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All that you make this stir about
Is but a still which wants a fpout.
The reverend Dr. * Raymond guess'd'
More probably than all the reft;
He faid, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.
The doctor's family came by,
And little mifs began to cry;
Give me that houfe in my own hand!
Then madam bade the chariot stand,
Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild,
Pray, reach that thing here to the child:
That thing, I mean, among the kale ;
And here's to buy a pot of ale.
The clerk faid to her, in a heat,
What! fell my mafter's country feat,
Where he comes every week from town!
He would not fell it for a crown.
Poh! fellow, keep not fuch a pother;
In half an hour thou 'lt make another.
Says Nancy, I can make for mife
A finer house ten times than this;
The dean will give me willow-sticks,
And Joe my apron-full of bricks.
*Minifter of Trim.
SID HAMET THE MAGICIAN'S ROD.
HE rod was but a harmlefs wand,
While Mofes held it in his hand;
But, foon as e'er he laid it down,
"Twas a devouring ferpent grown.
Our great magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the prophet did :
His rod was honest English wood,
That fenfelefs in a corner flood,
Till, metamorphos'd by his grafp,
It grew an all-devouring afp;
Would hiss, and fting, and roll, and twist,
By the mere virtue of his fift;
But, when he laid it down, as quick
Refum'd the figure of a stick.
So to her midnight-feafts the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
That, rais'd by magick of her breech,
O'er fea and land conveys the witch;
But with the morning-dawn refumes
The peaceful state of common brooms.
They tell us fomething ftrange and odd
About a certain magic rod **,
The virgula divina, faid to be attracted by minerals.
That, bending down its top, divines
Whene'er the foil has golden mines;
Where there are none, it ftands erect,
Scorning to fhew the least respect;
As ready was the wand of Sid
To bend where golden mines were hid ;
In Scottish hills found precious ore *,
Where none e'er look'd for it before;
And by a gentle bow divin'd
How well a cully's purfe was lin'd;
To a forlorn and broken rake
Stood without motion, like a
The rod of Hermes was renown'd
For charms above and under ground;
To fleep could mortal eye-lids fix,
And drive departed fouls to Styx.
That rod was just a type of Sid's,
Which o'er a British fenate's lids
Could fcatter opium full as well,
And drive as many fouls to bell.
Sid's rod was flender, white, and tall,
Which oft he us'd to fifb withal;
A plaice was faften'd to the hook,
And many score of gudgeons took :
Yet ftill fo happy was his fate,
He caught his fish, and fav'd his bait.
Sid's brethren of the conjuring tribe
A circle with their rod defcribe,
* Supposed to allude to the Union.
Which proves a magical redoubt
To keep mischievous fpirits out.
Sid's rod was of a larger ftride,
And made a circle thrice as wide,
Where fpirits throng'd with hideous din,
And he ftood there to take them in:
But, when th' inchanted rod was broke,
They vanifh'd in a stinking smoke.
Achilles' fceptre was of wood,
Like Sid's, but nothing near fo good;
That down from ancestors divine
Tranfmitted to the hero's line;
Thence, through a long defcent of kings,
Came an HEIR-LOOM, as Homer fings.
Though this description looks fo big,
That fceptre was a fapless twig,
Which, from the fatal day, when first
It left the foreft where 'twas nurs'd,
As Homer tells us o'er and o'er,
Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor bloffom, bore.
Sid's fceptre, full of juice, did shoot
In golden boughs, and golden fruit;
And he, the dragon never fleeping,
Guarded each fair Hefperian pippin.
No hobby-borse, with gorgeous top,
The dearest in Charles Mather's shop,
Or glittering tinfel of May-fair,
Could with this rod of Sid compare.
* An eminent toyman in Fleet-street.
Dear Sid, then, why wert thou so mad
To break thy rod like naughty lad!
You should have kifs'd it in your distress,
And then return'd it to your mistress;
Or made it a Newmarket * fwitch,
And not a rod for thy own breech.
But fince old Sid has broken this,
His next may be a rod in piss.
ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE.
LORD TREASURER OXFORD. 1710.
ATLAS, we read in ancient fong,
Was fo exceeding tall and strong,
He bore the skies upon his back,
Juft as a pedlar does his pack
But, as a pedlar overprefs'd
Unloads upon a ftall to reft,
Or, when he can no longer ftand,
Defires a friend to lend a hand;
So Atlas, left the ponderous fpheres
Should fink, and fall about his ears,
Got Hercules to bear the pile,
That he might fit and rest a while.
Lord Godolphin is fatirized by Mr. Pope for a ftrong attachment to the turf. See his Moral Ellays.