The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the power of Fairy hands

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,
Each pannel in achievements clothing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages, that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,

When he had fifty winters o'er him,

My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls; [36]
The seals and maces danc'd before him.

His bushy-beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat, and satin doublet,
Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen,
Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning!
Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your hist❜ry whither are you spinning!
Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues

[36] Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing.— Brawls were a sort of figure-dance, then in vogue.

A brace of warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues. [37]

The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind heav'n

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire :
But Cobham had the polish giv'n,
And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air

Coarse panegyrics would but teaze her, Melissa is her Nom de Guerre.

Alas, who would not wish to please her!

With bonnet blue and capuchine,

And aprons long, they hid their armour; And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer.

[37] The reader is already apprized who these Ladies were; the two descriptions are prettily contrasted; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to Lady Cobham in the eighth stanz.

Fame, in the shape of Mr. P-t, [38]
(By this time all the parish know it)
Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd
A wicked Imp they call a Poet:

Who prowl'd the country far and near,
Bewitch'd the children of the peasants,
Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer,
And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants..
My Lady heard their joint petition,
Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She'd issue out her high commission
To rid the manor of such vermin.

The Heroines undertook the task,

Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask,

But bounce into the parlour enter'd.

[38] It has been said, that this Gentleman, a neighbour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in the country, was much displeased at the liberty here taken with his name; yet, surely, without any great reason.— Since the first Edition of this Volume was published, I have learned, that the allusion here is, to a Mr. Robert Purt, a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge; who died of the small-pox, April 1752, soon after the publication of the Poem.

The trembling family they daunt,

They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt,

And up

stairs in a whirlwind rattle.

Each hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber,
Run hurry-skurry round the floor,
And o'er the bed and tester clamber;

Into the drawers and china pry,
Papers and books, a huge imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,

Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio.

On the first marching of the troops,
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Convey'd him underneath their hoops
To a small closet in the garden.

So Rumour says: (Who will believe,)
But that they left the door a-jar,
Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve,
He heard the distant din of war.

Short was his joy. He little knew
The power of Magic was no fable;
Out of the window, whisk, they flew,

But left a spell upon the table.

The words too eager to unriddle,

The Poet felt a strange disorder; Transparent bird-lime form'd the middle, And chains invisible the border.

So cunning was the Apparatus,

The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, That, will he, nill he, to the Great House He went, as if the Devil drove him.

Yet on his way (no sign of grace,

For folks in fear are apt to pray) To Phœbus he preferr'd his case,

And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.

The Godhead wou'd have back'd his quarrel; But with a blush on recollection,

Own'd, that his quiver and his laurel 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

The Court was sate, the Culprit there,

Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping

The Lady Janes and Joans repair,

And from the gallery stand peeping:

Such as in silence of the night

Come (sweep) along some winding entry,