The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 7

RIDDLES BY DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS.

WRITTEN IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1724

The following notice is subjoined to some of these riddles, in the Dublin edition: "About nine or ten years ago, (_i.e._ about 1724,) some ingenious gentlemen, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amus.e.m.e.nt; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom the author hath a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of compositions."

PETHOX THE GREAT. 1723

FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows; But who thy father, no man knows: Nor can the skilful herald trace The founder of thy ancient race; Whether thy temper, full of fire, Discovers Vulcan for thy sire, The G.o.d who made Scamander boil, And round his margin singed the soil: (From whence, philosophers agree, An equal power descends to thee;) Whether from dreadful Mars you claim The high descent from whence you came, And, as a proof, show numerous scars By fierce encounters made in wars, Those honourable wounds you bore From head to foot, and all before, And still the b.l.o.o.d.y field frequent, Familiar in each leader's tent; Or whether, as the learn'd contend, You from the neighbouring Gaul descend; Or from Parthenope[1] the proud, Where numberless thy votaries crowd; Whether thy great forefathers came From realms that bear Vespuccio's name,[2]

For so conjectures would obtrude; And from thy painted skin conclude; Whether, as Epicurus[3] shows, The world from justling seeds arose, Which, mingling with prolific strife In chaos, kindled into life: So your production was the same, And from contending atoms came.

Thy fair indulgent mother crown'd Thy head with sparkling rubies round: Beneath thy decent steps the road Is all with precious jewels strew'd, The bird of Pallas,[4] knows his post, Thee to attend, where'er thou goest.

Byzantians boast, that on the clod Where once their Sultan's horse hath trod, Grows neither gra.s.s, nor shrub, nor tree: The same thy subjects boast of thee.

The greatest lord, when you appear, Will deign your livery to wear, In all the various colours seen Of red and yellow, blue and green.

With half a word when you require, The man of business must retire.

The haughty minister of state, With trembling must thy leisure wait; And, while his fate is in thy hands, The business of the nation stands.

Thou darest the greatest prince attack, Canst hourly set him on the rack; And, as an instance of thy power, Enclose him in a wooden tower, With pungent pains on every side: So Regulus[5] in torments died.

From thee our youth all virtues learn, Dangers with prudence to discern; And well thy scholars are endued With temperance and with fort.i.tude, With patience, which all ills supports, And secrecy, the art of courts.

The glittering beau could hardly tell, Without your aid, to read or spell; But, having long conversed with you, Knows how to scroll a billet-doux.

With what delight, methinks, I trace Your blood in every n.o.ble race!

In whom thy features, shape, and mien, Are to the life distinctly seen!

The Britons, once a savage kind, By you were brighten'd and refined, Descendants to the barbarous Huns, With limbs robust, and voice that stuns: But you have moulded them afresh, Removed the tough superfluous flesh, Taught them to modulate their tongues, And speak without the help of lungs.

Proteus on you bestow'd the boon To change your visage like the moon; You sometimes half a face produce, Keep t'other half for private use.

How famed thy conduct in the fight With Hermes, son of Pleias bright!

Outnumber'd, half encompa.s.s'd round, You strove for every inch of ground; Then, by a soldierly retreat, Retired to your imperial seat.

The victor, when your steps he traced, Found all the realms before him waste: You, o'er the high triumphal arch Pontific, made your glorious march: The wondrous arch behind you fell, And left a chasm profound as h.e.l.l: You, in your capitol secured, A siege as long as Troy endured.

[Footnote 1: Naples, anciently called Parthenope, from the name of the siren who threw herself into the sea for grief at the departure of Ulysses, and was cast up and buried there.--Ovid, "Met.," xiv, 101.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Americus Vespuccius, the discoverer of America in 1497. See Hakluyts "Navigations, Voyages, etc.," vii, 161; viii, 449.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: See Lucretius, "De Rer. Nat.," lib. i.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Bubo, the owl.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 5: Taken prisoner by the Carthaginians in the first Punic war, and ultimately tortured to death. See the story in Cicero, "De Officiis,"

i, 13; Hor., "Carm.," iii, 5.--_W. E. B._]

ON A PEN. 1724

In youth exalted high in air, Or bathing in the waters fair, Nature to form me took delight, And clad my body all in white.

My person tall, and slender waist, On either side with fringes graced; Till me that tyrant man espied, And dragg'd me from my mother's side: No wonder now I look so thin; The tyrant stript me to the skin: My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropt: At head and foot my body lopt: And then, with heart more hard than stone, He pick'd my marrow from the bone.

To vex me more, he took a freak To slit my tongue and make me speak: But, that which wonderful appears, I speak to eyes, and not to ears.

He oft employs me in disguise, And makes me tell a thousand lies: To me he chiefly gives in trust To please his malice or his l.u.s.t.

From me no secret he can hide; I see his vanity and pride: And my delight is to expose His follies to his greatest foes.

All languages I can command, Yet not a word I understand.

Without my aid, the best divine In learning would not know a line: The lawyer must forget his pleading; The scholar could not show his reading.

Nay; man my master is my slave; I give command to kill or save, Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year, And make a beggar's brat a peer.

But, while I thus my life relate, I only hasten on my fate.

My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd, I hardly now can force a word.

I die unpitied and forgot, And on some dunghill left to rot.

ON GOLD

All-ruling tyrant of the earth, To vilest slaves I owe my birth, How is the greatest monarch blest, When in my gaudy livery drest!

No haughty nymph has power to run From me; or my embraces shun.

Stabb'd to the heart, condemn'd to flame, My constancy is still the same.

The favourite messenger of Jove, And Lemnian G.o.d, consulting strove To make me glorious to the sight Of mortals, and the G.o.ds' delight.

Soon would their altar's flame expire If I refused to lend them fire.

By fate exalted high in place, Lo, here I stand with double face: Superior none on earth I find; But see below me all mankind Yet, as it oft attends the great, I almost sink with my own weight.

At every motion undertook, The vulgar all consult my look.

I sometimes give advice in writing, But never of my own inditing.

I am a courtier in my way; For those who raised me, I betray; And some give out that I entice To l.u.s.t, to luxury, and dice.

Who punishments on me inflict, Because they find their pockets pickt.

By riding post, I lose my health, And only to get others wealth.

ON THE POSTERIORS

Because I am by nature blind, I wisely choose to walk behind; However, to avoid disgrace, I let no creature see my face.

My words are few, but spoke with sense; And yet my speaking gives offence: Or, if to whisper I presume, The company will fly the room.

By all the world I am opprest: And my oppression gives them rest.

Through me, though sore against my will, Instructors every art instil.

By thousands I am sold and bought, Who neither get nor lose a groat; For none, alas! by me can gain, But those who give me greatest pain.

Shall man presume to be my master, Who's but my caterer and taster?

Yet, though I always have my will, I'm but a mere depender still: An humble hanger-on at best; Of whom all people make a jest.

In me detractors seek to find Two vices of a different kind; I'm too profuse, some censurers cry, And all I get, I let it fly; While others give me many a curse, Because too close I hold my purse.

But this I know, in either case, They dare not charge me to my face.

'Tis true, indeed, sometimes I save, Sometimes run out of all I have; But, when the year is at an end, Computing what I get and spend, My goings-out, and comings-in, I cannot find I lose or win; And therefore all that know me say, I justly keep the middle way.

I'm always by my betters led; I last get up, and first a-bed; Though, if I rise before my time, The learn'd in sciences sublime Consult the stars, and thence foretell Good luck to those with whom I dwell.

ON A HORN

The joy of man, the pride of brutes, Domestic subject for disputes, Of plenty thou the emblem fair, Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care!