Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/53



N times of old, when time was young, And poets their own verses sung, A verse would draw a stone or beam, That now would overload a team; Lead them a dance of many a mile, Then rear them to a goodly pile. Each number had its different power: Heroick strains could build a tower; Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, Might raise a house about two stories; A lyrick ode would slate; a catch Would tile; an epigram would thatch. But, to their own or landlord's cost, Now poets feel this art is lost. Not one of all our tuneful throng Can raise a lodging for a song. For Jove consider'd well the case, Observed they grew a numerous race: And should they build as fast as write, 'Twould ruin undertakers quite, This evil therefore to prevent, He wisely chang'd their element: On earth the god of wealth was made Sole patron of the building trade; Leaving the wits the spacious air, With licence to build castles there: And 'tis conceived, their old pretence To lodge in garrets comes from thence. Premising