The Rape of the Lock and Other Poems Part 4

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome, And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome.

No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, The dreaded East is all the wind that blows. 20 Here in a grotto, shelter'd close from air, And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare, She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head.

Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place, 25 But diff'ring far in figure and in face.

Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd; With store of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and noons, Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons. 30

There Affectation, with a sickly mien, Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside.

Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 35 Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show.

The fair ones feel such maladies as these, When each new night-dress gives a new disease.

A constant Vapour o'er the palace flies; Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; 40 Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades, Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.

Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires: Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 45 And crystal domes, and angels in machines.

Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen, Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen.

Here living Tea-pots stand, one arm held out, One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: 50 A Pipkin there, like Homer's Tripod walks; Here sighs a Jar, and there a Goose-pie talks; Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.

Safe past the Gnome thro' this fantastic band, 55 A branch of healing Spleenwort in his hand.

Then thus address'd the pow'r: "Hail, wayward Queen!

Who rule the s.e.x to fifty from fifteen: Parent of vapours and of female wit, Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit, 60 On various tempers act by various ways, Make some take physic, others scribble plays; Who cause the proud their visits to delay, And send the G.o.dly in a pet to pray.

A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains, 65 And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.

But oh! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, Like Citron-waters matrons cheeks inflame, Or change complexions at a losing game; 70 If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude, Or discompos'd the head-dress of a Prude, Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, 75 Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin, That single act gives half the world the spleen."

The G.o.ddess with a discontented air Seems to reject him, tho' she grants his pray'r. 80 A wond'rous Bag with both her hands she binds, Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; There she collects the force of female lungs, Sighs, sobs, and pa.s.sions, and the war of tongues.

A Vial next she fills with fainting fears, 85 Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.

The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.

Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. 90 Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, And all the Furies issu'd at the vent.

Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.

"O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cry'd, 95 (While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" reply'd) "Was it for this you took such constant care The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?

For this your locks in paper durance bound, For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around? 100 For this with fillets strain'd your tender head, And bravely bore the double loads of lead?

G.o.ds! shall the ravisher display your hair, While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare!

Honour forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine 105 Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our s.e.x resign.

Methinks already I your tears survey, Already hear the horrid things they say, Already see you a degraded toast, And all your honour in a whisper lost! 110 How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?

'T will then be infamy to seem your friend!

And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Expos'd thro' crystal to the gazing eyes, And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays, 115 On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?

Sooner shall gra.s.s in Hyde-park Circus grow, And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; Sooner let earth, air, sea, to Chaos fall, Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!" 120

She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her Beau demand the precious hairs; (Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, 125 He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case, And thus broke out--"My Lord, why, what the devil?

"Z--ds! d.a.m.n the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil!

Plague on't!'t is past a jest--nay prithee, pox!

Give her the hair"--he spoke, and rapp'd his box. 130

"It grieves me much" (reply'd the Peer again) "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain.

But by this Lock, this sacred Lock I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair; Which never more its honours shall renew, 135 Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew) That while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear."

He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honours of her head. 140

But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so; He breaks the Vial whence the sorrows flow.

Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head, 145 Which, with a sigh, she rais'd; and thus she said.

"For ever curs'd be this detested day, Which s.n.a.t.c.h'd my best, my fav'rite curl away!

Happy! ah ten times happy had I been, If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen! 150 Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, By love of Courts to num'rous ills betray'd.

Oh had I rather un-admir'd remain'd In some lone isle, or distant Northern land; Where the gilt Chariot never marks the way, 155 Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste Bohea!

There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.

What mov'd my mind with youthful Lords to roam?

Oh had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home! 160 'T was this, the morning omens seem'd to tell, Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; The tott'ring China shook without a wind.

Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!

A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate, 165 In mystic visions, now believ'd too late!

See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!

My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares: These in two sable ringlets taught to break, Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170 The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands, And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.

Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize 175 Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!"

CANTO V

She said: the pitying audience melt in tears.

But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.

In vain Thalestris with reproach a.s.sails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails?

Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, 5 While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.

Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan; Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began.

"Say why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd most, The wise man's pa.s.sion, and the vain man's toast? 10 Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd?

Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd Beaux, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows; How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 15 Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: That men may say, when we the front-box grace: 'Behold the first in virtue as in face!'

Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old-age away; 20 Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?

To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.

But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, 25 Curl'd or uncurl'd, since Locks will turn to grey; Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; What then remains but well our pow'r to use, And keep good-humour still whate'er we lose? 30 And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul."

So spoke the Dame, but no applause ensu'd; 35 Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her Prude.

"To arms, to arms!" the fierce Virago cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies.

All side in parties, and begin th' attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; 40 Heroes' and Heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, And ba.s.s, and treble voices strike the skies.

No common weapons in their hands are found, Like G.o.ds they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.

So when bold Homer makes the G.o.ds engage, 45 And heav'nly b.r.e.a.s.t.s with human pa.s.sions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: 50 Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way.

And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!

Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight: Propp'd on the bodkin spears, the Sprites survey 55 The growing combat, or a.s.sist the fray.

While thro' the press enrag'd Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song. 60 "O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,"

Cry'd Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.

A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killing"--was his last.

Thus on Maeander's flow'ry margin lies 65 Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the Beau reviv'd again. 70

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the Men's wits against the Lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.