Vanbrugh's House

In 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 'em a dance of many a mile,Then rear 'em to a goodly pile.Each number had its diff'rent power;Heroic strains could build a tower;Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris,Might raise a house about two stories;A lyric ode would slate; a catchWould 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 throngCan 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 changed their element:On earth the God of Wealth was madeSole patron of the building trade;Leaving the Wits the spacious air,With license to build castles there:And 'tis conceived their old pretenceTo lodge in garrets comes from thence.Premising thus, in modern way,The better half we have to say;Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van,In higher strains than we began.Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it)Is both a Herald and a Poet;No wonder then if nicely skill'dIn both capacities to build.As Herald, he can in a dayRepair a house gone to decay;Or, by achievements, arms, device,Erect a new one in a trice;And as a poet, he has skillTo build in speculation still."Great Jove!" he cried, "the art restoreTo build by verse as heretofore,And make my Muse the architect;What palaces shall we erect!No longer shall forsaken ThamesLament his old Whitehall in flames;A pile shall from its ashes rise,Fit to invade or prop the skies."Jove smiled, and, like a gentle god,Consenting with the usual nod,Told Van, he knew his talent best,And left the choice to his own breast.So Van resolved to write a farce;But, well perceiving wit was scarce,With cunning that defect supplies:Takes a French play as lawful prize;Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke,Not once suspecting Jove would smoke;And (like a wag set down to write)Would whisper to himself, "a bite."Then, from this motley mingled style,Proceeded to erect his pile.So men of old, to gain renown, didBuild Babel with their tongues confounded.Jove saw the cheat, but thought it bestTo turn the matter to a jest;Down from Olympus' top he slides,Laughing as if he'd burst his sides:Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks,Why then old plays deserve old bricks;And since you're sparing of your stuff,Your building shall be small enough.He spake, and grudging, lent his aid;Th'experienced bricks, that knew their trade,(As being bricks at second hand,)Now move, and now in order stand.The building, as the Poet writ,Rose in proportion to his wit--And first the prologue built a wall;So wide as to encompass all.The scene, a wood, produc'd no moreThan a few scrubby trees before.The plot as yet lay deep; and soA cellar next was dug below;But this a work so hard was found,Two acts it cost him under ground.Two other acts, we may presume,Were spent in building each a room.Thus far advanc'd, he made a shiftTo raise a roof with act the fift.The epilogue behind did frameA place, not decent here to name.Now, Poets from all quarters ran,To see the house of brother Van;Looked high and low, walk'd often round;But no such house was to be found.One asks the watermen hard by,"Where may the Poet's palace lie?"Another of the Thames inquires,If he has seen its gilded spires?At length they in the rubbish spyA thing resembling a goose-pie.Thither in haste the Poets throng,And gaze in silent wonder long,Till one in raptures thus beganTo praise the pile and builder Van:"Thrice happy Poet! who may'st trailThy house about thee like a snail:Or harness'd to a nag, at easeTake journeys in it like a chaise;Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt,Can'st make it serve thee for a tilt!Capacious house! 'tis own'd by allThou'rt well contrived, tho' thou art small:For ev'ry Wit in Britain's isleMay lodge within thy spacious pile.Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,Thy mother burnt, art born again,Born like a phoenix from the flame:But neither bulk nor shape the same;As animals of largest sizeCorrupt to maggots, worms, and flies;A type of modern wit and style,The rubbish of an ancient pile;So chemists boast they have a power,From the dead ashes of a flowerSome faint resemblance to produce,But not the virtue, taste, or juice.So modern rhymers wisely blastThe poetry of ages past;Which, after they have overthrown,They from its ruins build their own."