One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze
Up through a tuft you call your trees:
And, once a year, a single rose
Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow, from want of room.
In short, in all your boasted seat,
There's nothing but yourself that's great.

A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE GOODS BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, VICAR OF LARACOR, UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OF MEATH TILL HIS PALACE WAS RE

BUILT.

AN oaken broken elbow-chair;
A caudle-cup without an ear;
A batter'd shatter'd ash bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-sword poker, without point;
A pot that's crack'd across, around
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;

A wig, with hanging quite grown grey;
A curtain, worn to half a stripe;
A pair of bellows, without pipe;

A dish, which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle-bottom, wooden platter,
One is for meal, and one for water;
There likewise is a copper skillet,
Which runs as fast out as you fill it;

A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all:
And thus his household goods you have all,
These to your lordship, as a friend,

Till you have built, I freely lend:
They'll serve your lordship for a shift;
Why not, as well as Doctor Swift?

Swift.

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER.
WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham-
paign,

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor, that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall, with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram'd with listing found a place,
And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black

face:

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney. board;

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-

-a stocking all the day!

Goldsmith.

ADDRESS TO HIS ELBOW-CHAIR, NEW CLOTHED.
My dear companion, and my faithful friend!
If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend;
If stones and rubbish, at Amphion's call,
Danc'd into form and built the Theban wall,
Why shouldst not thou attend my humble lays,
And hear my grateful harp resound thy praise?
True, thou art spruce and fine, a very bean;
But what are trappings and external show?
To real worth alone I make my court;
Knaves are my scorn, and coxcombs are my sport.
Once I beheld thee far less trim and gay,
Ragged, disjointed, and to worms a prey;
The safe retreat of every lurking mouse;
Derided, shunn'd; the lumber of my house.
Thy robe how chang'd from what it was before!
Thy velvet robe, which pleas'd my sires of yore!
'Tis thus capricious fortune wheels us round;
Aloft we mount-then tumble to the ground.
Yet grateful then, my constancy I prov'd;
I knew thy worth; my friends in rags I lov'd:
I lov'd thee more; nor, like a courtier spurn'd
My benefactor when the tide was turn'd.
With conscious shame, yet frankly, I confess,
That in my youthful days-I lov'd thee less.
Where vanity, where pleasure call'd, I stray'd,
And every wayward appetite obey'd;
But sage experience taught me how to prize
Myself, and how this world: she bade me rise
To nobler flights, regardless of a race
of factious emmets; pointed where to place
My bliss, and lodg'd me in thy soft embrace.

Here on thy, yielding down I sit secure,
And, patiently, what Heav'n has sent endure;
From all the futile cares of business free,
Not fond of life, but yet content to be:
Here mark the fleeting hours, regret the past,
And seriously prepare to meet the last.
So safe on shore the pension'd sailor lies,
And all the malice of the storm defies;
With ease of body bless'd, and peace of mind,
Pities the restless crew he left behind;
Whilst in his cell he meditates alone

On his great voyage to the world unknown.

Somerville.

THE PHAETON, AND THE ONE-HORSE CHAIR.

Ar Blagrave's*, once upon a time,

There stood a Phaeton sublime :

Unsullied by the dusty road

Its wheels with recent crimson glow'd;
Its sides display'd a dazzling hue,
Its harness tight, its lining new :
No scheme-enamour'd youth, I ween,
Survey'd the gaily-deck'd machine,
But fondly long'd to seize the reins,
And whirl o'er Campsfield's + tempting plains.
Meantime it chanc'd, that hard at hand

A One-Horse Chair had took its stand:
When thus our vehicle begun

To sneer the luckless Chaise and One,

* Blagrave, well known at Oxford for letting out carriages.

t In the road to Blenheim.

'How could my master place me here Within thy vulgar atmosphere?....

From classic ground pray shift thy station, Ju
Thou scorn of Oxford education!-
Your homely make, believe me, man,
Is quite upon the gothic plan;

And you, and all your clumsy kind,
For lowest purposes design'd:
Fit only, with a one-ey'd mare,
To drag, for benefit of air,

The country parson's pregnant wife,
Thou friend of dull domestic life!
Or, with his maid and aunt, to school
To carry Dicky on a stool:
Or, haply, to some christening gay
A brace of godmothers convey.→
Or, when bless'd Saturday prepares
For London tradesmen rest from cares,
'Tis thine to make them happy one day,
Companion of their genial Sunday!
'Tis thine, o'er turnpikes newly made,
When timely show'rs the dust have laid,
To bear some alderman serene

To fragrant Hampstead's silvan scene.
Nor higher scarce thy merit rises
Among the polish'd sons of Isis.
Hir'd for a solitary crown,
Canst thou to schemes invite the gown?
Go, tempt some prig, pretending taste,
With hat new-cock'd, and newly lac'd,
O'er mutton-chops and scanty wine,
At humble Dorchester to dine!
Mean time remember, lifeless drone!
I carry bucks and bloods alone.