VARIATIONS.
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ER. 1. The mighty mother, &c. In the first edition it was thus-- Books and the man I sing, the first who bringsThe Smithfield muses to the ear of kings.Say, great patricians! since yourselves inspireThese wondrous works (so Jove and Fate require)Say, for what cause, in vain decried and cursed,Still--- After VER. 22, in the MS.-- Or in the graver gown instruct mankind,Or silent let thy morals tell thy mind. But this was to be understood, as the poet says, _ironicè_, like the 23dverse. VER. 29. Close to those walls, &c. In the former edition thus-- Where wave the tatter'd ensigns of Rag-fair,[245]A yawning ruin hangs and nods in air;[246]Keen hollow winds howl through the bleak recess,Emblem of music caused by emptiness;Here in one bed two shivering sisters lie,The cave of Poverty and Poetry. VER. 41 in the former lines-- Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lay,Hence the soft sing-song on Cecilia's day. VER. 42 alludes to the annual songs composed to music on St Cecilia'sFeast. VER. 85 in the former editions-- 'Twas on the day--when Thorald,[290] rich and grave. VER. 108. But chief in Bayes's, &e. In the former edition thus-- But chief, in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast;Sees gods with demons in strange league engage,And earth, and heaven, and hell her battles wage.She eyed the bard, where supperless he sate,And pined, unconscious of his rising fate;Studious he sate, with all his books around,Sinking from thought to thought, &c-- VER. 121. Round him much embryo, &c. In the former editions thus-- He roll'd his eyes, that witness'd huge dismay,Where yet unpawn'd much learned lumber lay;Volumes whose size the space exactly fill'd,Or which fond authors were so good to gild,Or where, by sculpture made for ever known,The page admires new beauties not its own.Here swells the shelf, &c.-- VER. 146. In the first edition it was-- Well-purged, and worthy W--y, W--s, and Bl---. VER. 162. A twisted, &c. In the former edition-- And last, a little Ajax[291] tips the spire. VER. 177. Or, if to wit, &c. In the former edition-- Ah! still o'er Britain stretch that peaceful wand,Which lulls th' Helvetian and Batavian land;Where rebel to thy throne if science rise,She does but show her coward face, and dies:There thy good scholiasts with unwearied painsMake Horace flat, and humble Maro's strains:Here studious I unlucky moderns save,Nor sleeps one error in its father's grave,Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek,And crucify poor Shakspeare once a week.For thee supplying, in the worst of days.Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays;Not that my quill to critics was confined,My verse gave ampler lessons to mankind;So gravest precepts may successless prove.But sad examples never fail to move.As, forced from wind-guns, &c. VER. 195. Yet sure had Heaven, &c. In the former edition-- Had Heaven decreed such works a longer date,Heaven had decreed to spare the Grub Street state.But see great Settle to the dust descend,And all thy cause and empire at an end!Could Troy be saved, &c.-- VER. 213. Hold--to the minister. In the former edition-- Yes, to my country I my pen consignYes, from this moment, mighty Mist! am thine. VER. 225. O born in sin, &c. In the former edition-- Adieu, my children! better thus expireUnstall'd, unsold; thus glorious mount in fire,Fair without spot; than greased by grocer's hands,Or shipp'd with Ward to ape-and-monkey lands,Or wafting ginger, round the streets to run,And visit ale-house, where ye first begun,With that he lifted thrice the sparkling brand,And thrice he dropp'd it, &c.-- VER. 250. Now flames the Cid, &c. In the former edition-- Now flames old Memnon, now Rodrigo burns,In one quick flash see Proserpine expire,And last, his own cold Aeschylus took fire.Then gushed the tears, as from the Trojan's eyes,When the last blaze, &c. After VER. 268, in the former edition, followed these two lines-- Raptured, he gazes round the dear retreat,And in sweet numbers celebrates the seat. VER. 293. Know, Eusden, &c. In the former edition-- Know, Settle, cloy'd with custard and with praise,Is gather'd to the dull of ancient days,Safe where no critics damn, no duns molest,Where Gildon, Banks, and high-born Howard rest.I see a king! who leads my chosen sonsTo lands that flow with clenches and with puns:Till each famed theatre my empire own;Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my throne!I see! I see!--Then rapt she spoke no more.God save King Tibbald! Grub Street alleys roar.So when Jove's block, &c.
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