The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake:
Or cut wide views thro' mountains to the plain,
You'll wish your hill, or shelter'd seat again.
Behold Villario's ten-years toil compleat,
His arbours darken, his espaliers meet,
The wood supports the plain, the parts unite,
And strength of shade contends with strength of light :
Thro' his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus stray'd,
Or sate delighted in the thick'ning shade,
With annual joy the red'ning shoots to greet,
Or see the stretching branches long to meet.
His son's fine taste an op'ner vista loves,
Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves,
One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of yews.
The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
Now sweep those allies they were born to shade.
At Timon's villa let us pass a day,
Where all cry out, "what sums are thrown away!'
So proud, so grand, of that stupendous air,
Soft and agreeable come never there.
Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught
But soft-by regular approach-not yet
First thro' the length of yon hot terrace sweat,
And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your thighs,
Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.
His study with what authors is it stor'd?
In books, not authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round,
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound.
Lo some are vellum, and the rest as good,
For all his Lordship knows, but they are wood.
For Lock or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.
And now the chappel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of pray'r :
Light quirks of musick, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven.
On painted cielings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the saints of Verrio, or Laguerre,
On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To rest, the cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall :
The rich buffet well-coloured serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb,
A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear,
Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there.
Between each act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweetwine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate ;
Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle?
'Tis use alone that sanctifies expence,
And splendor borrows all her rays from sense.
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his neighbours glad, if he encrease;
Whose chearful tenants bless their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the soil;
Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
But future buildings, future navies grow;
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a country, and then raise a town.
You to proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair,
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before :
Till kings call forth th' idea's of your mind,
Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd,
Bid harbors open, publick ways extend,
Bid temples, worthier of the god, ascend,
Bid the broad arch the dang'rous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient rivers thro' the land:
These honours, peace to happy Britain brings,
These are imperial works, and worthy kings.
CHARACTER OF MARLBOROUGH.
Is hearts of Kings or arms of Queens who lay
(How happy!), those to ruin, these betray,
Mark by what wretched steps great
From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose ;
One equal course how Guilt and Greatness ran,
And all that raised the Hero sunk the Man.
Now Europe's Laurels on his brows behold,
But stained with blood, or ill-exchanged for gold:
What wonder triumphs never turned his brain,
Filled with mean fear to lose, mean joy to gain.
Hence see him modest, free from pride or show;
Some Vices were too high, but none too low.
Go then, indulge thy age in Wealth and Ease,
Stretched on the spoils of plundered palaces :
Alas! what wealth, which no one act of fame
E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame!
Alas! what ease, those furies of thy life,
Ambition, Av'rice, and the imperious Wife,
The trophied Arches, storied Halls invade,
And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade.
No joy, no pleasure from successes past,
Timid, and therefore treacherous, to the last.
Hear him, in accents of a pining ghost,
Sigh, with his captive, for his offspring lost."
Behold him loaded with unreverenced years,
Bathed in unmeaning, unrepentant tears,
Dead, by regardless Vet'rans borne on high,
Dry pomps, and obsequies without a sigh.
Who now his fame or fortune shall prolong?
In vain his consort bribes for venal song.3
1 He forgot to correct "their" to "his" in this line.
2 Marshal Tallard, who was himself taken prisoner, and whose son was killed at the battle of Blenheim. Addison alludes to the death of the latter in The Campaign :
"Unfortunate Tallard! oh, who can name
The pangs of rage, of sorrow, and of shame,
That with mixed tumult in thy bosom swelled,
When first thou saw'st thy bravest troops repelled,
Thine only son pierced with a deadly wound,
Choked in his blood, and gasping on the ground?
Thyself in bondage by the victor kept,
The chief, the father and the captive wept."
Marlborough's only son, the Marquis of Blandford, died on the 20th of February, 1708.
3 See Introductory Notes to Second Moral Essay, p. 87.
No son, nor grandson, shall the line sustain,
The husband toils, the Adulterer sweats in vain :
In vain a nation's zeal, a senate's cares.
"Madness and Lust "1 (said God) "be you his heirs ;
O'er his vast heaps, in drunkenness of pride,
Go wallow, Harpies, and your prey divide !"
Alas! not dazzled with his noontide ray,
Compute the morn and evening of his day:
The whole amount of that enormous Fame
A Tale! that blends the Glory with the Shame !
1 Alluding to the character of Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, satirised in the Second Moral Essay as Philomede.
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