The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 66

[Footnote 14: Reflection of the sun.]

[Footnote 15: Motherly woman.]

[Footnote 16: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the d.u.c.h.esses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.]

[Footnote 17: Not Flanders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last birth-day.--Vid. the shopkeepers' books.]

[Footnote 18: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a number of monkey-airs to catch men.]

[Footnote 19: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to think these comparisons are odious.]

[Footnote 20: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and rapparees.]

AN ANSWER TO A SCANDALOUS POEM

Wherein the Author most audaciously presumes to cast an indignity upon their highnesses the Clouds, by comparing them to a woman.

Written by DERMOT O'NEPHELY, Chief Cape of Howth.[1]

BY DR. SWIFT

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT FROM THE CLOUDS

N.B. The following answer to that scurrilous libel against us, should have been published long ago in our own justification: But it was advised, that, considering the high importance of the subject, it should be deferred until the meeting of the General a.s.sembly of the Nation.

[Two pa.s.sages within crotchets are added to this poem, from a copy found amongst Swift's papers. It is indorsed, "Quaere, should it go."

And a little lower, "More, but of no use."]

Presumptuous bard! how could you dare A woman with a cloud compare?

Strange pride and insolence you show Inferior mortals there below.

And is our thunder in your ears So frequent or so loud as theirs?

Alas! our thunder soon goes out; And only makes you more devout.

Then is not female clatter worse, That drives you not to pray, but curse?

We hardly thunder thrice a-year; The bolt discharged, the sky grows clear; But every sublunary dowdy, The more she scolds, the more she's cloudy.

[How useful were a woman's thunder, If she, like us, would burst asunder!

Yet, though her stays hath often cursed her, And, whisp'ring, wish'd the devil burst her: For hourly thund'ring in his face, She ne'er was known to burst a lace.]

Some critic may object, perhaps, That clouds are blamed for giving claps; But what, alas! are claps ethereal, Compared for mischief to venereal?

Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches, Or from your noses dig out notches?

We leave the body sweet and sound; We kill, 'tis true, but never wound.

You know a cloudy sky bespeaks Fair weather when the morning breaks; But women in a cloudy plight, Foretell a storm to last till night.

A cloud in proper season pours His blessings down in fruitful showers; But woman was by fate design'd To pour down curses on mankind.

When Sirius[2] o'er the welkin rages, Our kindly help his fire a.s.suages; But woman is a cursed inflamer, No parish ducking-stool can tame her: To kindle strife, dame Nature taught her; Like fireworks, she can burn in water.

For fickleness how durst you blame us, Who for our constancy are famous?

You'll see a cloud in gentle weather Keep the same face an hour together; While women, if it could be reckon'd, Change every feature every second.

Observe our figure in a morning, Of foul or fair we give you warning; But can you guess from women's air One minute, whether foul or fair?

Go read in ancient books enroll'd What honours we possess'd of old.

To disappoint Ixion's[3] rape Jove dress'd a cloud in Juno's shape; Which when he had enjoy'd, he swore, No G.o.ddess could have pleased him more; No difference could he find between His cloud and Jove's imperial queen; His cloud produced a race of Centaurs, Famed for a thousand bold adventures; From us descended _ab origine_, By learned authors, called _nubigenae_; But say, what earthly nymph do you know, So beautiful to pa.s.s for Juno?

Before aeneas durst aspire To court her majesty of Tyre, His mother begg'd of us to dress him, That Dido might the more caress him: A coat we gave him, dyed in grain, A flaxen wig, and clouded cane, (The wig was powder'd round with sleet, Which fell in clouds beneath his feet) With which he made a tearing show; And Dido quickly smoked the beau.

Among your females make inquiries, What nymph on earth so fair as Iris?

With heavenly beauty so endow'd?

And yet her father is a cloud.

We dress'd her in a gold brocade, Befitting Juno's favourite maid.

'Tis known that Socrates the wise Adored us clouds as deities: To us he made his daily prayers, As Aristophanes declares; From Jupiter took all dominion, And died defending his opinion.

By his authority 'tis plain You wors.h.i.+p other G.o.ds in vain; And from your own experience know We govern all things there below.

You follow where we please to guide; O'er all your pa.s.sions we preside, Can raise them up, or sink them down, As we think fit to smile or frown: And, just as we dispose your brain, Are witty, dull, rejoice, complain.

Compare us then to female race!

We, to whom all the G.o.ds give place!

Who better challenge your allegiance Because we dwell in higher regions.

You find the G.o.ds in Homer dwell In seas and streams, or low as h.e.l.l: Ev'n Jove, and Mercury his pimp, No higher climb than mount Olymp.

Who makes you think the clouds he pierces?

He pierce the clouds! he kiss their a--es; While we, o'er Teneriffa placed, Are loftier by a mile at least: And, when Apollo struts on Pindus, We see him from our kitchen windows; Or, to Parna.s.sus looking down, Can p.i.s.s upon his laurel crown.

Fate never form'd the G.o.ds to fly; In vehicles they mount the sky: When Jove would some fair nymph inveigle, He comes full gallop on his eagle; Though Venus be as light as air, She must have doves to draw her chair; Apollo stirs not out of door, Without his lacquer'd coach and four; And jealous Juno, ever snarling, Is drawn by peac.o.c.ks in her berlin: But we can fly where'er we please, O'er cities, rivers, hills, and seas: From east to west the world we roam, And in all climates are at home; With care provide you as we go With suns.h.i.+ne, rain, and hail, or snow.

You, when it rains, like fools, believe Jove p.i.s.ses on you through a sieve: An idle tale, 'tis no such matter; We only dip a sponge in water, Then squeeze it close between our thumbs, And shake it well, and down it comes; As you shall to your sorrow know; We'll watch your steps where'er you go; And, since we find you walk a-foot, We'll soundly souse your frieze surtout.

'Tis but by our peculiar grace, That Phoebus ever shows his face; For, when we please, we open wide Our curtains blue from side to side; And then how saucily he shows His brazen face and fiery nose; And gives himself a haughty air, As if he made the weather fair!

'Tis sung, wherever Celia treads, The violets ope their purple heads; The roses blow, the cowslip springs; 'Tis sung; but we know better things.

'Tis true, a woman on her mettle Will often p.i.s.s upon a nettle; But though we own she makes it wetter, The nettle never thrives the better; While we, by soft prolific showers, Can every spring produce you flowers.

Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning, Compare her radiant eyes to lightning; And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd, That lightning comes but from a cloud.

But G.o.ds like us have too much sense At poets' flights to take offence; Nor can hyperboles demean us; Each drab has been compared to Venus.

We own your verses are melodious; But such comparisons are odious.

[Observe the case--I state it thus: Though you compare your trull to us, But think how d.a.m.nably you err When you compare us clouds to her; From whence you draw such bold conclusions; But poets love profuse allusions.

And, if you now so little spare us, Who knows how soon you may compare us To Chartres, Walpole, or a king, If once we let you have your swing.

Such wicked insolence appears Offensive to all pious ears.

To flatter women by a metaphor!

What profit could you hope to get of her?

And, for her sake, turn base detractor Against your greatest benefactor.

But we shall keep revenge in store If ever you provoke us more: For, since we know you walk a-foot, We'll soundly drench your frieze surtout; Or may we never thunder throw, Nor souse to death a birth-day beau.

We own your verses are melodious; But such comparisons are odious.]

[Footnote 1: The highest point of Howth is called the Cape of Howth.-- _F._]

[Footnote 2: The Dogstar.--Hyginus, "Astronomica."]

[Footnote 3: Who murdered his father-in-law, and was taken into heaven and purified by Jove, but when, after he had begot the Centaurs from the cloud, he boasted of his imaginary success with Juno, Jupiter hurled him into Tartarus, where he was bound to a perpetually revolving wheel.

"Volvitur Ixion: et se sequiturque fugitque." Ovid, "Metam.," iv, 460.

Tibullus tells the tale in one distich, lib. I, iii: "Illic Junonem tentare Ixionis ausi Versantur celeri noxia membra rota."--_W. E. B._]

PEG RADCLIFFE THE HOSTESS'S INVITATION

To the Reverend Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D. written with a design to be spoken by her on his arrival at Gla.s.snevin, Dr. Delany having complimented him with a house there. From the London and Dublin Magazine for June, 1735. The lines are probably by Delany or Sheridan.

Though the name of this place may make you to frown, Your Deans.h.i.+p is welcome to _Gla.s.snevin_ town; [1]A gla.s.s and no wine, to a man of your taste, Alas! is enough, sir, to break it in haste; Be that as it will, your presence can't fail To yield great delight in drinking our ale; Would you but vouchsafe a mug to partake, And as we can brew, believe we can bake.

The life and the pleasure we now from you hope, The famed Violante can't show on the rope; Your genius and talents outdo even Pope.