And fhou'd they build as fast as write, 'Twould ruin undertakers quite. This evil therefore to prevent, He wifely chang'd their element: On earth the God of wealth was made Sole patron of the building trade ; Leaving the wits the spacious air, With licence to build caftles there: And 'tis conceiv'd, their old pretence To lodge in garrets comes from thence. Premifing thus, in modern way, The better half we have to fay, Sing, mufe, the house of poet Van In higher strains than we began.
Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it,) Is both a herald and a poet; No wonder then if nicely skill'd In both capacities to build. As herald, he can in a day Repair a house * gone to decay; Or by atchievement, arms, device, Erect a new one in a trice: And as a poet, he has skill
To build in fpeculation still. Great Jove! he cry'd, the art restore To build by verfe as heretofore,
And make my muse the architect; What palaces fhall we erect! No longer fhall forfaken Thames Lament his old Whitehall in flames; A pile fhall from its afhes rife, Fit to invade or prop the fkies. Jove fmil'd, and like a gentle God, Confenting with the ufual nod, Told Van, he knew his talent best, And left the choice to his own breaft. So Van refolv'd to write a farce; But, well perceiving wit was fcarce, With cunning that defect fupplies; Takes a French play as lawful prize; Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke, Not once fufpecting Jove wou'd fmoke ; And (like a wag) fat down to write, Wou'd whifper to himself, a bite. Then from the motly, mingled style Proceeded to erect his pile.
So men of old, to gain renown, did Build Babel with their tongues confounded. Jove faw the cheat, but thought it best To turn the matter to a jeft: Down from Olympus' top he flides, Laughing as if he'd burft his fides: Ay, thought the God, are these your tricks? Why then old plays deferve old bricks;
And, fince you're fparing of your stuff, Your building fhall be small enough. He fpake, and grudging lent his aid, Th' experienc'd bricks that knew their trade,
(As being bricks at fecond hand,) Now move, and now in order ftand. The building, as the poet writ, Rose in proportion to his wit: And firft the prologue built a wall So wide as to encompass all. The scene a wood, produc'd no more Than a few fcrubby trees before. The plot as yet lay deep; and fo A cellar next was dug below: But this a work fo hard was found, Two acts it coft him under ground. Two other acts we may prefume Were spent in building each a room; Thus far advanc'd, he made a fhift To raise a roof with act the fifth. The epilogue behind did frame A place not decent here to name.
Now poets from all quarters ran To fee the house of brother Van, Look'd high and low, walk'd often round; But no fuch houfe was to be found:
One asks the watermen hard by, Where may the poet's palace lie? Another of the Thames enquires, If he has feen its gilded fpires? At length they in the rubbish spy A thing resembling a goose-pye. Thither in hafte the poets throng, And in filent wonder long, 'Till one in raptures thus began To praise the pile and builder Van. Thrice happy poet! who may'ft trail Thy house about thee like a fnail; Or, harness'd to a nag, at ease Take journies in it like a chaise; Or in a boat, whene'er thou wilt, Can't make it ferve thee for a tilt. Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all, Thou'rt well contriv'd, though thou art fmall:
For ev'ry wit in Britain's ifle May lodge within thy fpacious pile. Like Bacchus thou, as poets feign, Thy mother burnt, art born again, Born like a Phoenix from the flame; But neither bulk nor fhape the fame : As animals of largest fize Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies;
A type of modern wit and style, The rubbish of an ancient pile : So chymifts boast they have a pow'r From the dead afhes of a flow'r Some faint resemblance to produce, But not the virtue, tafte, or juice: So modern rhymers wisely blast The poetry of ages paft;
Which after they have overthrown, They from its ruins build their own.
THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH's HOUSE.
HEN mother Clud had rofe from play,
And call'd to take the cards away, Van faw, but feem'd not to regard, How miss pick'd ev'ry painted card, And, bufy both with hand and eye, Soon rear'd a house two stories high. Van's genius, without thought or lecture, Is hugely turn'd to architecture : He view'd the edifice, and fmil'd, Vow'd it was pretty for a child : It was fo perfect in its kind, He kept the model in his mind.
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