The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 5

Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows: See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear, These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, Still scattering desolation where they go.

To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind, Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined; To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide, That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; From thee whatever virtue takes its rise, Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice; Such were thy rules to be poetically great: "Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit; Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid; Learn to disdain their mercenary aid; Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall, Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4]

And since unhappy distance thus denies T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise; Since thy few ill-presented graces seem To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem--"

Madness like this no fancy ever seized, Still to be cheated, never to be pleased; Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds Is all the poor content delusion finds.-- There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour I here renounce thy visionary power; And since thy essence on my breath depends Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends.

[Footnote 1: Dorothy, Sir William Temple's wife, a daughter of Sir Peter Osborne. She was in some way related to Swift's mother, which led to Temple taking Swift into his family. Dorothy died in January, 1695, at Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir William died in January, 1698, "and with him," says Swift, "all that was good and amiable among men." He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his wife.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Swift's poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: "--when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and skims along the main."

POPE, _Essay on Criticism_, 372-3.]

[Footnote 4: "Hic murus aheneus esto, Nil conseire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa."

HOR., _Epist. 1_, I, 60.]

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698

Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part, And think thou seest my owner's heart, Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite As hard, as senseless, and as light; Expos'd to ev'ry c.o.xcomb's eyes, But hid with caution from the wise.

Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;"

Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:"

Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth;"

There, in her own, "For an el breth:"

Here, "Lovely nymph, p.r.o.nounce my doom!"

There, "A safe way to use perfume:"

Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux; On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes"-- "Madam, I die without your grace"-- "Item, for half a yard of lace."

Who that had wit would place it here, For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer?

To think that your brains' issue is Exposed to th'excrement of his, In pow'r of spittle and a clout, Whene'er he please, to blot it out; And then, to heighten the disgrace, Clap his own nonsense in the place.

Whoe'er expects to hold his part In such a book, and such a heart, If he be wealthy, and a fool, Is in all points the fittest tool; Of whom it may be justly said, He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead.

MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PEt.i.tION, 1699

This, the most humorous example of _vers de societe_ in the English language, well ill.u.s.trates the position of a parson in a family of distinction at that period.--_W. E. B._

To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,[1]

The humble pet.i.tion of Frances Harris, Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries; Humbly sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's[2] chamber, because I was cold; And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, (besides farthings) in money and gold; So because I had been buying things for my lady last night, I was resolved to tell my money, to see if it was right.

Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, Therefore all the money I have, which, G.o.d knows, is a very small stock, I keep in my pocket, ty'd about my middle, next my smock.

So when I went to put up my purse, as G.o.d would have it, my smock was unript, And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt; Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed; And, G.o.d knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead.

So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light; But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have sunk outright.

"Lord! madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?"--"Indeed," says I, "never worse: But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?"

"Lord help me!" says Mary, "I never stirr'd out of this place!"

"Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case."

So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.

So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink.

So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round, And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's[3] box, ty'd in a rag, the money was found.

So next morning we told Whittle,[4] and he fell a swearing: Then my dame Wadgar[5] came, and she, you know, is thick of hearing.

"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have had?"

"Nay," says she, "my Lord Colway's[6] folks are all very sad: For my Lord Dromedary[7] comes a Tuesday without fail."

"Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail."

Says Cary,[8] says he, "I have been a servant this five and twenty years come spring, And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing."

"Yes," says the steward,[9] "I remember when I was at my Lord Shrewsbury's, Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of _gooseberries_."

So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief: (Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief:) However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: "Mrs. Duke," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happened out: 'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse:[10]

But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house.

'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole in my wages: Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages.

Now, Mrs. Duke, you know, and everybody understands, That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands."

"The _devil_ take me!" said she, (blessing herself,) "if ever I saw't!"

So she roar'd like a bedlam, as thof I had call'd her all to naught.

So, you know, what could I say to her any more?

I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.

Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man: "No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the CHAPLAIN[11] will be here anon."

So the Chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part.

So, as the _devil_ would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, "_Parson_" said I, "can you cast a _nativity_, when a body's plunder'd?"

(Now you must know, he hates to be called _Parson_, like the _devil!_) "Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; If your money be gone, as a learned _Divine_ says,[12] d'ye see, You are no _text_ for my handling; so take that from me: I was never taken for a _Conjurer_ before, I'd have you to know."

"Lord!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson's wife; I never took one in _your coat_ for a conjurer in all my life."

With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, "Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away.

Well: I thought I should have swoon'd. "Lord!" said I, "what shall I do?

I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!"

Then my lord call'd me: "Harry,"[13] said my lord, "don't cry; I'll give you something toward thy loss." "And," says my lady, "so will I."

Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won't come to?

For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must pet.i.tion you.

The premisses tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies'

protection, And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter, With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: And then your poor pet.i.tioner, both night and day, Or the Chaplain (for 'tis his _trade_,[14]) as in duty bound, shall ever _pray_.

[Footnote 1: The Earl of Berkeley and the Earl of Galway.]

[Footnote 2: Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine.]

[Footnote 3: Wife to one of the footmen.]

[Footnote 4: The Earl of Berkeley's valet.]

[Footnote 5: The old deaf housekeeper.]

[Footnote 6: Galway.]

[Footnote 7: The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed the two earls, then lords justices of Ireland.]

[Footnote 8: Clerk of the kitchen.]

[Footnote 9: Ferris; whom the poet terms in his Journal to Stella, 21st Dec., 1710, a "beast," and a "Scoundrel dog." See "Prose Works," ii, p.

79--_W. E. B._]