University of Virginia Library

Deep in the bosom of Batavian plains,
Where weathers fatten, and where Dulness reigns,
Full many a fen infests the putrid shore,
And many a gulph the melancholy moor.
Let not the stranger in these regions stray,
Dark is the sky, and perilous the way;
Beneath his steps the quivering turfs resound,
Dense fogs exhale, and dwell upon the ground.

Here should you rove, by Fate's severe command,
You'll see, within the centre of the land,
The fane of dulness, of prodigious size,
Emerging from a sable cloud arise.
A leaden tower upheaves its heavy head,
Large leaden arches press the slimy bed,
The soft soil swells beneath the load of lead.
Old Matter here erected this abode,
At Folly's impulse, to the Slothful God.
Here the majestic drone delights to stay,
Slumbering the dull, inactive hours away;
Here still, unless by foreign force imprest,
She holds the sceptre of eternal rest.

Their habitation here those monsters keep,
Whom Matter father'd on the God of Sleep:
Here Zoilus, with cankering envy pale,
Here Mævius bids his brother Bavius, hail;
Bold atheist leaders head their senseless mobs,
Spinoza, Pyrho, Epicurus, Hobbes.
How can the Muse recount the numerous crew
Of frequent dunces crowding on the view?
Nor can learn'd Albion's sun that burns so bright,
Illuminate the realms involv'd in night.
Bœotia thus remain'd, in days of yore,
Senseless and stupid, tho' the neighbouring shore
Afforded salutary hellebore:
No cure exhal'd from Zephyr's buxom breeze,
That gently brush'd the bosom of the seas,
As oft to Lesbian fields he wing'd his way,
Fanning fair Flora, and in airy play
Breath'd balmy sighs, that melt the soul away.

Behold that portico! how vast, how wide!
The pillars Gothic, wrought with barbarous pride:
Four monstrous shapes before the portal wait,
Of horrid aspect, centry to the gate:
Lo! in the entrance, with disdainful eye,
In Logick's dark disguise, stands Sophistry:
Her very front would common sense confound,
Encompass'd with ten categories round:
She from Old Matter, the great mother came,
By birth the eldest—and how like the dame!
Her shrivel'd skin, small eyes, enormous pate,
Denote her shrewd, and subtle in debate:
This hand a net, and that sustains a club,
T'entangle her antagonist, or drub.
The spider's toils, all o'er her garment spread,
Imply the mazy errors of her head.
Behold her marching with funereal pace,
Slow as old Saturn thro' prodigious space,
Slow as the mighty mountains mov'd along,
When Orpheus rais'd the lyre-attended song:
Slow as at Oxford, on some Gaudy day,
Fat beadles, in magnificent array,
With big round bellies bear the ponderous treat,
And heavily lag on, with the vast load of meat.

Next her, mad Mathesis; her feet all bare,
Ungirt, untrimm'd, with loose neglected hair:
No foreign object can her thoughts disjoint;
Reclin'd she sits, and ponders o'er a point.
Before her, lo! inscrib'd upon the ground
Strange diagrams th' astonish'd sight confound,
Right lines and curves, with figures square and round.
With these the monster, arrogant and vain,
Boasts that she can all mysteries explain,
And treats the sacred sisters with disdain.
She, when great Newton sought his kindred skies,
Sprung high in air, and strove with him to rise,
In vain—the mathematic mob restrains
Her flight, indignant, and on earth detains;
E'er since she dwells intent on useless schemes,
Unmeaning problems, and deliberate dreams.

Microphile is station'd next in place,
The spurious issue of celestial race;
From heavenly Physice she took her birth,
Her sire a madman of the sons of earth;
On flies she pores with keen, unwearied sight,
And moths and butterflies, her dear delight;
Around her neck hang dangling on a string
The fungous tribe, with all the flowers of spring.
With greedy eyes she'll search the world to find
Insects and reptiles rare of every kind;
Whether along the lap of earth they stray,
Or nimbly sportive in the waters play,
Or thro' the light expanse of ether fly,
And on light wing float wavering in the sky.
Ye gales, that gently breathe upon our shore,
O! let the Polypus be wafted o'er;
How will the hollow dome of Dulness ring?
With what loud joy receive the wonderous thing?
Applause will rend the skies, and all around
The quivering quagmires bellow back the sound?
How will Microphile her joy attest,
And glow with warmer raptures than the rest?
No longer shall the crocodile excel,
Nor weaving worm, nor variegated shell;
The Polypus shall novelties inspire,
The Polypus, her only fond desire.
Lo! by the wounds of her creating knife,
New Polypusses wriggle into life,
Fast as the reptiles rise, she feeds with store
Of once rare flies, but now esteem'd no more.

The fourth dire shape from mother Matter came,
Dulness her sire, and Atheism her name;
In her no glimpse of sacred Sense appears,
Depriv'd of eyes, and destitute of ears:
And yet she brandishes a thousand tongues,
And blasts the world with air-infecting lungs.
Curs'd by her sire, her very words are wounds,
No grove re-echoes the detested sounds.
Whate'er she speaks all nature proves a lye,
Earth, heaven, and stars proclaim a Deity:
The congregated waves in mountains driven
Roar in grand chorus to the lord of heaven;
Thro' skies serene the pealing thunders roll,
Loudly pronounce the God, and shake the sounding pole.

A river, murmuring from Lethæan source,
Full to the fane directs its sleepy course;
The Power of Dulness, leaning on the brink,
Here calls the multitude of fools to drink.
Swarming they crowd to stupify the skull,
With frequent cups contending to be dull.
Me, let me taste the sacred stream, I cry'd,
With out-stretch'd arm—the Muse my boon deny'd,
And sav'd me from the sense-intoxicating tide.