Dr. Delany's Villa[1]

WOULD you that Delville I describe?     Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe:     For who would be satirical     Upon a thing so very small?         You scarce upon the borders enter,     Before you're at the very centre.     A single crow can make it night,     When o'er your farm she takes her flight:     Yet, in this narrow compass, we     Observe a vast variety;     Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,     Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs,     And hills and dales, and woods and fields,     And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields:     All to your haggard brought so cheap in,     Without the mowing or the reaping:     A razor, though to say't I'm loth,     Would shave you and your meadows both.         Though small's the farm, yet here's a house     Full large to entertain a mouse;     But where a rat is dreaded more     Than savage Caledonian boar;     For, if it's enter'd by a rat,     There is no room to bring a cat.         A little rivulet seems to steal     Down through a thing you call a vale,     Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,     Like rain along a blade of leek:     And this you call your sweet meander,     Which might be suck'd up by a gander,     Could he but force his nether bill     To scoop the channel of the rill.     For sure you'd make a mighty clutter,     Were it as big as city gutter.     Next come I to your kitchen garden,     Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;     And round this garden is a walk     No longer than a tailor's chalk;     Thus I compare what space is in it,     A snail creeps round it in a minute.     One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze     Up through a tuft you call your trees:     And, once a year, a single rose     Peeps from the bud, but never blows;     In vain then you expect its bloom!     It cannot blow for want of room.         In short, in all your boasted seat,     There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT.