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,

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Over floods!

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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 a host

Beneath his foot be lost!
Turn'd aside

From his hide,

Safe from wound,
Darts rebound:
From his nose

Clouds he blows:

156

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 :

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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 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.

In vain she search'd each cranny of the house; Each gaping chink, impervious to a mouse.

Was it for this,' she cried,

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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; 20 Where twined the silver eel around thy hook,

And all the little monsters of the brook?

Sure in that lake he dropp'd: 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!

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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 king-cup if thy limbs are spread, Or in the golden cowslip's velvet head,

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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,

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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?

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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!'

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She spoke; but broken accents stopp'd her
voice,

Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise :
She sobb'd a storm, and wiped her flowing eyes,
Which seem'd like two broad suns in misty
skies.

O, squander not thy grief: those tears command
To weep upon our cod in Newfoundland :
The plenteous pickle shall preserve the fish,
And Europe taste thy sorrows in a dish.

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