achievements, arms, device, Erect a new one in a trice; And poets, if they had their due, By ancient right are builders too:      This made him to Apollo pray For leave to build—the poets way. His prayer was granted, for the God Consented with the usual nod. After hard throes of many a day Van was delivered of a play, Which in due time brought forth a house, Just as the mountain did the mouse. One story high, one postern door, And one small chamber on a floor, 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, nor juice. So modern rhymers strive to blast The poetry of ages past; Which, having wisely overthrown, They from its ruins build their own. 

      [Footnote 1: This is the earlier version of the Poem discovered by Forster at Narford, the residence of Mr. Fountaine. See Forster's "Life of Swift," p. 163.—W. E. B.] 

  

  

       VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,[1]     

       BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703     

      In times of old, when Time was young, And poets their own verses sung, A verse would draw a stone or beam, That now would overload a team; Lead 'em a dance of many a mile, Then rear 'em to a goodly pile. Each number had its diff'rent power; Heroic strains could build a tower; Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, Might raise a house about two stories; A lyric ode would slate; a catch Would tile; an epigram would thatch. But, to their own or landlord's cost, Now Poets feel this art is lost. Not one of all our tuneful throng Can raise a lodging for a song. For Jove consider'd well the case, Observed they grew a numerous race; And should they build as fast as write,      'Twould ruin undertakers quite. This evil, therefore, to prevent, He wisely changed their element:      On earth the God of Wealth was made Sole patron of the building trade; Leaving the Wits the spacious air, With license to build castles there:      And 'tis conceived their old pretence To lodge in garrets comes from thence. Premising thus, in 

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