University of Virginia Library

Thou goddess sable clad, Dirtilla, hail!
Thee I invoke to aid my daring muse,
To rise with sooty wing and sing thy praise.
Ne'er yet attempted by advent'rous bard.
Thee I invoke—whether thou lov'st to shew
Thy marbled visage in the troubled pool,
Or spread'st thy bounty o'er the smutted face
Of chimney sweeping elf; or o'er the plain,
Rolling in clouds by summer breezes born,
Salute the traveller in shape of dust:
Whether in furnace or in noisy forge,
With fiend-like colliers thou vouchsafest to dwell,
And fix with Vulcan thy co-equal reign;
Or soft recline upon a scullion's lap,
Or on the school-boys jacket smile serene.

Rebellious beaux, and washer-women strive,
But strive in vain with never ending war
To overcome thy pow'r—still thou return'st,
And still they labour on with fruitless toil,
Sworn foes to thee, thou sober-visag'd dame;
Not so thy bard—full well he knows to gain;
And having gain'd, thy favour still to keep,
E'en now wide spreading o'er my honour'd coat
Full many a spot, full many a greasy smear,
Thy influence benign and pow'r declare;
Driving for thence, of new impressed cloth
The gawdy glare—ne'er to return again.

Oh! mortals blind to truth, whose anxious souls
Impatient wait, till from the taylor's hand,
The sumptuous garb, long look'd for, comes complete.
Success no sooner crowns their wearied hope,
But, new distractions fill their troubled mind,
And cloud their joy; lest, in some guardless hour,
A dreaded spot should fully all their pride.

See at the festive board in new brocade
And lawn, as yet unstain'd, Sophronia sits:
In vain rich wines of various sort and hue,
In order rang'd, the glitt'ring side-boards grace;
And pleasant viands smoke in vain around:
Nor these, nor yet th'exhilirating song,
Or needle point of stimulating wit,
Provoke to joy her ever anxious heart;
Should the rude servant with unhallow'd foot,
And overflowing glass, approach too near
The magic circle of her spreading robe:
Her eager hands collect the darling silk
In closer folds, and in her sparkling eye
New lightnings kindle at the bold assault.

Thus have I seen within some farmer's yard,
Whilst busy Partlet for her chirping brood
The dunghill scratch'd; to them a mine of wealth:
Should fierce grimalkin from beneath the mow,
Or neighb'ring barn, creep sly with deadly paw:
Alarm'd, she gathers all her little train
Beneath her shelt'ring wings: she swells with rage,
And brist'ling feathers awe the daring foe.

Oh! goddess most benign, beneath thy sway,
I eat and drink with pleasure unallay'd;
Nor care I ought, if from the dripping spoon,
The falling drops enrich my sullied garb:
Oh! could I like Lunanius boast thy love,
Thy fav'rite vot'ry he, far, far beyond
My utmost reach, my greatest hope aspires.
His honour'd chamber thou vouchsaf'st to make
Thy chosen seat, thy undisturb'd abode;
Where never broom thy ministers annoy,
But spiders, white with age, their webs extend
And see their num'rous offspring do the same.
Methinks I see him seated on the floor,
With all his dirty papers scatter'd round;
While lengthen'd cobwebs from the ceiling's height,
Hang pendant o'er his head in waving rows.
Not such as Betty from the parlour sweeps
With nimble hand: but such as oft are found
In dungeons deep, black with the dust of years.
Methinks I see upon his broken hearth,
On either side, a heap of ashes rise:
The sad remains of a whole winter's fire:
Nor would he yield them to the chandler's pence.
For they, oh! cursed art; by dire process,
Would soon convert them into cleansing soap.
And here, a kettle stands, which never felt
The wasting torture of a scullion's hand;
Impenetrable crusts guard it without,
And scale on scale the solid sediment
Of constant use, uncleans'd, line it within;
And there a Delphin mug, embossed once
With many a winding leaf and op'ning flow'r,
Of which no traces now are to be found,
Obliterated all with harden'd grime.

But, above all, methinks I see his bed,
The throne, oh! goddess! where thou reign'st supreme;
The tester bends beneath the load of dust,
Which time hath scatter'd with unsparing hand,
And curtains, tawny, with incessant smoke,
Hang graceful round in many a smutted fold.
To shake the bed, or cleanse the tott'ring frame,
On which it lies, no hand hath yet presum'd;
But ummolested myriads wanton there.
Thus lives Lunanius; nor can ought avail
To move his firm allegiance unto thee,
And may'st thou, goddess, e'er such vot'ries find.

Wrapt in prophetic vision, I behold
The times approach, when all thy foes,
Humbled in dust, shall own thy gen'ral sway:
For well we know, that all things are but dirt—
And beaux and belles, and all the soapy train
Of washing-women, and of scouring men,
Must yield to thee, and into dust return.