The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 69

Who does not know SIR ISAAC, and THE DEAN?

TO THE MEMORY OF DOCTOR SWIFT

When wasteful death has closed the Poet's eyes, And low in earth his mortal essence lies; When the bright flame, that once his breast inspired, Has to its first, its n.o.blest seat retired; All worthy minds, whom love of merit sways, Should shade from slander his respected bays; And bid that fame, his useful labours won, Pure and untainted through all ages run.

Envy's a fiend all excellence pursues, But mostly poets favour'd by the Muse; Who wins the laurel, sacred verse bestows, Makes all, who fail in like attempts, his foes; No puny wit of malice can complain, The thorn is theirs, who most applauses gain.

Whatever gifts or graces Heaven design'd To raise man's genius, or enrich his mind, Were Swift's to boast--alike his merits claim The statesman's knowledge, and the poet's flame; The patriot's honour, zealous to defend His country's rights--and _faithful to the end_; The sound divine, whose charities display'd He more by virtue than by forms was sway'd; Temperate at board, and frugal of his store, Which he but spared, to make his bounties more: The generous friend, whose heart alike caress'd, The friend triumphant, or the friend distress'd; Who could, unpain'd, another's merit spy, Nor view a rival's fame with jaundiced eye; Humane to all, his love was unconfined, And in its scope embraced all human kind; Sharp, not malicious, was his charming wit, And less to anger than reform he writ; Whatever rancour his productions show'd, From scorn of vice and folly only flow'd; He thought that fools were an invidious race, And held no measures with the vain or base.

Virtue so clear! who labours to destroy, Shall find the charge can but himself annoy: The slanderous theft to his own breast recoils, Who seeks renown from injured merit's spoils; All hearts unite, and Heaven with man conspires To guard those virtues she herself admires.

O sacred bard!--once ours!--but now no more, Whose loss, for ever, Ireland must deplore, No earthly laurels needs thy happy brow, Above the poet's are thy honours now: Above the patriot's, (though a greater name No temporal monarch for his crown can claim.) From n.o.ble b.r.e.a.s.t.s if envy might ensue, Thy death is all the brave can envy you.

You died, when merit (to its fate resign'd) Saw scarce one friend to genius left behind, When s.h.i.+ning parts did jealous hatred breed, And 'twas a crime in science to succeed, When ignorance spread her hateful mist around, And dunces only an acceptance found.

What could such scenes in n.o.ble minds beget, But life with pain, and talents with regret?

Add that thy spirit from the world retired, Ere hidden foes its further grief conspired; No treacherous friend did stories yet contrive, To blast the Muse he flatter'd when alive,[1]

Or sordid printer (by his influence led) Abused the fame that first bestow'd him bread.

Slanders so mean, had he whose nicer ear Abhorr'd all scandal, but survived to hear, The fraudful tale had stronger scorn supplied, And he (at length) with more disdain had died, But since detraction is the portion here Of all who virtuous durst, or great, appear, And the free soul no true existence gains, While earthly particles its flight restrains, The greatest favour grimful Death can show, Is with swift dart to expedite the blow.

So thought the Dean, who, anxious for his fate, Sigh'd for release, and deem'd the blessing late.

And sure if virtuous souls (life's travail past) Enjoy (as churchmen teach) repose at last, There's cause to think, a mind so firmly good, Who vice so long, and lawless power, withstood, Has reach'd the limits of that peaceful sh.o.r.e, Where knaves molest, and tyrants awe, no more; These blissful seats the pious but attain, Where incorrupt, immortal spirits reign.

There his own Parnell strikes the living lyre.

And Pope, harmonius, joins the tuneful choir; His Stella too, (no more to forms confined, For heavenly beings all are of a kind,) Unites with his the treasures of her mind, With warmer friends.h.i.+ps bids their bosoms glow, Nor dreads the rage of vulgar tongues below.

Such pleasing hope the tranquil breast enjoys, Whose inward peace no conscious crime annoys; While guilty minds irresolute appear, And doubt a state their vices needs must fear.

R----T B----N.

Dublin, Nov. 4, 1755.

[Footnote 1: Compare the Earl of Orrery's "Verses to Swift on his birthday" (vol. i, 228) with his "Remarks on the Life and writings of Swift." And see _post_, p. 406. The next line refers to Faulkner.--_W. E. B._]

A SCHOOLBOY'S THEME

The following lines were enclosed in a letter from Mr. Pulteney, (afterwards Earl of Bath,) to Swift, in which he says--"You must give me leave to add to my letter a copy of verses at the end of a declamation made by a boy at Westminster school on this theme,--_Ridentem dicere verum quid vetat?_"

Dulce, Decane, decus, flos optime gentis Hibernae Nomine quique audis, ingenioque celer: Dum lepido indulges risu, et mutaris in horas, Qu nova vis animi, materiesque rapit?

Nunc gravis astrologus, coelo dominaris et astris, Filaque pro libitu Partrigiana secas.

Nunc populo speciosa hospes miracula promis, Gentesque aequoreas, aeriasque creas.

Seu plausum captat queruli persona Draperi, Seu levis a vacuo tabula sumpta cado.

Mores egregius mira exprimis arte magister, Et vitam atque homines pagina quaeque sapit; Socraticae minor est vis et sapientia chartae, Nec tantum potuit grande Platonis opus.

VERSES ON THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS

BY MR. JAMES STERLING, OF THE COUNTY OF MEATH

While the Dean with more wit than man ever wanted, Or than Heaven to any man else ever granted, Endeavours to prove, how the ancients in knowledge Have excell'd our adepts of each modern college; How by heroes of old our chiefs are surpa.s.s'd In each useful science, true learning, and taste.

While thus he behaves, with more courage than manners, And fights for the foe, deserting our banners; While Bentley and Wotton, our champions, he foils, And wants neither Temple's a.s.sistance, nor Boyle's; In spite of his learning, fine reasons, and style, --Would you think it?--he favours our cause all the while: We raise by his conquest our glory the higher, And from our defeat to a triumph aspire; Our great brother-modern, the boast of our days, Unconscious, has gain'd for our party the bays: St. James's old authors, so famed on each shelf, Are vanquish'd by what he has written himself.

ON DR. SWIFT'S LEAVING HIS ESTATE TO IDIOTS

Swift, wondrous genius, bright intelligence, Pities the orphan's, idiot's want of sense; And rich in supernumerary pelf, Adopts posterity unlike himself.

To one great individual wit's confined!

Such eunuchs never propagate their kind.

Thus nature's prodigies bestow the gifts Of fortune, their descendants are no Swifts.

When did prime statesman, for a sceptre fit His ministerial successor beget?

No age, no state, no world, can hope to see Two SWIFTS or WALPOLES in one family.

ON SEVERAL PETTY PIECES

LATELY PUBLISHED AGAINST DEAN SWIFT, NOW DEAF AND INFIRM

Thy mortal part, ingenious Swift! must die, Thy fame shall reach beyond mortality!

How puny whirlings joy at thy decline, Thou darling offspring of the tuneful nine!

The n.o.ble _lion_ thus, as vigour pa.s.ses, The fable tells us, is abused by _a.s.ses_.

ON FAULKNER'S EDITION OF SWIFT

Ornamented with an Engraving of the Dean, by Vertue.

In a little dark room at the back of his shop, Where poets and scribes have dined on a chop, Poor Faulkner sate musing alone thus of late, "Two volumes are done--it is time for the plate; Yes, time to be sure;--but on whom shall I call To express the great Swift in a compa.s.s so small?

Faith, _Vertue_ shall do it, I'm pleased at the thought, Be the cost what it will--the copper is bought."

Apollo o'erheard, (who as some people guess, Had a hand in the work, and corrected the press;) And pleased, he replied, "Honest George, you are right, The thought was my own, howsoe'er you came by't.

For though both the wit and the style is my gift, 'Tis VERTUE alone can design us a SWIFT."

EPIGRAM ON LORD ORRERY'S REMARKS ON SWIFT'S LIFE AND WRITINGS

A sore disease this scribbling itch is!

His Lords.h.i.+p, in his Pliny seen,[1]

Turns Madam Pilkington in breeches, And now attacks our Patriot Dean.

What! libel his friend when laid in ground: Nay, good sir, you may spare your hints, His parallel at last is found, For what he writes George Faulkner prints.

Had Swift provoked to this behaviour, Yet after death resentment cools, Sure his last act bespoke his favour, He built an hospital--for fools.