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Ye gales, that gently breathe upon our shore,
O! let the Polypus be wafted o’er;
How will the hollow dome of Dulness ring,
With what loud joy receive the wond'rous thing? 100
Applause will rend the skies, and all around
The quivering quagmires bellow back the sound;
How will Microphile her joy attest,
And glow with warmer raptures than the rest?
This will the curious crocodile excell,
The weaving worm, and silver-shining shell ;
No object e’er will wake her wonder thus
As Polypus, her darling Polypus.
Lo! by the wounds of her creating knife,
New Polypusses wriggle into life,
Fast as they rise, she feeds with ample store
Of once rare flies, but now esteem'd no more.
The fourth dire shape from mother Matter came,
Dulness her fire, and Atheism is her name;
In her no glimpse of sacred Sense
Depriv'd of eyes, and destitute of ears :
And yet she brandishes a thousand tongues,
And blasts the world with air-infecting lungs.
Curs’d by her fire, her very words are wounds,
No grove re-ecchoes the detested sounds.
Mendacem natura redarguit ipfa, Deumque
Et cælum, & terræ, veraciaque Aftra fatentur.
Se fimul agglomerans surgit chorus omnis aquarum,
Et puro sublimè fonat grave fulmen olympo.
Fonte ortus Lethæo, ipfius ad ostia templi, Ire soporifero tendit cum murmure rivus, Huc potum Stolidos Deus evocat agmine magno : Crebri adsunt, largisque sitim restinguere gaudent Haustibus, atque iterant calices, certantque ftupendo. Me, me etiam, clamo, occurrens ;---fed vellicat aurem ‘alliope, nocuasque vetat contingere lymphas.
Whate'er she speaks all nature proves a lye,
The earth, the heav'ns, the starry-spangled sky
Proclaim the wise, eternal Deity :
The congregated waves in mountains driven
Roar in grand chorus to the Lord of Heaven;
Thro' skies serene the glorious thunders roll,
Loudly pronounce the God, and shake the sounding Pole.
A river, murmuring from Lethæan source,
Full to the fane directs its sleepy course;
The Pow'r of Dulness, leaning on the brink,
Here calls the multitude of fools to drink.
Swarming they crowd to stupify the skull,
With frequent cups contending to be dull.
Me, let me taste the sacred stream, I cry’d,
? Without-stretch'darm---the Muse my boon deny’d, And fav’d me from the sense-intoxicating tide.