The Thimble, Canto IV

Where fabled Aetna's dreadful Summits rise, Whose fiery Womb with Sulphur taints the Skies, Deep in the Cave lies Vulcan's dark Abode, The Dwelling of the great mechanic God: Scarce can the distant Sun's enliv'ning Ray, Pierce the thick Gloom, and shed a doubtful Day: In this dire Vault he toils with panting Breath, Reddens the Bolt, and shapes the missive Death, That from the Hand of Jove in Vengeance hurl'd, Roars through th' Expanse of Heav'n, and shakes the World; Or brighten's round Minerva's Gorgon Shield, That blazes to the Sun, and burns along the Field; The huge-limb'd Cyclops wait his dread Command, A servile Train, a grim gigantic Band.

His Goods about his Shop in Order lay, Here the sharp Bodkin, there the crafty Key; Old rusty Arms around the Walls appear, The blunted Faulchion, and the pointless Spear; Here hang the batter'd Shields, which Heroes wore In Ages past, at Ilion's fatal Shore: The massy Relicks not ten Beaux could raise, The gentle Warriours of these latter Days.

To these dark Regions of eternal Night The mighty Pow'rs of Love direct their Flight; Ambrosial Zephyrs all around them play, And gently fan th' unwholsome Fogs away: Soon as they enter'd, all the swarthy Band Drop their unfinish'd Labours from their Hand; The heav'nly Form they view'd with wond'ring Eyes, And, in a silent Grin, confest Surprize. At length, elate exclaims the limping God, What drew my Fair one from her blest Abode? Why hast thou left the peaceful Realms above? Why to these dreary Mansions dost thou rove, Where foul Contagion hovers in the Air, And sultry Vapours blast the blooming Year? Name it, whate'er it be, O! name thy Boon, Nor thou can'st ask, nor I can grant too soon.

Then thus began the beauteous Queen of Love: O! thou, that form'st the forked Bolts of Jove; Whose Art can teach the stubborn Brass to yield, Point in the Spear, or widen in the Shield; Thou, that didst clad in Steel my fav'rite Boy, That bravely led the poor Remains of Troy; An equal Task demands thy nicest Care, Nor arm the Hero now, but arm the Fair: I ask not Weapons, such as wont to grace The valiant Damsels of the Scythian Race; A little Target shape with curious Care, To shield the Finger in the Toils of War; The Gift to Fannia shall Relief impart, The first in Beauty, as the first in Art: Wounded she pines, nor dares again to wield The Instrument of Blood without a Shield; This shall secure the Fair from future Pain, And bless for ever all the female Train. Then when some Nymph, howe'er that Nymph be nam'd, For the nice Conduct of the Needle fam'd, Like Fannia now, the Pride of Womankind, In Person equal, greater far in Mind, Admir'd by all, yet never vain of Pow'r, In shining Silk, shall form the lively Flow'r; Her solid Shield the Fair one shall survey, And grateful call to Mind this happy Day. O! haste then to the glorious Task. She said; The Smith, the Husband, and the God obey'd; The savage Crew with Emulation strove, Impatient to oblige the Queen of Love: With sudden Rage the roaring Forges glow, And Anvils thunder underneath the Blow; The God quick deals his Arms, the Clangs rebound, And the wide Vaults rebellow to the Sound; The pliant Steel in various Forms they twine, And elegantly shape the Work divine. Then Vulcan thus: The animated Steel The deep Impression of your Tools must feel: Here let myself, and here let Venus stand, The new-made Armour blazing in her Hand; Here let the Virgin's Implements of War, The pond'rous Scissars and the Needle Spear, And all the bright Artillery appear: Let Fame above the glorious Work resound, And Bands of Flow'rs adorn the Border round.

Soon at their Touch th' expressive Figures rise, And breathe and glitter to the distant Skies. Behold! he cry'd, the bright Original, This future Ages shall THE THIMBLE call! Happy, thrice happy she, the mortal Fair, Whose Finger first the sacred Shield shall wear.

Then, with a limping Step, and aukward Mien, He gave the shining Present to his Queen: Enamour'd he beheld her pleasing Charms, And gently clasp'd her in his sooty Arms: Averse, the Goddess turn'd aside her Face, And with Reluctance met the foul Embrace. Then, from the dreary Cave they mount to Day, And to the Baron's House direct their Way.

Lost in a pleasing Dream the Beau was laid, And thus the bright celestial Vision said: Cynthio awake, and seize thy Fannia's Charms, Take her for ever to thy faithful Arms; Her outward cur'd, she feels an inward Pain, And Love impetuous glows in ev'ry Vein; Give her this Target, made by Vulcan's Art, To guard her Finger from the Needle's Dart; Secur'd by this, undaunted she may rear, And fearless shake the long tremendous Spear: So shall far distant Times admire her Name, And crown her Labours with eternal Fame.

She said, and left the Shield, the Gift bestow'd, And with her Son pursu'd the heav'nly Road.

But now the Morn shot forth a feeble Ray, And ting'd the Mountains with the Blush of Day; Uprose the joyful Baron, straight he spies The Thimble Shield, and grasps the shining Prize; The Work divine with Wonder he survey'd, And Homage due to Cytherea paid: With Care he deck'd his Person out that Day, Artfully fine, deliberately gay; Adorn'd with Gold that shone with gaudy Shew, He traverses the Room a finish'd Beau! Then eager to embrace his much-lov'd Fair, In stately Pomp he mounts his gilded Car.

Soft on her downy Couch the Nymph was laid, The Midnight Dream revolving in her Head; Her blooming Cheeks with conscious Blushes glow, And her Heart flutter'd for her charming Beau: When lo! he comes: Love flashes from his Eyes, Unusual Raptures in her Bosom rise! Then to the Fair he gave the Gift bestow'd, The sacred Shield, the Labour of a God: Joyful she view'd the Workmanship around, Heal'd of her last, and safe from future Wound: 'Twas in that Hour the Beau his Passion prest, 'Twas in that Hour the Fair his Passion bless'd: Cynthio, she cry'd, O long in Heart ador'd, My faithful Lover, and my destin'd Lord, Fannia the Pow'rs immortal shall repay, With grateful Honours for this glorious Day: Let the glad Tidings spread; proclaim about, This Afternoon, we hold a solemn Route: Summon the Belles, the Damsels, and the Dames, The Beaux and Foplings, to the nuptial Games; In yon Buffet be plac'd before their Eyes, Each Combat's due Reward, and glitt'ring Prize.

She said, and Fame her loudest Trumpet blows, And in gay Clusters croud the Belles and Beaux. Thus have I seen in Summer, to the Clang Of beaten Pot, or shining Warming-Pan, Sooth'd and delighted by the pow'rful Charm, With chearful Hum, the Insect Nations swarm.