The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 39

Melancholy smooth Meander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.

THE STORM

MINERVA'S PEt.i.tION

Pallas, a G.o.ddess chaste and wise Descending lately from the skies, To Neptune went, and begg'd in form He'd give his orders for a storm; A storm, to drown that rascal Hort,[1]

And she would kindly thank him for't: A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her, Had lately honour'd with a mitre.

The G.o.d, who favour'd her request, a.s.sured her he would do his best: But Venus had been there before, Pleaded the bishop loved a wh.o.r.e, And had enlarged her empire wide; He own'd no deity beside.

At sea or land, if e'er you found him Without a mistress, hang or drown him.

Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench, Till Hort arrived, ne'er kept a wench; If Hort must sink, she grieves to tell it, She'll not have left one single prelate: For, to say truth, she did intend him, Elect of Cyprus _in commendam._ And, since her birth the ocean gave her, She could not doubt her uncle's favour.

Then Proteus urged the same request, But half in earnest, half in jest; Said he--"Great sovereign of the main, To drown him all attempts are vain.

Hort can a.s.sume more forms than I, A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy; Can creep, or run, or fly, or swim; All motions are alike to him: Turn him adrift, and you shall find He knows to sail with every wind; Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride As well against as with the tide.

But, Pallas, you've applied too late; For, 'tis decreed by Jove and Fate, That Ireland must be soon destroy'd, And who but Hort can be employ'd?

You need not then have been so pert, In sending Bolton[2] to Clonfert.

I found you did it, by your grinning; Your business is to mind your spinning.

But how you came to interpose In making bishops, no one knows; Or who regarded your report; For never were you seen at court.

And if you must have your pet.i.tion, There's Berkeley[3] in the same condition; Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just, If one must drown, the other must; But, if you'll leave us Bishop Judas, We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.[4]

Now, if 'twill gratify your spight, To put him in a plaguy fright, Although 'tis hardly worth the cost, You soon shall see him soundly tost.

You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and d.a.m.n (And every moment take a dram) His ghastly visage with an air Of reprobation and despair; Or else some hiding-hole he seeks, For fear the rest should say he squeaks; Or, as Fitzpatrick[5] did before, Resolve to perish with his wh.o.r.e; Or else he raves, and roars, and swears, And, but for shame, would say his prayers.

Or, would you see his spirits sink?

Relaxing downwards in a stink?

If such a sight as this can please ye, Good madam Pallas, pray be easy.

To Neptune speak, and he'll consent; But he'll come back the knave he went."

The G.o.ddess, who conceived a hope That Hort was destined to a rope, Believed it best to condescend To spare a foe, to save a friend; But, fearing Berkeley might be scared, She left him virtue for a guard.

[Footnote 1: Josiah Hort was born about 1674, and educated in London as a Nonconformist Minister; but he soon conformed to the Church of England, and held in succession several benefices. In 1709 he went to Ireland as chaplain to Lord Wharton, when Lord Lieutenant; and afterwards became, in 1721, Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and ultimately Archbishop of Tuam. He died in 1751.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, afterwards Archbishop of Cash.e.l.l.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: Dr. George Berkeley, a senior fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, who became Dean of Derry, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.]

[Footnote 4: The Bishop had a project of a college at Bermuda for the propagation of the Gospel in 1722. See his Works, _ut supra.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats in the Bay of Dublin, in a great storm.--_F_.]

ODE ON SCIENCE

O, heavenly born! in deepest dells If fairest science ever dwells Beneath the mossy cave; Indulge the verdure of the woods, With azure beauty gild the floods, And flowery carpets lave.

For, Melancholy ever reigns Delighted in the sylvan scenes With scientific light; While Dian, huntress of the vales, Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales, Though wrapt from mortal sight.

Yet, G.o.ddess, yet the way explore With magic rites and heathen lore Obstructed and depress'd; Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, Untaught, not uninspired, to shine, By Reason's power redress'd.

When Solon and Lycurgus taught To moralize the human thought Of mad opinion's maze, To erring zeal they gave new laws, Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause That blends congenial rays.

Bid bright Astraea gild the morn, Or bid a hundred suns be born, To hecatomb the year; Without thy aid, in vain the poles, In vain the zodiac system rolls, In vain the lunar sphere.

Come, fairest princess of the throng, Bring sweet philosophy along, In metaphysic dreams; While raptured bards no more behold A vernal age of purer gold, In Heliconian streams.

Drive Thraldom with malignant hand, To curse some other destined land, By Folly led astray: Ierne bear on azure wing; Energic let her soar, and sing Thy universal sway.

So when Amphion[1] bade the lyre To more majestic sound aspire, Behold the madding throng, In wonder and oblivion drown'd, To sculpture turn'd by magic sound And petrifying song.

[Footnote 1: King of Thebes, and husband of Niobe; famous for his magical power with the lyre by which the stones were collected for the building of the city.--Hor., "De Arte Poetica," 394.--_W. E. B._]

A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT[1]

FOR THE STAY OF THE DEAN IN ENGLAND

Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales; Gently fill the swelling sails.

Neptune, with thy trident long, Trident three-fork'd, trident strong: And ye Nereids fair and gay, Fairer than the rose in May, Nereids living in deep caves, Gently wash'd with gentle waves; Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep; All around, in pompous state, On this richer Argo wait: Argo, bring my golden fleece, Argo, bring him to his Greece.

Will Cadenus longer stay?

Come, Cadenus, come away; Come with all the haste of love, Come unto thy turtle-dove.

The ripen'd cherry on the tree Hangs, and only hangs for thee, Luscious peaches, mellow pears, Ceres, with her yellow ears, And the grape, both red and white, Grape inspiring just delight; All are ripe, and courting sue, To be pluck'd and press'd by you.

Pinks have lost their blooming red, Mourning hang their drooping head, Every flower languid seems, Wants the colour of thy beams, Beams of wondrous force and power, Beams reviving every flower.

Come, Cadenus, bless once more, Bless again thy native sh.o.r.e, Bless again this drooping isle, Make its weeping beauties smile, Beauties that thine absence mourn, Beauties wishing thy return: Come, Cadenus, come with haste, Come before the winter's blast; Swifter than the lightning fly, Or I, like Vanessa, die.

[Footnote 1: These verses, like the "Love Song in the Modern Taste" and the preceding one, seem designed to ridicule the commonplaces of poetry.--_W. E. B._]

ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1]

Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, qui ne nous deplait pas."

This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, 1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by Swift.--_W. E. B._

AS Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From nature, I believe 'em true: They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: "In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circ.u.mstance to please us."

If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes Our _equal_ raised above our _size._ Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low?