"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 Molière.—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 Molière was "The Mistake," adapted from "Le Dépit Amoureux"; while his two best plays, "The Relapse" and "The Provoked Wife," were original.—W. E. B.] 

  

  

       BAUCIS AND PHILEMON[1]     

       ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1706. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID     

      In ancient time, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happen'd on a winter's night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Came to a village hard by 

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