Vanbrugh's House,[1] Built From The Ruins Of Whitehall That Was Burnt, 1703 Poem Rhyme Scheme

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In times of old when Time was young	A
And poets their own verses sung	A
A verse would draw a stone or beam	B
That now would overload a team	B
Lead 'em a dance of many a mile	C
Then rear 'em to a goodly pile	C
Each number had its diff'rent power	D
Heroic strains could build a tower	D
Sonnets or elegies to Chloris	E
Might raise a house about two stories	F
A lyric ode would slate a catch	G
Would tile an epigram would thatch	G
But to their own or landlord's cost	H
Now Poets feel this art is lost	I
Not one of all our tuneful throng	J
Can raise a lodging for a song	J
For Jove consider'd well the case	K
Observed they grew a numerous race	K
And should they build as fast as write	L
'Twould ruin undertakers quite	L
This evil therefore to prevent	M
He wisely changed their element	N
On earth the God of Wealth was made	O
Sole patron of the building trade	O
Leaving the Wits the spacious air	P
With license to build castles there	P
And 'tis conceived their old pretence	K
To lodge in garrets comes from thence	K
Premising thus in modern way	Q
The better half we have to say	Q
Sing Muse the house of Poet Van	R
In higher strains than we began	R
Van for 'tis fit the reader know it	S
Is both a Herald and a Poet	T
No wonder then if nicely skill'd	U
In both capacities to build	U
As Herald he can in a day	Q
Repair a house gone to decay	Q
Or by achievements arms device	K
Erect a new one in a trice	K
And as a poet he has skill	V
To build in speculation still	V
Great Jove he cried the art restore	W
To build by verse as heretofore	W
And make my Muse the architect	X
What palaces shall we erect	X
No longer shall forsaken Thames	K
Lament his old Whitehall in flames	K
A pile shall from its ashes rise	K
Fit to invade or prop the skies	K
Jove smiled and like a gentle god	Y
Consenting with the usual nod	Y
Told Van he knew his talent best	Z
And left the choice to his own breast	Z
So Van resolved to write a farce	K
But well perceiving wit was scarce	K
With cunning that defect supplies	K
Takes a French play as lawful prize	K
Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke	A2
Not once suspecting Jove would smoke	A2
And like a wag set down to write	L
Would whisper to himself a bite	L
Then from this motley mingled style	C
Proceeded to erect his pile	C
So men of old to gain renown did	B2
Build Babel with their tongues confounded	B2
Jove saw the cheat but thought it best	Z
To turn the matter to a jest	Z
Down from Olympus' top he slides	K
Laughing as if he'd burst his sides	K
Ay thought the god are these your tricks	K
Why then old plays deserve old bricks	K
And since you're sparing of your stuff	C2
Your building shall be small enough	C2
He spake and grudging lent his aid	O
Th'experienced bricks that knew their trade	O
As being bricks at second hand	D2
Now move and now in order stand	D2
The building as the Poet writ	S
Rose in proportion to his wit	S
And first the prologue built a wall	E2
So wide as to encompass all	E2
The scene a wood produc'd no more	W
Than a few scrubby trees before	W
The plot as yet lay deep and so	K
A cellar next was dug below	K
But this a work so hard was found	F2
Two acts it cost him under ground	F2
Two other acts we may presume	G2
Were spent in building each a room	G2
Thus far advanc'd he made a shift	H2
To raise a roof with act the fift	H2
The epilogue behind did frame	I2
A place not decent here to name	I2
Now Poets from all quarters ran	R
To see the house of brother Van	R
Looked high and low walk'd often round	H2
But no such house was to be found	H2
One asks the watermen hard by	J2
Where may the Poet's palace lie	J2
Another of the Thames inquires	K
If he has seen its gilded spires	K
At length they in the rubbish spy	J2
A thing resembling a goose pie	J2
Thither in haste the Poets throng	J
And gaze in silent wonder long	J
Till one in raptures thus began	R
To praise the pile and builder Van	R
Thrice happy Poet who may'st trail	K2
Thy house about thee like a snail	K2
Or harness'd to a nag at ease	K
Take journeys in it like a chaise	K
Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt	H2
Can'st make it serve thee for a tilt	H2
Capacious house 'tis own'd by all	E2
Thou'rt well contrived tho' thou art small	E2
For ev'ry Wit in Britain's isle	C
May lodge within thy spacious pile	C
Like Bacchus thou as Poets feign	L2
Thy mother burnt art born again	M2
Born like a phoenix from the flame	I2
But neither bulk nor shape the same	I2
As animals of largest size	K
Corrupt to maggots worms and flies	K
A type of modern wit and style	C
The rubbish of an ancient pile	C
So chemists boast they have a power	D
From the dead ashes of a flower	D
Some faint resemblance to produce	K
But not the virtue taste or juice	K
So modern rhymers wisely blast	H2
The poetry of ages past	H2
Which after they have overthrown	N2
They from its ruins build their own	N2

Jonathan Swift

Vanbrugh's House,[1] Built From The Ruins Of Whitehall That Was Burnt, 1703 Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

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