POEMS

ON READING THE TRAVELS OF CAPTAIN LEMUEL

GULLIVER.

[On the publication of Gulliver's Travels, Pope wrote several pieces of humour, intended to accompany the work, which he sent to Swift; and in a letter some time afterwards, dated 8th March, 1726-7, he says: “You received, I hope, some commendatory verses from a Horse and a Lilliputian to Gulliver, and an heroic Epistle of Mrs. Gulliver. The bookseller would fain have printed them before the second edition of the book ; but I would not permit it without your approbation ; nor do I much like them."—It is probable, however, that Swift sent them to the press, as they were printed in the same year (1727,) at Dublin, by and for John Hyde, bookseller in Dame-street, in a small duodecimo of sixteen pages, under the title of Poems occasioned by reading the Travels of Captain Lemuel Gulliver, explanatory and commendatory; from which edition they are here given.]

TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN,

THE MAN-MOUNTAIN.

AN ODE 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 !
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 !
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!

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 !
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.

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 :
Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears :
Her locks dishevellid and her flood of tears,

Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain, When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.

In vain she search'd each cranny of the house, Each gaping chink, impervious to a mouse. “ Was it for this (she cried) with daily care Within thy reach I set the vinegar, And fill'd the cruet with the acid tide, While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied; Where twined the silver eel around thy hook, And all the little monsters of the brook! Sure in that lake he droppd; my Grilly's drown'd!” She dragg’d the cruet, but no Grildrig found.

“ Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast! But little creatures enterprise the most. Trembling I've seen thee dare the kitten's paw, Nay, mix with children, as they play'd at taw, Nor fear the marbles as they bounding flew; Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you!

Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth? Who from a page can ever learn the truth? Versed in court-tricks, that money-loving boy To some lord's daughter sold the living toy; Or rent him limb from limb in cruel play, As children tear the wings of flies away. From place to place o'er Brobdingnag I'll roam, And never will return, or bring thee home. But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind ? How then thy fairy footsteps can I find ? Dost thou bewilder'd wander all alone In the green thicket of a mossy stone;

Or, tumbled from the toadstool's slippery round,
Perhaps, all maim'd, lie groveling on the ground ?
Dost thou, embosom'd in the lovely rose,
Or, sunk, within the peach's down, repose ?
Within the kingcup if thy limbs are spread,
Or in the golden cowslip's velvet head,
O show me, Flora, 'midst those sweets, the flower
Where sleeps my Grildrig in the fragrant bower!

“ But ah! I fear thy little fancy roves
On little females, and on little loves ;
Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse,
The baby playthings that adorn thy house,
Doors, windows, chimneys, and the spacious rooms,
Equal in size to cells of honeycombs :
Hast thou for these now ventured from the shore,
Thy bark a bean-shell, and a straw thy oar ?
Or in thy box now bounding on the main,
Shall I ne'er bear thyself and house again?
And shall I set thee on my hand no more,
To see thee leap the lines, and traverse o'er
My spacious palm; of stature scarce a span,
Mimic the actions of a real man ?
No more behold thee turn my watch's key;
As seamen at a capstan anchors weigh?
How wert thou wont to walk with cautious tread,
A dish of tea, like milkpail, on thy head !
How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away,
And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!"
She spoke; but broken accents stopp'd her

voice,
Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise: