University of Virginia Library

Peter (whose Story puzzled all the Town,
Ere Gulliver and Mary Tofts were known)
I, first, attempt to celebrate in Song—
Nor shall my Muse the Sylvan Hero wrong,
If thou, Arbuthnot, stand'st but on my Side;
Alike, his skilful Tutor and my Guide!

Yet not on vulgar Aid depends the Muse—
Great, as my wondrous Subject, are my Views!
To Godlike Brunswick—whom the Nations own
The rightful Wearer of Britannia's Crown;
Who rules the Hearts of People, brave and free;
Absolute Lord of Peter, and of Me;
To Him I, suppliant, make my warm Address:
His Smiles are Sanction, and his Praise Success.

If, 'mid'st thy Cares and Toils for human Kind,
Sometimes, the Poets have amus'd thy Mind;
If e'er my Hero found thy frank Regard;
O King, indulge the Genius of thy Bard,
And a whole Work, with one kind Smile, reward.

Methinks the Monarch, with auspicious Nod,
Bids me proceed, and wakes the inspiring God!
Sudden, I feel my daring Soul possest,
And swelling Raptures heave my beating Breast!
Legions of Thoughts, original indeed,
Thoughts, that ne'er enter'd in an Ancient's Head;
Tho' deep, yet clear; tho' delicate, yet strong;
Jostle for Place of Honour, in my Song!
What various Humour, Sense, and Learning, join
To glorify this singular Design!
Here, the bold Homer, Maro the Discreet,
Milton sublime, and witty Scarroon meet!
Cervantes, Butler, Boileau, Dryden, Lee,
Phillips, and Prior, mingle all in Me!
What choice Ingredients my rich Oleo rear!
The Wonderment of all, who see, or hear!

But who, ah! who can relish, as they read?
Who on the different Delicacies feed?
Who rightly enter into what is new,
And judge with Taste, that's elegantly True?
Criticks and Fops, in Character extream,
My Work, in vain, will celebrate, or blame!
Nor Those, nor These, alas! can take me Right!
Out of their Way is every Word I write!
In Oddness lies my Muse's whole Delight!
Thou Swift, (facetious, deep-discerning Dean!)
May'st find me out, and catch my Fancy, clean:
To Souls, like thine, Arcana's open lie,
Nor can a Nostrum 'scape thy brilliant Eye!
Let half a Score such Judges give me Praise,
And Worlds beside combine to blast my Bays.

Charm'd with the Hopes, I soar, I tow'r in flight,
And ten Leagues leave the Vulgar out of sight.
But deign, my Muse, whose undivided View
Looks present, past, and future Wonders thro',
The very Embrio's of Events foresees,
And pierces Heav'ns Arcana and Decrees,
Deign, for the Sake of Mortals, to relate
Your deep Discoveries in the Book of Fate,
Say, did no antient Sybil, Priest or Sage,
With Soul illumin'd, kenn afar this Age?
Were all the boasted Oracles unskil'd?
Without a Prophet, is the Time fulfil'd,
The destin'd Time! when mortal Men shou'd see
Peter, the Wild! the World's last Prodigy!
Tam'd by Arbuthnot, and describ'd by Me.
Was he, O strange! begot, conceiv'd, and born,
And not one Planet from its Orbit torn?
No Miracle to usher him to Earth?
Did Nature sleep, unconscious, at his Birth?
Impossible. A Cyrus Dreams predict,
And Cæsar's Fall must Heav'n and Earth afflict!
Are Men and Gods concern'd at such Affairs?
Are Wonders wrought to honour Names, like Theirs?
But must a Peter, like a Mushroom, rise?
Did not his Birth confound both Earth and Skies?
Yes; for, of him, the Sybils Books were full,
Nor prov'd the antient Oracles so dull.
Prophets of old, foresaw him in their Dreams,
And Poets sung him under different Names.
What tho' ten thousand Volumes are destroy'd?
Volumes! in my great Hero's Praise employ'd.
Ten thousand still, in uncouth Tongues remain,
Which Bently wou'd attempt to read, in vain!
—But not on Books his Greatness stands its Ground;
By more divine Presages, he's renown'd!
Each late strange Action, Accident, and Sight,
Had secret Reference to my Sylvan Knight.
The glorious Revolution's Self foreran
The Savage's Conversion into Man!
What meant the Meteors, late, display'd in Air?
Did not the Russian Czar his Day prepare?
The Czar, another Peter! sent, with Pow'rs,
To shine the Type and Harbinger of ours!
Did not that pow'rful Emperor appear,
In his first Life, a Sort of human Bear?
Were not his Actions and Behaviour rude?
His very Spirit savour'd of the Wood!
Till, found and tamed, he rose, with matchless Worth,
The burning Light and Glory of the North?
—But to the Reverend leaving this Dispute,
And why my Hero first appear'd a Brute,
Muse, sing what unmysterious Laymen say,
And how they give his Birth a different Way:
Whether, according to a certain Creed,
Of a new Species he was meant the Head;
And, in the Wood of Hamelen, form'd compleat,
Like Eden-Adam—but without a Mate?
Or, if, for Treason, thrown from Heav'n, he fell
Like Lucifer—but not to such an Hell?
Whether, incarnate, he's, infernal Fiend,
Broke loose, in hopes his Fortune here to mend?
Or if, the Spawn of heterogeneous Breed,
He sprung from human, mix'd with bestial, Seed?
If, procreated in the natural Way,
Unnatural Parents did the Boy convey,
By brutal Rage to perish; or be fed,
As erst by Wolves, the Persian Chief was bred?
Whether he's one of the fam'd Fairy Blades,
Who us'd to gambol in the Woodland Shades.
Perhaps, a Wanderer from his pigmy Kind,
Or, for some Roguery, left for Men to find?
Whether, perhaps, he casually stray'd?
Or was, by Rogues, from native Home betray'd?
If left, or lost, by Gypsies, in the Field,
He liv'd on what the savage Soil cou'd yield?
Or whether, by a Deluge, he was swept
From some contiguous Dwelling-place; and kept,
By Care divine, amid the Sylvan Throng,
T'amuse Mankind, and furnish out my Song?
Or, if, abhorrent of th' iniquious Age,
His Father, a Philosopher and Sage,
Preferring the Society of Brutes,
Expos'd the Boy to live on humble Roots,
And, by the odd Experiment, restore
The State of Nature, as it stood before?
If, struck with Sense of Misery and Woe,
Which human-kind, by Tameing, undergo,
His Sire resolv'd he wou'd not spoil the Child,
But, out of Love and Pity, bred him wild?
Or rather, if, disgusted at the Times,
Our Fashions, Follies, Villanies, and Crimes,
Astrea like, himself bid Earth farewel,
And hop'd in Hamelen, as in Heav'n, to dwell?
These and a thousand more Conjectures, I,
Uncurious pass, with solemn Reverence, by;
Suffic'd, that, whether, born, or calv'd, or made,
He reign'd a brutal Governour by Trade,
Till thou, great Brunswick (so Heav'n's Council stood)
Seiz'd on the Prey, and forc'd him from the Wood,
No less for Peter's, than Britannia's Good.

But how he liv'd, and rul'd, and was obey'd,
The Leagues he form'd, the Politicks he weigh'd;
His Studies, Wars, Religion, and his Sport;
The State and Constitution of his Court;
Why, how, and when, he was to Britain brought;
What he has done, and what is to be wrought;
These, and a thousand odder Things, than These,
Shall swell my Canto's, and enrich my Bays.