Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/458

452 Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse, The baby playthings that adorn thy house, Doors, windows, chimnies, and the spacious rooms, Equal in size to cells of honeycombs: Hast thou for these now ventur'd from the shore, Thy bark a bean-shell, and a straw thine oar? Or in thy box now bounding on the main, Shall I ne'er bear thyself and house again? And shall I set thee on my hand no more, To see thee leap the lines, and traverse o'er My spacious palm? of stature scarce a span, Mimick the actions of a real man? No more behold thee turn my watches key, As seamen at a capstan anchors weigh? How wer't thou wont to walk with cautious tread, A dish of tea, like milkpail, on thy head! How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away, And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!" She said; but broken accents stopt her voice, Soft as the speaking trumpet's mellow noise: She sobb'd a storm, and wip'd her flowing eyes, Which seem'd like two broad suns in misty skies. O squander not thy grief! those tears command To weep upon our cod in Newfoundland: The plenteous pickle shall preserve the fish, And Europe taste thy sorrows in a dish. MARY