The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 68

Satire may be the child of spite, And fame might bid the Drapier write: But to relieve, and to endow, Creatures that know not whence or how Argues a soul both good and wise, Resembling Him who rules the skies, He to the thoughtful mind displays Immortal skill ten thousand ways; And, to complete his glorious task, Gives what we have not sense to ask!

III

Lo! Swift to idiots bequeaths his store: Be wise, ye rich!--consider thus the poor!

IV

Great wits to madness nearly are allied, This makes the Dean for kindred _thus_ provide.

ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S BIRTH-DAY BEING NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW'S DAY

Between the hours of twelve and one, When half the world to rest were gone, Entranced in softest sleep I lay, Forgetful of an anxious day; From every care and labour free, My soul as calm as it could be.

The queen of dreams, well pleased to find An undisturb'd and vacant mind, With magic pencil traced my brain, And there she drew St. Patrick's Dean: I straight beheld on either hand Two saints, like guardian angels, stand, And either claim'd him for their son, And thus the high dispute begun: St. Andrew, first, with reason strong, Maintain'd to him he did belong.

"Swift is my own, by right divine, All born upon this day are mine."

St. Patrick said, "I own this true So far he does belong to you: But in my church he's born again, My son adopted, and my Dean.

When first the Christian truth I spread, The poor within this isle I fed, And darkest errors banish'd hence, Made knowledge in their place commence: Nay more, at my divine command, All noxious creatures fled the land.

I made both peace and plenty smile, Hibernia was my favourite isle; Now his--for he succeeds to me, Two angels cannot more agree.

His joy is, to relieve the poor; Behold them weekly at his door!

His knowledge too, in brightest rays, He like the sun to all conveys, Shows wisdom in a single page, And in one hour instructs an age When ruin lately stood around Th'enclosures of my sacred ground, He gloriously did interpose, And saved it from invading foes; For this I claim immortal Swift As my own son, and Heaven's best gift.

The Caledonian saint, enraged, Now closer in dispute engaged.

Essays to prove, by transmigration, The Dean is of the Scottish nation; And, to confirm the truth, he chose The loyal soul of great Montrose; "Montrose and he are both the same, They only differ in the name: Both heroes in a righteous cause, a.s.sert their liberties and laws; He's now the same Montrose was then, But that the sword is turn'd a pen, A pen of so great power, each word Defends beyond the hero's sword."

Now words grew high--we can't suppose Immortals ever come to blows, But lest unruly pa.s.sion should Degrade them into flesh and blood, An angel quick from Heaven descends, And he at once the contest ends: "Ye reverend pair, from discord cease, Ye both mistake the present case; One kingdom cannot have pretence To so much virtue! so much sense!

Search Heaven's record; and there you'll find That he was born for all mankind."

AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT NUGENT, ESQ.[1]

WITH A PICTURE OF DR. SWIFT. BY WILLIAM DUNKIN, D.D.

To gratify thy long desire, (So love and piety require,) From Bindon's colours you may trace The patriot's venerable face.

The last, O Nugent! which his art Shall ever to the world impart; For know, the prime of mortal men, That matchless monarch of the pen, (Whose labours, like the genial sun, Shall through revolving ages run, Yet never, like the sun, decline, But in their full meridian shine,) That ever honour'd, envied sage, So long the wonder of the age, Who charm'd us with his golden strain, Is not the shadow of the Dean: He only breathes Boeotian air-- "O! what a falling off was there!"

Hibernia's Helicon is dry, Invention, Wit, and Humour die; And what remains against the storm Of Malice but an empty form?

The nodding ruins of a pile, That stood the bulwark of this isle?

In which the sisterhood was fix'd Of candid Honour, Truth unmix'd, Imperial Reason, Thought profound, And Charity, diffusing round In cheerful rivulets to flow Of Fortune to the sons of woe?

Such one, my Nugent, was thy Swift, Endued with each exalted gift, But lo! the pure ethereal flame Is darken'd by a misty steam: The balm exhausted breathes no smell, The rose is wither'd ere it fell.

That G.o.dlike supplement of law, Which held the wicked world in awe And could the tide of faction stem, Is but a sh.e.l.l without the gem.

Ye sons of genius, who would aim To build an everlasting fame, And in the field of letter'd arts, Display the trophies of your parts, To yonder mansion turn aside, And mortify your growing pride.

Behold the brightest of the race, And Nature's honour, in disgrace: With humble resignation own, That all your talents are a loan; By Providence advanced for use, Which you should study to produce Reflect, the mental stock, alas!

However current now it pa.s.s, May haply be recall'd from you Before the grave demands his due, Then, while your morning star proceeds, Direct your course to worthy deeds, In fuller day discharge your debts; For, when your sun of reason sets, The night succeeds; and all your schemes Of glory vanish with your dreams.

Ah! where is now the supple train, That danced attendance on the Dean?

Say, where are those facetious folks, Who shook with laughter at his jokes, And with attentive rapture hung, On wisdom, dropping from his tongue; Who look'd with high disdainful pride On all the busy world beside, And rated his productions more Than treasures of Peruvian ore?

Good Christians! they with bended knees Ingulf'd the wine, but loathe the lees, Averting, (so the text commands,) With ardent eyes and upcast hands, The cup of sorrow from their lips, And fly, like rats, from sinking ships.

While some, who by his friendship rose To wealth, in concert with his foes Run counter to their former track, Like old Actaeon's horrid pack Of yelling mongrels, in requitals To riot on their master's vitals; And, where they cannot blast his laurels, Attempt to stigmatize his morals; Through Scandal's magnifying gla.s.s His foibles view, but virtues pa.s.s, And on the ruins of his fame Erect an ignominious name.

So vermin foul, of vile extraction, The sp.a.w.n of dirt and putrefaction, The sounder members traverse o'er, But fix and fatten on a sore.

Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile His wit, his humour, and his style; Since all the monsters which he drew Were only meant to copy you; And, if the colours be not fainter, Arraign yourselves, and not the painter.

But, O! that He, who gave him breath, Dread arbiter of life and death: That He, the moving soul of all, The sleeping spirit would recall, And crown him with triumphant meeds, For all his past heroic deeds, In mansions of unbroken rest, The bright republic of the bless'd!

Irradiate his benighted mind With living light of light refined; And there the blank of thought employ With objects of immortal joy!

Yet, while he drags the sad remains Of life, slow-creeping through his veins, Above the views of private ends, The tributary Muse attends, To prop his feeble steps, or shed The pious tear around his bed.

So pilgrims, with devout complaints, Frequent the graves of martyr'd saints, Inscribe their worth in artless lines, And, in their stead, embrace their shrines.

[Footnote 1: Created Baron Nugent and Viscount Clare, Dec. 20, 1766.--_Scott._]

ON THE DRAPIER. BY DR. DUNKIN.[1]

Undone by fools at home, abroad by knaves, The isle of saints became the land of slaves, Trembling beneath her proud oppressor's hand; But, when thy reason thunder'd through the land, Then all the public spirit breathed in thee, And all, except the sons of guilt, were free.

Blest isle, blest patriot, ever glorious strife!

You gave her freedom, as she gave you life!

Thus Cato fought, whom Brutus copied well, And with those rights for which you stand, he fell.

[Footnote 1: See the translation of Carberiae Rupes in vol. i, p. 143. In the select Poetical Works of Dr. Dunkin, published at Dublin in 1770, are four well-chosen compliments to the Dean on his birth-day, and a very humorous poetical advertis.e.m.e.nt for a copy of Virgil Travestie, which, at the Dean's request, Dr. Dunkin had much corrected, and afterwards lost.

After offering a small reward to whoever will restore it, he adds,

"Or if, when this book shall be offer'd to sale, Any printer will stop it, the bard will not fail To make over the issues and profits accruing From thence to the printer, for his care in so doing; Provided he first to the poet will send it, That where it is wrong, he may alter and mend it."--_N._]

EPITAPH PROPOSED FOR DR. SWIFT. 1745

HIC JACET DEMOCRITVS ILLE NEOTERICVS, RABELAESIVS NOSTER, IONATHAN SWIFT, S.T.P. HVIVS CATHEDRALIS NVPER DECANVS; MOMI, MVSARVM, MINERVAE, ALVMNVS PERQVAM DILECTVS; INSVLSIS, HYPOCRITIS, THEOMACHIS, IVXTA EXOSVS; QVOS TRIBVTIM SVMMO CVM LEPORE DERISIT, DENVDAVIT, DEBELLAVIT.

PATRIAE INFELICIS PATRONVS IMPIGER, ET PROPVGNATOR PRIMORES ARRIPVIT, POPVLVMQVE INTERRITVS, VNI SCILICET AEQVVS VIRTVTI.

HANC FAVILLAM SI QVIS ADES, NEC PENITVS EXCORS VIDETVR, DEBITA SPARGES LACRYMA.

EPIGRAM ON TWO GREAT MEN. 1754

Two geniuses one age and nation grace!

Pride of our isles, and boast of human race!

Great sage! great bard! supreme in knowledge born!

The world to mend, enlighten, and adorn.

Truth on Cimmerian darkness pours the day!

Wit drives in smiles the gloom of minds away!

Ye kindred suns on high, ye glorious spheres, Whom have ye seen, in twice three thousand years, Whom have ye seen, like these, of mortal birth; Though Archimede and Horace blest the earth?

Barbarians, from th' Equator to the Poles, Hark! reason calls! wisdom awakes your souls!

Ye regions, ignorant of Walpole's name; Ye climes, where kings shall ne'er extend their fame; Where men, miscall'd, G.o.d's image have defaced, Their form belied, and human shape disgraced!

Ye two-legg'd wolves! slaves! superst.i.tion's sons!

Lords! soldiers! holy Vandals! modern Huns!

Boors, mufties, monks; in Russia, Turkey, Spain!