All hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade, Scene of my youthful loves, and happier hours! Where the kind Muses met me as I stray'd, And gently press'd my hand, and said, 'Be ours!-- Take all thou e'er shalt have, a constant Muse: At Court thou mayst be liked, but nothing gain; Stocks thou mayst buy and sell, but always lose; And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain.' TO ERINNA. Though sprightly Sappho force our love and praise, A softer wonder my pleased soul surveys, The mild Erinna, blushing in her bays. So, while the sun's broad beam yet strikes the sight, All mild appears the moon's more sober light; Serene, in virgin majesty she shines, And, unobserved, the glaring sun declines. A DIALOGUE. POPE. Since my old friend is grown so great, As to be Minister of State, I'm told, but 'tis not true, I hope, That Craggs will be ashamed of Pope. CRAGGS. Alas! if I am such a creature, To grow the worse for growing greater; Why, faith, in spite of all my brags, 'Tis Pope must be ashamed of Craggs. ODE TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN, THE MAN MOUNTAIN,[87] BY TITTY TIT, POET-LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY OF LILLIPUT. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH. In amaze Lost I gaze! Can our eyes Reach thy size! May my lays Swell with praise, Worthy thee! Worthy me! Muse, inspire All thy fire! 10 Bards of old Of him told. When they said Atlas' head Propp'd the skies: See! and believe your eyes! See him stride Valleys wide, Over woods, Over floods! 20 When he treads, Mountains' heads Groan and shake: Armies quake: Lest his spurn Overturn Man and steed, Troops, take heed! Left and right, Speed your flight! 30 Lest an host Beneath his foot be lost! Turn'd aside From his hide Safe from wound, Darts rebound. From his nose Clouds he blows: When he speaks, Thunder breaks! 40 When he eats, Famine threats! When he drinks, Neptune shrinks! Nigh thy ear In mid air, On thy hand Let me stand; So shall I, Lofty poet! touch the sky. 50 THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG. A PASTORAL. Soon as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care, She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair: No British miss sincerer grief has known, Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown. She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd in her thread, And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed; Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall. In peals of thunder now she roars, and now She gently whimpers like a lowing cow: 10 Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears: Her locks dishevell'd, and her flood of tears, Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain, When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.