The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 23

Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief Steals off to doze away his beef; And this must pa.s.s for reading Hammond-- While George and Dean go to backgammon.

George, Nim, and Dean, set out at four, And then, again, boys, to the oar.

But when the sun goes to the deep, (Not to disturb him in his sleep, Or make a rumbling o'er his head, His candle out, and he a-bed,) We watch his motions to a minute, And leave the flood when he goes in it.

Now stinted in the shortening day, We go to prayers and then to play, Till supper comes; and after that We sit an hour to drink and chat.

'Tis late--the old and younger pairs, By Adam[3] lighted, walk up stairs.

The weary Dean goes to his chamber; And Nim and Dan to garret clamber, So when the circle we have run, The curtain falls and all is done.

I might have mention'd several facts, Like episodes between the acts; And tell who loses and who wins, Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins; How Dan caught nothing in his net, And how the boat was overset.

For brevity I have retrench'd How in the lake the Dean was drench'd: It would be an exploit to brag on, How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon; How steady in the storm he sat, And saved his oar, but lost his hat: How Nim (no hunter e'er could match him) Still brings us hares, when he can catch 'em; How skilfully Dan mends his nets; How fortune fails him when he sets; Or how the Dean delights to vex The ladies, and lampoon their s.e.x: I might have told how oft Dean Perceval Displays his pedantry unmerciful, How haughtily he c.o.c.ks his nose, To tell what every schoolboy knows: And with his finger and his thumb, Explaining, strikes opposers dumb: But now there needs no more be said on't, Nor how his wife, that female pedant, Shews all her secrets of housekeeping: For candles how she trucks her dripping; Was forced to send three miles for yeast, To brew her ale, and raise her paste; Tells everything that you can think of, How she cured Charley of the chincough; What gave her brats and pigs the measles, And how her doves were killed by weasels; How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright She had with dreams the other night.

But now, since I have gone so far on, A word or two of Lord Chief Baron; And tell how little weight he sets On all Whig papers and gazettes; But for the politics of Pue,[4]

Thinks every syllable is true: And since he owns the King of Sweden [5]

Is dead at last, without evading, Now all his hopes are in the czar; "Why, Muscovy is not so far; Down the Black Sea, and up the Straits, And in a month he's at your gates; Perhaps from what the packet brings, By Christmas we shall see strange things."

Why should I tell of ponds and drains, What carps we met with for our pains; Of sparrows tamed, and nuts innumerable To choke the girls, and to consume a rabble?

But you, who are a scholar, know How transient all things are below, How p.r.o.ne to change is human life!

Last night arrived Clem[6] and his wife-- This grand event has broke our measures; Their reign began with cruel seizures; The Dean must with his quilt supply The bed in which those tyrants lie; Nim lost his wig-block, Dan his Jordan, (My lady says, she can't afford one,) George is half scared out of his wits, For Clem gets all the dainty bits.

Henceforth expect a different survey, This house will soon turn topsyturvy; They talk of farther alterations, Which causes many speculations.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: For his philosophy and his exquisite verse, rather than for his irreligion, which never seems to have affected Swift.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The butler.--_F_.]

[Footnote 4: A Tory news-writer. See "Prose Works," vii, p.

347.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Charles XII, killed by a musket ball, when besieging a "petty fortress" in Norway in the winter of 1718.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: Mr. Clement Barry, called, in the notes appended to "Gulliveriana," p. 12, chief favourite and governor of Gaulstown.--_W. E. B._]

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 compa.s.s, 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 gra.s.s, 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 s.p.a.ce 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.

[Footnote 1: This poem has been stated to have been written by Swift's friend, Dr. Sheridan, on the authority of his son, but it is unquestionably by Swift. See "Prose Works," xii, p. 79.--_W. E. B._]

ON ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT DELVILLE

A bard, grown desirous of saving his pelf, Built a house he was sure would hold none but himself.

This enraged G.o.d Apollo, who Mercury sent, And bid him go ask what his votary meant?

"Some foe to my empire has been his adviser: 'Tis of dreadful portent when a poet turns miser!

Tell him, Hermes, from me, tell that subject of mine, I have sworn by the Styx, to defeat his design; For wherever he lives, the Muses shall reign; And the Muses, he knows, have a numerous train."

CARBERIAE RUPES

IN COMITATU CORGAGENSI. SCRIPSIT JUN. ANN. DOM. 1723

Ecce ingens fragmen scopuli, quod vertice summo Desuper impendet, nullo fundamine nixum, Decidit in fluctus: maria undique et undique saxa Horrisono stridore tenant, et ad aethera murmur Erigitur; trepidatque suis Neptunus in undis.

Nam, longa venti rabie, atque aspergine crebra Aequorei laticis, specus ima rupe cavatur: Jam fultura ruit, jam summa cac.u.mina nutant; Jam cadit in praeceps moles, et verberat undas.

Attonitus credas, hinc dejecisse Tonantem Montibus impositos montes, et Pelion altum In capita anguipedum coelo jacula.s.se gigantum.

Saepe etiam spelunca immani aperitur hiatu Exesa e scopulis, et utrinque foramina pandit, Hinc atque hinc a ponto ad pontum pervia Phoebo Cautibus enorme junctis laquearia tecti Formantur; moles olim ruitura superne.

Fornice sublimi nidos posuere palumbes, Inque imo stagni posuere cubilia phocae.

Sed, c.u.m saevit hyems, et venti, carcere rupto, Immensos volvunt fluctus ad culmina montis; Non obsessae arces, non fulmina vindice dextra Missa Jovis, quoties inimicus saevit in urbes, Exaequant sonitum undarum, veniente procella: Littora littoribus reboant; vicinia late, Gens a.s.sueta mari, et pedibus percurrere rupes, Terretur tamen, et longe fugit, arva relinquens.

Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellae, Vi salientis aquae de summo praecipitantur, Et dulces animas imo sub gurgite linquunt.

Piscator terra non audet vellere funem; Sed latet in portu tremebundus, et aera sudum Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat.

CARBERY ROCKS

TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN

Lo! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds Its airy head amid the azure clouds, Hangs a huge fragment; dest.i.tute of props, p.r.o.ne on the wave the rocky ruin drops; With hoa.r.s.e rebuff the swelling seas rebound, From sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e the rocks return the sound: The dreadful murmur Heaven's high convex cleaves, And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject waves: For, long the whirling winds and beating tides Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides.

Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge.

Not louder noise could shake the guilty world, When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd; Retorting Pelion from his dread abode, To crush Earth's rebel sons beneath the load.

Oft too with hideous yawn the cavern wide Presents an orifice on either side.

A dismal orifice, from sea to sea Extended, pervious to the G.o.d of Day: Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form An arch, the ruin of a future storm: High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make, And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake.

But when bleak Winter with his sullen train Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain; When o'er the craggy steep without control, Big with the blast, the raging billows roll; Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand, Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand, Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours, Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers, Equal the tumult of this wild uproar: Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks Of angry seas, and run along the rocks, Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams, Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes.

The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top, The wither'd herb improvident they crop, Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep, Leave their sweet lives beneath th'unfathom'd deep.

The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes, Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies, Nor hoping to behold the skies serene, Wearies with vows the monarch of the main.

COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES

ON MR. FORD[1]