So when Amphion[1] bade the lyre
To more majestic sound aspire,
  Behold the madding throng,
In wonder and oblivion drown’d,
To sculpture turn’d by magic sound
  And petrifying song.

[Footnote 1:  King of Thebes, and husband of Niobe; famous for his magical power with the lyre by which the stones were collected for the building of the city.—­Hor., “De Arte Poetica,” 394.—­W.  E. B.]

A YOUNG LADY’S COMPLAINT[1] FOR THE STAY OF THE DEAN IN ENGLAND

Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales;
Gently fill the swelling sails. 
Neptune, with thy trident long,
Trident three-fork’d, trident strong: 
And ye Nereids fair and gay,
Fairer than the rose in May,
Nereids living in deep caves,
Gently wash’d with gentle waves;
Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep
Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep;
All around, in pompous state,
On this richer Argo wait: 
Argo, bring my golden fleece,
Argo, bring him to his Greece. 
Will Cadenus longer stay? 
Come, Cadenus, come away;
Come with all the haste of love,
Come unto thy turtle-dove. 
The ripen’d cherry on the tree
Hangs, and only hangs for thee,
Luscious peaches, mellow pears,
Ceres, with her yellow ears,
And the grape, both red and white,
Grape inspiring just delight;
All are ripe, and courting sue,
To be pluck’d and press’d by you. 
Pinks have lost their blooming red,
Mourning hang their drooping head,
Every flower languid seems,
Wants the colour of thy beams,
Beams of wondrous force and power,
Beams reviving every flower. 
Come, Cadenus, bless once more,
Bless again thy native shore,
Bless again this drooping isle,
Make its weeping beauties smile,
Beauties that thine absence mourn,
Beauties wishing thy return: 
Come, Cadenus, come with haste,
Come before the winter’s blast;
Swifter than the lightning fly,
Or I, like Vanessa, die.

[Footnote 1:  These verses, like the “Love Song in the Modern Taste” and the preceding one, seem designed to ridicule the commonplaces of poetry.—­W.  E. B.]

ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1]

Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, “Dans l’adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, qui ne nous deplait pas.”

This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those suppressed by the author in his later editions.  In the edition published by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement.  See it commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, 1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by Swift.—­W.  E. B.