The GENIUS in DISGUISE

As I Fidelia and my Sire, Sat musing o'er a smoky Fire, We heard a Knocking at the Door, Rise, something is the Matter sure. The little Turret seem'd to quake, The Shelves, the Chairs and Tables shake; Fidelia cries, O, what's the Matter? And Mira's Teeth began to chatter: The frighted Door (as what could choose) Flew open (pray believe the Muse) A hollow Voice for Entrance calls, And soon—Although the dirty Walls Were stain'd with Ignorance and Sin, Yet Mira's Genius ventur'd in, Not in a Cherub's Form enshrin'd, Nor in the shape of human kind: But Locks and Hinges round him glow, In Figure like a neat Buroe; Like Brambles in a thorny Gap Stood Mira's Hair beneath her Cap: Her frighted Senses gone astray, She bent her Knees in act to pray; But the presuming Priest drew near, As void of Piety as Fear, And by its Side undaunted stood, And wou'd persuade us it was Wood: With Rev'rence then we did presume To place him in the little Room; The Priest excluded with the rest, The Stranger Mira thus address'd, (Tho' shaking with Surprise and Fear) ' O say what Power sent thee here, ' Not Fortune, for I ne'er cou'd see ' As yet her Favours bent on me: ' Nor Chance although we often find ' She governs most of human kind; ' Or can, against the Maid's Desire, ' Throw Madam's Caudle in the Fire; ' Can light a Candle, or can miss, ' She never brought a thing like this.

This said, pale Mira gazing stood, And thus reply'd the seeming Wood; ' Canst thou behold me and not find ' The Picture of the Giver's Mind? ' Behold the Lock and shining Key, ' That ne'er its Mistress shall betray, ' Not blemish'd with a Spot of Rust, ' And always faithful to its Trust.

' The rest may be to you consign'd, ' For in this narrow Space you'll find ' No Emblem large enough to fit ' Her Bounty, Judgment, and her Wit.

' But, Mira, since I have begun, ' The Thread of my Discourse shall run, ' Explaining how I am to you ' A Monitor and Table too. ' My hollow Spaces you may fill ' With all your Verses good and ill; ' One small one for your Wit may do, ' But then your Faults will take up two. ' And from the rest I pray exclude ' One sacred Place for Gratitude: ' And what our Patron yours and mine ' Shall to my trusty Care consign, ' For those lov'd Strangers I'll secure ' The Closet with its tiny Door.

' And now I've prattl'd long, my Dear, ' Yet you are list'ning still to hear, ' Expecting that I shou'd supply ' At once Advice and Prophesy; ' But that's not right for me nor you ' To dive so deeply—tho', 'tis true, ' Without Divining I can see ' You'll ne'er deserve the Gift of me: ' More wou'd you know—why, may be then ' Within these Mornings nine or ten, ' Propitious Jet may tsudge before, ' And lead his Mistress to your Door; ' And when the Sun (whose distant Wheels ' But faintly warm the icy Fields) ' Shall gild your Cot with brighter Ray, ' I hope to see her ev'ry Day.

' But turn away thy stedfast Eyes, ' That stare so ghastly with Surprise: ' Go seek your Pillow and be still, ' And dream of me or what you will.

' This said (which Mira hop'd was true) ' The Lid shut up, and cries Adieu." Then gave a Crack, and spoke no more, And all was silent as before.