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" No hurt shall come to you or yours ;
• But for that pack of churlish boors,
• Not fit to live on Christian ground,
• They and their houses shall be drown'd,
• Whilft you shall fee your cottage rise,
• And grow a church before your eyes.'
They scarce had spoke, when (fair and soft).
The roof began to mount aloft :
Aloft rose ev'ry beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd flowly after.
The chimney, widen'd and grew high'r,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there ftood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
It's inclination for below;
In vain, for a fuperior force,
Apply'd at bottom, stops it's course :
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
"Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Loft, by disuse, the art to roaft,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increas’d by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slow'r.
The flier, tho' it had leaden feet,
Turn’d round so quick you scarce could see't ;
But, flacken'd by some fecret pow'r,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's fide :
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adher'd.
And still it's love to houshold caress
By a fhrill voice, at noon declares;
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roaft-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge fnail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in publick view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row,
Hung high, and made a glitt’ring show;
To a less noble fubftance chang'd,
Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France and English Moll ;
Fair Rosamond and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood;
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, fize, and letter;
And, high in order plac'd, describe
The heraldry of ev'ry tribe.
A bedstead of the antique modes
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos'd into pews ;
Which still their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks dispos’d to fleep.
The cottage, by such feats as these
Grown to a church by juft degrees,
The hermits then desir'd their hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Keturn'd them thanks in homely style,
Then faid, My house is grown
fo fine, « Methinks I ftill would call it mine :
I'm old, and fain would live at ease ; • Make me the parson, if you please.'
He spoke; and prefently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels; !!...?
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve :-
His waiftcoat to a caflock grew
And both aflum'd a fable hue ;
But, being old, continu'd just .
As threadbare, and as full of duft.
His talk was now of tythes and dues ; ;
He smok'd his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old fermons next;
Vamp'd in the preface and the text:
At christ’nings well could act his part,
And had the fervice all by heart.
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whofe sow had farrow'd last.
Against Dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine.
Found his head fill'd with many a system;
But claffick authors-he ne'er miss’d 'em.
Thus having furbilla'd up a parfon,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on."
Inftead of home-spun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edg'd with Colberteen;
Her petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black fattin flounc'd with lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down ;
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprize,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to see her look fo prim,
And she admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life,
Were fev'ral years this man and wife :
When, on a day, which prov'd their lak,
Discourfing o'er old Atories paft,
They went by chance, amidst their talk,
To the church-yard, to take a walk,
When Baucis haftily cry'd out,
My dear, I see your forehead sprout!
Sprout!' quoth the man ; what's this you tell us.
I hope you don't believe me jealous !
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
< And, really, yours is budding too!
Nay-now I cannot ftir my foot ;
• It feels as if 'twere taking root!'
Description would but tire my Muse:
In short, they both were turn'd to yewş.
Old Goodman Dobson of the Green,
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to fliew the fight.
On Sundays, after ev'ning pray'r,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew=
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew;
Till once a parson of our town,
< To mend-his barn, cut Baucis down,
· At which tis hard to be believid
• How much the other tree was grievid,
• Grew fcrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted,
So the next parfon lubb’d and burnt it.'
BY THE Rev. MR. POMERET.
F Heav's the grateful liberty would give,
That I might chuse my method how to live, And all those hours propitious Fate should lend, In blissful cale and fatisfaction spend
Near some fair town I'd have a private feat, patay
Built uniform; not litele, nor too great:
Better if on a rising ground it stood;
On this side fields, on that a neighb’ring wood.
It Mould within no other things contain
But what are useful, neceffary, plain:
Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateíul to the eye,
And a cool rivulet run murm’ring by,
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes or fycamores should grow; A.
At th’end of which a silent ftudy plac'd,
Should be with all the noblest authors gracid:
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines
Immortal wit and solid learning Shines;
Sharp Juvenal, and am'rous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's foft paffion kuew ;'.
He that with judgment reads his charming lines,
In which strong art with itronger nature joins,
Muft grant his fancy does the best excel,
His thoughts so tender, and express'd fo well;
With all those moderns, men of steady senfe,
Esteem'd for learning and for eloquence.
In some of these, as Fancy fhould advisc,
I'd always take my morning exercise ;
For sure no minutes bring us more content,
Than those in pleasing useful ftudies spent!
I'd have a clear and competent estatė,
That I might live genteelly, but not great ;
As much as I could moderately spend
A little more, fometimes t'oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of Poverty repine.
Too much at Fortune, they should taste of mine;
And all that objects of true pity were,
Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare:
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