Thou hast alone the skill to feast
With Roman elegance of taste,
Who hast of rhymes as vast resources
As Pompey's caterer of courses.
O thou, of all the Nine inspired!
My languid soul, with teaching tired,
How is it raptured, when it thinks
Of thy harmonious set of chinks;
Each answering each in various rhymes,
Like echo to St. Patrick's chimes!
Thy Muse, majestic in her rage,
Moves like Statira[5] on the stage;
And scarcely can one page sustain
The length of such a flowing train:
Her train of variegated dye
Shows like Thaumantia's[6] in the sky;
Alike they glow, alike they please,
Alike imprest by Phoebus' rays.
Thy verse--(Ye Gods! I cannot bear it)
To what, to what shall I compare it?
'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on,
The famous statue of Laocoon.
'Tis like,--O yes, 'tis very like it,
The long, long string, with which you fly kite.
'Tis like what you, and one or two more,
Roar to your Echo[7] in good humour;
And every couplet thou hast writ
Concludes with Rhattah-whittah-whit.[8]
[Footnote 1: These were written all in circles, one within another, as
appears from the observations in the following poem by Dr. Swift.--_F._]
[Footnote 2: The hundred-armed giant, "centumgeminus Briareus," Virg.
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