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PDFTh’experienced bricks, that knew their trade,
(As being bricks at second hand,)
Now move, and now in order stand.
The building, as the Poet writ,
Rose in proportion to his wit—
And first the prologue built a wall;
So wide as to encompass all.
The scene, a wood, produc’d no more
Than a few scrubby trees before.
The plot as yet lay deep; and so
A cellar next was dug below;
But this a work so hard was found,
Two acts it cost him under ground.
Two other acts, we may presume,
Were spent in building each a room.
Thus far advanc’d, he made a shift
To raise a roof with act the fift.
The epilogue behind did frame
A place, not decent here to name.
Now, Poets from all quarters ran,
To see the house of brother Van;
Looked high and low, walk’d often round;
But no such house was to be found.
One asks the watermen hard by,
“Where may the Poet’s palace lie?”
Another of the Thames inquires,
If he has seen its gilded spires?
At length they in the rubbish spy
A thing resembling a goose-pie.
Thither in haste the Poets throng,
And gaze in silent wonder long,
Till one in raptures thus began
To praise the pile and builder Van:
“Thrice happy Poet! who may’st trail
Thy house about thee like a snail:
Or harness’d to a nag, at ease
Take journeys in it like a chaise;
Or in a boat whene’er thou wilt,
Can’st make it serve thee for a tilt!
Capacious house! ’tis own’d by all
Thou’rt well contrived, tho’ thou art small:
For ev’ry Wit in Britain’s isle
May lodge within thy spacious pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,
Thy mother burnt, art born again,
Born like a phoenix from the flame:
But neither bulk nor shape the same;
As animals of largest size
Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies;
A type of modern wit and style,
The rubbish of an ancient pile;
So chemists boast they have a power,
From the dead ashes of a flower
Some faint resemblance to produce,
But not the virtue, taste, or juice.
So modern rhymers wisely blast
The poetry of ages past;
Which, after they have overthrown,
They from its ruins build their own.”
(As being bricks at second hand,)
Now move, and now in order stand.
The building, as the Poet writ,
Rose in proportion to his wit—
And first the prologue built a wall;
So wide as to encompass all.
The scene, a wood, produc’d no more
Than a few scrubby trees before.
The plot as yet lay deep; and so
A cellar next was dug below;
But this a work so hard was found,
Two acts it cost him under ground.
Two other acts, we may presume,
Were spent in building each a room.
Thus far advanc’d, he made a shift
To raise a roof with act the fift.
The epilogue behind did frame
A place, not decent here to name.
Now, Poets from all quarters ran,
To see the house of brother Van;
Looked high and low, walk’d often round;
But no such house was to be found.
One asks the watermen hard by,
“Where may the Poet’s palace lie?”
Another of the Thames inquires,
If he has seen its gilded spires?
At length they in the rubbish spy
A thing resembling a goose-pie.
Thither in haste the Poets throng,
And gaze in silent wonder long,
Till one in raptures thus began
To praise the pile and builder Van:
“Thrice happy Poet! who may’st trail
Thy house about thee like a snail:
Or harness’d to a nag, at ease
Take journeys in it like a chaise;
Or in a boat whene’er thou wilt,
Can’st make it serve thee for a tilt!
Capacious house! ’tis own’d by all
Thou’rt well contrived, tho’ thou art small:
For ev’ry Wit in Britain’s isle
May lodge within thy spacious pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,
Thy mother burnt, art born again,
Born like a phoenix from the flame:
But neither bulk nor shape the same;
As animals of largest size
Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies;
A type of modern wit and style,
The rubbish of an ancient pile;
So chemists boast they have a power,
From the dead ashes of a flower
Some faint resemblance to produce,
But not the virtue, taste, or juice.
So modern rhymers wisely blast
The poetry of ages past;
Which, after they have overthrown,
They from its ruins build their own.”
[Footnote 1: Here follows the later version of the poem, as printed in all editions of Swift’s works.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Sir John Vanbrugh at that time held the office of Clarencieux king of arms.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: Several of Vanbrugh’s plays are taken from Moliere.—Scott. This is a very loose statement. That Vanbrugh was indebted for some of his plays to French sources is true; but the only one taken from Moliere was “The Mistake,” adapted from “Le Depit Amoureux”; while his two best plays, “The Relapse” and “The Provoked Wife,” were original.—W. E. B.]
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1]
