Worthy thee! When they said Propp'd the skies: See, and believe your eyes! See him stride Valleys wide, Over woods, 10 15 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, Beneath his foot be lost! From his hide, Safe from wound, Clouds he blows: THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG. A PASTORAL. Soon as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care, Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall : 6 10 In peals of thunder now she roars, and now In vain she search'd each cranny of the house; Each gaping chink, impervious to a mouse. Was it for this,' she cried, 16 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. 6 26 30 35 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, 40 45 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, 51 Thy bark a bean-shell, and a straw thy oar? No more behold thee turn my watch's key, 60 65 How wert thou wont to walk with cautious tread, A dish of tea, like milkpail, on thy head! 70 She spoke; but broken accents stopp'd her Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise : O, squander not thy grief: those tears command 76 |