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.