The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 52

[Footnote 4: See _ante_, p. 215, note.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: See Johnson's "Life of Addison."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: See "Prologue to the Satires," 390 to the end.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: "So when an angel by divine command," etc.

ADDISON'S _Campaign_.]

TO DR. DELANY ON THE LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM. 1729

--Tanti tibi non sit opaci Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum.--_Juv._ iii, 54.

As some raw youth in country bred, To arms by thirst of honour led, When at a skirmish first he hears The bullets whistling round his ears, Will duck his head aside, will start, And feel a trembling at his heart, Till 'scaping oft without a wound Lessens the terror of the sound; Fly bullets now as thick as hops, He runs into a cannon's chops.

An author thus, who pants for fame, Begins the world with fear and shame; When first in print you see him dread Each pop-gun levell'd at his head: The lead yon critic's quill contains, Is destined to beat out his brains: As if he heard loud thunders roll, Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul!

Concluding that another shot Will strike him dead upon the spot.

But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping, He cannot see one creature dropping; That, missing fire, or missing aim, His life is safe, I mean his fame; The danger past, takes heart of grace, And looks a critic in the face.

Though splendour gives the fairest mark To poison'd arrows in the dark, Yet, in yourself when smooth and round, They glance aside without a wound.

'Tis said, the G.o.ds tried all their art, How pain they might from pleasure part: But little could their strength avail; Both still are fasten'd by the tail; Thus fame and censure with a tether By fate are always link'd together.

Why will you aim to be preferr'd In wit before the common herd; And yet grow mortified and vex'd, To pay the penalty annex'd?

'Tis eminence makes envy rise; As fairest fruits attract the flies.

Should stupid libels grieve your mind, You soon a remedy may find; Lie down obscure like other folks Below the lash of snarlers' jokes.

Their faction is five hundred odds, For every c.o.xcomb lends them rods, And sneers as learnedly as they, Like females o'er their morning tea.

You say the Muse will not contain And write you must, or break a vein.

Then, if you find the terms too hard, No longer my advice regard: But raise your fancy on the wing; The Irish senate's praises sing; How jealous of the nation's freedom, And for corruptions how they weed 'em; How each the public good pursues, How far their hearts from private views; Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys, Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;[1]

Thus grown a member of the club, No longer dread the rage of Grub.

How oft am I for rhyme to seek!

To dress a thought I toil a week: And then how thankful to the town, If all my pains will earn a crown!

While every critic can devour My work and me in half an hour.

Would men of genius cease to write, The rogues must die for want and spite; Must die for want of food and raiment, If scandal did not find them payment.

How cheerfully the hawkers cry A satire, and the gentry buy!

While my hard-labour'd poem pines Unsold upon the printer's lines.

A genius in the reverend gown Must ever keep its owner down; 'Tis an unnatural conjunction, And spoils the credit of the function.

Round all your brethren cast your eyes, Point out the surest men to rise; That club of candidates in black, The least deserving of the pack, Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud, With grace and learning unendow'd, Can turn their hands to every job, The fittest tools to work for Bob;[2]

Will sooner coin a thousand lies, Than suffer men of parts to rise; They crowd about preferment's gate, And press you down with all their weight; For as of old mathematicians Were by the vulgar thought magicians; So academic dull ale-drinkers p.r.o.nounce all men of wit free-thinkers.

Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends, Disdains to serve ign.o.ble ends.

Observe what loads of stupid rhymes Oppress us in corrupted times; What pamphlets in a court's defence Show reason, grammar, truth, or sense?

For though the Muse delights in fiction, She ne'er inspires against conviction.

Then keep your virtue still unmixt, And let not faction come betwixt: By party-steps no grandeur climb at, Though it would make you England's primate; First learn the science to be dull, You then may soon your conscience lull; If not, however seated high, Your genius in your face will fly.

When Jove was from his teeming head Of Wit's fair G.o.ddess[3] brought to bed, There follow'd at his lying-in For after-birth a sooterkin; Which, as the nurse pursued to kill, Attain'd by flight the Muses' hill, There in the soil began to root, And litter'd at Parna.s.sus' foot.

From hence the critic vermin sprung, With harpy claws and poisonous tongue: Who fatten on poetic sc.r.a.ps, Too cunning to be caught in traps.

Dame Nature, as the learned show, Provides each animal its foe: Hounds hunt the hare, the wily fox Devours your geese, the wolf your flocks Thus Envy pleads a natural claim To persecute the Muse's fame; On poets in all times abusive, From Homer down to Pope inclusive.

Yet what avails it to complain?

You try to take revenge in vain.

A rat your utmost rage defies, That safe behind the wainscot lies.

Say, did you ever know by sight In cheese an individual mite!

Show me the same numeric flea, That bit your neck but yesterday: You then may boldly go in quest To find the Grub Street poet's nest; What spunging-house, in dread of jail, Receives them, while they wait for bail; What alley are they nestled in, To flourish o'er a cup of gin; Find the last garret where they lay, Or cellar where they starve to-day.

Suppose you have them all trepann'd, With each a libel in his hand, What punishment would you inflict?

Or call them rogues, or get them kickt?

These they have often tried before; You but oblige them so much more: Themselves would be the first to tell, To make their trash the better sell.

You have been libell'd--Let us know, What fool officious told you so?

Will you regard the hawker's cries, Who in his t.i.tles always lies?

Whate'er the noisy scoundrel says, It might be something in your praise; And praise bestow'd in Grub Street rhymes, Would vex one more a thousand times.

Till critics blame, and judges praise, The poet cannot claim his bays.

On me when dunces are satiric, I take it for a panegyric.

Hated by fools, and fools to hate, Be that my motto, and my fate.

[Footnote 1: The Irish Parliament met at the Blue-Boys Hospital, while the new Parliament-house was building.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole.]

[Footnote 3: Pallas.]

DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 1729

To form a just and finish'd piece, Take twenty G.o.ds of Rome or Greece, Whose G.o.dships are in chief request, And fit your present subject best; And, should it be your hero's case, To have both male and female race, Your business must be to provide A score of G.o.ddesses beside.

Some call their monarchs sons of Saturn, For which they bring a modern pattern; Because they might have heard of one,[1]

Who often long'd to eat his son; But this I think will not go down, For here the father kept his crown.

Why, then, appoint him son of Jove, Who met his mother in a grove; To this we freely shall consent, Well knowing what the poets meant; And in their sense, 'twixt me and you, It may be literally true.[2]

Next, as the laws of verse require, He must be greater than his sire; For Jove, as every schoolboy knows, Was able Saturn to depose; And sure no Christian poet breathing Would be more scrupulous than a Heathen; Or, if to blasphemy it tends.

That's but a trifle among friends.

Your hero now another Mars is, Makes mighty armies turn their a--s: Behold his glittering falchion mow Whole squadrons at a single blow; While Victory, with wings outspread, Flies, like an eagle, o'er his head; His milk-white steed upon its haunches, Or pawing into dead men's paunches; As Overton has drawn his sire, Still seen o'er many an alehouse fire.

Then from his arm hoa.r.s.e thunder rolls, As loud as fifty mustard bowls; For thunder still his arm supplies, And lightning always in his eyes.

They both are cheap enough in conscience, And serve to echo rattling nonsense.

The rumbling words march fierce along, Made trebly dreadful in your song.

Sweet poet, hired for birth-day rhymes, To sing of wars, choose peaceful times.

What though, for fifteen years and more, Ja.n.u.s has lock'd his temple-door; Though not a coffeehouse we read in Has mention'd arms on this side Sweden; Nor London Journals, nor the Postmen, Though fond of warlike lies as most men; Thou still with battles stuff thy head full: For, must thy hero not be dreadful?

Dismissing Mars, it next must follow Your conqueror is become Apollo: That he's Apollo is as plain as That Robin Walpole is Maecenas; But that he struts, and that he squints, You'd know him by Apollo's prints.

Old Phoebus is but half as bright, For yours can shine both day and night.

The first, perhaps, may once an age Inspire you with poetic rage; Your Phoebus Royal, every day, Not only can inspire, but pay.

Then make this new Apollo sit Sole patron, judge, and G.o.d of wit.

"How from his alt.i.tude he stoops To raise up Virtue when she droops; On Learning how his bounty flows, And with what justice he bestows; Fair Isis, and ye banks of Cam!

Be witness if I tell a flam, What prodigies in arts we drain, From both your streams, in George's reign.

As from the flowery bed of Nile"-- But here's enough to show your style.

Broad innuendoes, such as this, If well applied, can hardly miss: For, when you bring your song in print, He'll get it read, and take the hint; (It must be read before 'tis warbled, The paper gilt and cover marbled.) And will be so much more your debtor, Because he never knew a letter.

And, as he hears his wit and sense (To which he never made pretence) Set out in hyperbolic strains, A guinea shall reward your pains; For patrons never pay so well, As when they scarce have learn'd to spell.

Next call him Neptune: with his trident He rules the sea: you see him ride in't; And, if provoked, he soundly firks his Rebellious waves with rods, like Xerxes.

He would have seized the Spanish plate, Had not the fleet gone out too late; And in their very ports besiege them, But that he would not disoblige them; And make the rascals pay him dearly For those affronts they give him yearly.

'Tis not denied, that, when we write, Our ink is black, our paper white: And, when we scrawl our paper o'er, We blacken what was white before: I think this practice only fit For dealers in satiric wit.

But you some white-lead ink must get And write on paper black as jet; Your interest lies to learn the knack Of whitening what before was black.

Thus your encomium, to be strong, Must be applied directly wrong.

A tyrant for his mercy praise, And crown a royal dunce with bays: A squinting monkey load with charms, And paint a coward fierce in arms.

Is he to avarice inclined?