes,
One grafps a Cecrops in extatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long with learned fpleen devour'd,
Can taste no pleasure fince his Shield was scour'd ;
And Curio, restless by the Fair-one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his Bride.
EPISTLE TO MR. ADDISON, P. 176.
LITERARY PERSECUTION.
Is there a Parfon much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin Poetefs, or rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a ftanza, when he should engros?
Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the caufe:
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