The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 54

1730

In ancient times, the wise were able In proper terms to write a fable: Their tales would always justly suit The characters of every brute.

The a.s.s was dull, the lion brave, The stag was swift, the fox a knave; The daw a thief, the ape a droll, The hound would scent, the wolf would prowl: A pigeon would, if shown by aesop, Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up.

Far otherwise a great divine Has learnt his fables to refine; He jumbles men and birds together, As if they all were of a feather: You see him first the Peac.o.c.k bring, Against all rules, to be a king; That in his tail he wore his eyes, By which he grew both rich and wise.

Now, pray, observe the doctor's choice, A Peac.o.c.k chose for flight and voice; Did ever mortal see a peac.o.c.k Attempt a flight above a hayc.o.c.k?

And for his singing, doctor, you know Himself complain'd of it to Juno.

He squalls in such a h.e.l.lish noise, He frightens all the village boys.

This Peac.o.c.k kept a standing force, In regiments of foot and horse: Had statesmen too of every kind, Who waited on his eyes behind; And this was thought the highest post; For, rule the rump, you rule the roast.

The doctor names but one at present, And he of all birds was a Pheasant.

This Pheasant was a man of wit, Could read all books were ever writ; And, when among companions privy, Could quote you Cicero and Livy.

Birds, as he says, and I allow, Were scholars then, as we are now; Could read all volumes up to folios, And feed on frica.s.sees and olios: This Pheasant, by the Peac.o.c.k's will, Was viceroy of a neighbouring hill; And, as he wander'd in his park, He chanced to spy a clergy Lark; Was taken with his person outward, So prettily he pick'd a cow-t--d: Then in a net the Pheasant caught him, And in his palace fed and taught him.

The moral of the tale is pleasant, Himself the Lark, my lord the Pheasant: A lark he is, and such a lark As never came from Noah's ark: And though he had no other notion, But building, planning, and devotion; Though 'tis a maxim you must know, "Who does no ill can have no foe;"

Yet how can I express in words The strange stupidity of birds?

This Lark was hated in the wood, Because he did his brethren good.

At last the Nightingale comes in, To hold the doctor by the chin: We all can find out what he means, The worst of disaffected deans: Whose wit at best was next to none, And now that little next is gone; Against the court is always blabbing, And calls the senate-house a cabin; So dull, that but for spleen and spite, We ne'er should know that he could write Who thinks the nation always err'd, Because himself is not preferr'd; His heart is through his libel seen, Nor could his malice spare the queen; Who, had she known his vile behaviour, Would ne'er have shown him so much favour.

A n.o.ble lord[1] has told his pranks, And well deserves the nation's thanks.

O! would the senate deign to show Resentment on this public foe, Our Nightingale might fit a cage; There let him starve, and vent his rage: Or would they but in fetters bind This enemy of human kind!

Harmonious Coffee,[2] show thy zeal, Thou champion for the commonweal: Nor on a theme like this repine, For once to wet thy pen divine: Bestow that libeller a lash, Who daily vends seditious trash: Who dares revile the nation's wisdom, But in the praise of virtue is dumb: That scribbler lash, who neither knows The turn of verse, nor style of prose; Whose malice, for the worst of ends, Would have us lose our English friends:[3]

Who never had one public thought, Nor ever gave the poor a groat.

One clincher more, and I have done, I end my labours with a pun.

Jove send this Nightingale may fall, Who spends his day and night in gall!

So, Nightingale and Lark, adieu; I see the greatest owls in you That ever screech'd, or ever flew.

[Footnote 1: Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: A Dublin gazetteer.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: See A New Song on a Seditious Pamphlet.--_F._]

DEAN SMEDLEY'S PEt.i.tION TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON[1]

Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri.--HOR.

_Epist._, I, ii, 47.

It was, my lord, the dexterous shift Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift, But now St. Patrick's saucy dean, With silver verge, and surplice clean, Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace, In looser rhyme to beg a place.

A place he got, yclept a stall, And eke a thousand pounds withal; And were he less a witty writer, He might as well have got a mitre.

Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, In humble lays my thanks to offer, Approach your grace with grateful heart, My thanks and verse both void of art, Content with what your bounty gave, No larger income do I crave: Rejoicing that, in better times, Grafton requires my loyal lines.

Proud! while my patron is polite, I likewise to the patriot write!

Proud! that at once I can commend King George's and the Muses' friend!

Endear'd to Britain; and to thee (Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) Endear'd by twice three anxious years, Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; By love, by wisdom, and by skill; For he has saved thee 'gainst thy will.

But where shall Smedley make his nest, And lay his wandering head to rest?

Where shall he find a decent house, To treat his friends and cheer his spouse?

O! tack, my lord, some pretty cure, In wholesome soil, and ether pure; The garden stored with artless flowers, In either angle shady bowers.

No gay parterre, with costly green, Within the ambient hedge be seen: Let Nature freely take her course, Nor fear from me ungrateful force; No shears shall check her sprouting vigour, Nor shape the yews to antic figure: A limpid brook shall trout supply, In May, to take the mimic fly; Round a small orchard may it run, Whose apples redden to the sun.

Let all be snug, and warm, and neat; For fifty turn'd a safe retreat, A little Euston[2] may it be, Euston I'll carve on every tree.

But then, to keep it in repair, My lord--twice fifty pounds a-year Will barely do; but if your grace Could make them hundreds--charming place!

Thou then wouldst show another face.

Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies, 'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies: One shivers with the arctic wind, One hears the polar axis grind.

Good John[3] indeed, with beef and claret, Makes the place warm, that one may bear it.

He has a purse to keep a table, And eke a soul as hospitable.

My heart is good; but a.s.sets fail, To fight with storms of snow and hail.

Besides, the country's thin of people, Who seldom meet but at the steeple: The strapping dean, that's gone to Down, Ne'er named the thing without a frown, When, much fatigued with sermon study, He felt his brain grow dull and muddy; No fit companion could be found, To push the lazy bottle round: Sure then, for want of better folks To pledge, his clerk was orthodox.

Ah! how unlike to Gerard Street, Where beaux and belles in parties meet; Where gilded chairs and coaches throng, And jostle as they troll along; Where tea and coffee hourly flow, And gape-seed does in plenty grow; And Griz (no clock more certain) cries, Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies!"

There Lady Luna in her sphere Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near; But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said, Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed.

There--but 'tis endless to write down All the amus.e.m.e.nts of the town; And spouse will think herself quite undone, To trudge to Connor[4] from sweet London; And care we must our wives to please, Or else--we shall be ill at ease.

You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack, 'Tis only some convenient tack, Some parsonage-house with garden sweet, To be my late, my last retreat; A decent church, close by its side, There, preaching, praying, to reside; And as my time securely rolls, To save my own and other souls.

[Footnote 1: This piece is repeatedly and always satirically alluded to in the preceding poems.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: The name of the Duke's seat in Suffolk.--_N._]

[Footnote 3: Bishop Sterne.--_H._]

[Footnote 4: The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there are two deans.--_Scott_.]

THE DUKE'S ANSWER BY DR. SWIFT

Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, Where wit in all its glory shines; Where compliments, with all their pride, Are by their numbers dignified: I hope to make you yet as clean As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean.

I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, And may be something else withal; And, were you not so good a writer, I should present you with a mitre.

Write worse, then, if you can--be wise- Believe me, 'tis the way to rise.

Talk not of making of thy nest: Ah! never lay thy head to rest!

That head so well with wisdom fraught, That writes without the toil of thought!

While others rack their busy brains, You are not in the least at pains.

Down to your dean'ry now repair, And build a castle in the air.

I'm sure a man of your fine sense Can do it with a small expense.

There your dear spouse and you together May breathe your bellies full of ether, When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour, She'll help your wife when she's in labour, Well skill'd in midwife artifices, For she herself oft falls in pieces.

There you shall see a raree show Will make you scorn this world below, When you behold the milky-way, As white as snow, as bright as day; The glittering constellations roll About the grinding arctic pole; The lovely tingling in your ears, Wrought by the music of the spheres-- Your spouse shall then no longer hector, You need not fear a curtain-lecture; Nor shall she think that she is undone For quitting her beloved London.

When she's exalted in the skies, She'll never think of mutton-pies; When you're advanced above Dean Viz, You'll never think of Goody Griz; But ever, ever live at ease, And strive, and strive your wife to please; In her you'll centre all your joys, And get ten thousand girls and boys; Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get, And they like stars shall rise and set.

While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon Be a new sun and a new moon: Nor shall you strive your horns to hide, For then your horns shall be your pride.

[Footnote 1: Diana, also called Lucina, for the reason given in the text.--_W. E. B._]

PARODY ON A CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY, WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF[1]

The very reverend Dean Smedley, Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley, Was equally allow'd to shine As poet, scholar, and divine; With G.o.dliness could well dispense, Would be a rake, but wanted sense; Would strictly after Truth inquire, Because he dreaded to come nigh her.