The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 40

I love my friend as well as you: [2]But why should he obstruct my view?

Then let me have the higher post: [3]Suppose it but an inch at most.

If in battle you should find One whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion kill'd, or trophy won; Rather than thus be overtopt, Would you not wish his laurels cropt?

Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies rackt with pain, and you without: How patiently you hear him groan!

How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see His breth'ren write as well as he?

But rather than they should excel, He'd wish his rivals all in h.e.l.l.

Her end when Emulation misses, She turns to Envy, stings and hisses: The strongest friendship yields to pride, Unless the odds be on our side.

Vain human kind! fantastic race!

Thy various follies who can trace?

Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, Their empire in our hearts divide.

Give others riches, power, and station, 'Tis all on me an usurpation.

I have no t.i.tle to aspire; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.

In Pope I cannot read a line, But with a sigh I wish it mine; When he can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six; It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!"

[4]I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own hum'rous biting way.

Arbuthnot is no more my friend, Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce, Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use.

St. John, as well as Pultney, knows That I had some repute for prose; And, till they drove me out of date Could maul a minister of state.

If they have mortify'd my pride, And made me throw my pen aside; If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em?

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts; but never to my friend: I tamely can endure the first; But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much may serve by way of proem: Proceed we therefore to our poem.

The time is not remote, when I Must by the course of nature die; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends: Tho' it is hardly understood Which way my death can do them good, Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak: "See, how the Dean begins to break!

Poor gentleman, he droops apace!

You plainly find it in his face.

That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him till he's dead.

Besides, his memory decays: He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind: Forgets the place where last he din'd; Plyes you with stories o'er and o'er; He told them fifty times before.

How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit?

But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes.

Faith! he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter: In half the time he talks them round, There must another set be found.

"For poetry he's past his prime: He takes an hour to find a rhyme; His fire is out, his wit decay'd, His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.

I'd have him throw away his pen;-- But there's no talking to some men!"

And then their tenderness appears, By adding largely to my years; "He's older than he would be reckon'd, And well remembers Charles the Second.

He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign.

His stomach too begins to fail: Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing: I wish he may hold out till spring!"

Then hug themselves, and reason thus: "It is not yet so bad with us!"

In such a case, they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes: Some great misfortune to portend, No enemy can match a friend.

With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how d'ye's come of course, And servants answer, "_Worse and worse!_") Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell, That, "G.o.d be prais'd, the Dean is well."

Then he, who prophecy'd the best, Approves his foresight to the rest: "You know I always fear'd the worst, And often told you so at first."

He'd rather chuse that I should die, Than his prediction prove a lie.

Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over.

Yet, shou'd some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain; How many a message would he send!

What hearty prayers that I should mend!

Inquire what regimen I kept; What gave me ease, and how I slept?

And more lament when I was dead, Than all the sniv'llers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear; For though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verify'd at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!

"How is the Dean?"--"He's just alive."

Now the departing prayer is read; "He hardly breathes."--"The Dean is dead."

Before the Pa.s.sing-bell begun, The news thro' half the town has run.

"O! may we all for death prepare!

What has he left? and who's his heir?"-- "I know no more than what the news is; 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."-- "To public use! a perfect whim!

What had the public done for him?

Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all--but first he died.

And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation?

So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood!"

Now, Grub-Street wits are all employ'd; With elegies the town is cloy'd: Some paragraph in ev'ry paper To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5]

The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame: "We must confess, his case was nice; But he would never take advice.

Had he been ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived these twenty years; For, when we open'd him, we found, That all his vital parts were sound."

From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court,[6] "the Dean is dead."

Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the queen.

The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd.

He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot.

I promised him, I own; but when?

I only was a princess then; But now, as consort of a king, You know, 'tis quite a different thing."

Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: "Why, is he dead without his shoes,"

Cries Bob,[10] "I'm sorry for the news: O, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will![11]

Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!"

Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!

And then, to make them pa.s.s the glibber, Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14]

He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15]

Revive the libels born to die; Which Pope must bear, as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament.

Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear.

The rest will give a shrug, and cry, "I'm sorry--but we all must die!"

Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fort.i.tude of mind supplies: For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt!

When _we_ are lash'd, _they_ kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of G.o.d.

The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approach'd, to stand between: The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: "The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!

(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16]

Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend.

No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight: And he's engaged to-morrow night: My Lady Club wou'd take it ill, If he shou'd fail her at quadrille.

He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart,) But dearest friends, they say, must part.

His time was come: he ran his race; We hope he's in a better place."

Why do we grieve that friends should die?

No loss more easy to supply.

One year is past; a different scene!

No further mention of the Dean; Who now, alas! no more is miss'd, Than if he never did exist.

Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo!

Departed:--and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date.

Some country squire to Lintot[17] goes, Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose."

Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; He died a year ago."--"The same."

He searches all the shop in vain.

"Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;[18]

I sent them with a load of books, Last Monday to the pastry-cook's.

To fancy they could live a year!

I find you're but a stranger here.

The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme.

His way of writing now is past; The town has got a better taste; I keep no antiquated stuff, But spick and span I have enough.

Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem.

This ode you never yet have seen, By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen.