The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 15

TO MR. DELANY,[1]

OCT. 10, 1718 NINE IN THE MORNING

To you whose virtues, I must own With shame, I have too lately known; To you, by art and nature taught To be the man I long have sought, Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind, Placed you in life too far behind: Or, what I should repine at more, Placed me in life too far before: To you the Muse this verse bestows, Which might as well have been in prose; No thought, no fancy, no sublime, But simple topics told in rhyme.

Three gifts for conversation fit Are humour, raillery, and wit: The last, as boundless as the wind, Is well conceived, though not defined; For, sure by wit is only meant Applying what we first invent.

What humour is, not all the tribe Of logic-mongers can describe; Here only nature acts her part, Unhelp'd by practice, books, or art: For wit and humour differ quite; That gives surprise, and this delight, Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild, Only by affectation spoil'd; 'Tis never by invention got, Men have it when they know it not.

Our conversation to refine, True humour must with wit combine: From both we learn to rally well, Wherein French writers most excel; [2]Voiture, in various lights, displays That irony which turns to praise: His genius first found out the rule For an obliging ridicule: He flatters with peculiar air The brave, the witty, and the fair: And fools would fancy he intends A satire where he most commends.

But as a poor pretending beau, Because he fain would make a show, Nor can afford to buy gold lace, Takes up with copper in the place: So the pert dunces of mankind, Whene'er they would be thought refined, Because the diff'rence lies abstruse 'Twixt raillery and gross abuse, To show their parts will scold and rail, Like porters o'er a pot of ale.

Such is that clan of boisterous bears, Always together by the ears; Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe That meet for nothing but to gibe; Who first run one another down, And then fall foul on all the town; Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub, And call'd by excellence The Club.

I mean your butler, Dawson, Car, All special friends, and always jar.

The mettled and the vicious steed Do not more differ in their breed, Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh, As rudeness is to repartee.

If what you said I wish unspoke, 'Twill not suffice it was a joke: Reproach not, though in jest, a friend For those defects he cannot mend; His lineage, calling, shape, or sense, If named with scorn, gives just offence.

What use in life to make men fret, Part in worse humour than they met?

Thus all society is lost, Men laugh at one another's cost: And half the company is teazed That came together to be pleased: For all buffoons have most in view To please themselves by vexing you.

When jests are carried on too far, And the loud laugh begins the war, You keep your countenance for shame, Yet still you think your friend to blame; For though men cry they love a jest, 'Tis but when others stand the test; And (would you have their meaning known) They love a jest when 'tis their own.

You wonder now to see me write So gravely where the subject's light; Some part of what I here design Regards a friend[3] of yours and mine; Who full of humour, fire, and wit, Not always judges what is fit, But loves to take prodigious rounds, And sometimes walks beyond his bounds, You must, although the point be nice, Venture to give him some advice; Few hints from you will set him right, And teach him how to be polite.

Bid him like you, observe with care, Whom to be hard on, whom to spare; Nor indiscreetly to suppose All subjects like Dan Jackson's[4] nose.

To study the obliging jest, By reading those who teach it best; For prose I recommend Voiture's, For verse (I speak my judgment) yours.

He'll find the secret out from thence, To rhyme all day without offence; And I no more shall then accuse The flirts of his ill-manner'd Muse.

If he be guilty, you must mend him; If he be innocent, defend him.

[Footnote 1: The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift's most valued friends, born about 1685. When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged Delany's claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St.

Patrick's. He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too hospitable for his means. He died at Bath, 1768.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died 1648.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan.]

[Footnote 4: Mentioned in "The Country Life," as one of that lively party, _post_, p. 137.--_W. E. B_.]

AN ELEGY[1]

ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER; WHO DIED ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720

Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer, By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar; Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound Redeem him from his prison underground.

His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest.

Plutus, the G.o.d of wealth, will joy to know His faithful steward in the shades below.

He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak; He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk: And by his looks, had he held out his palms, He might be thought an object fit for alms.

So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf, He us'd 'em full as kindly as himself.

Where'er he went, he never saw his betters; Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors; And under hand and seal, the Irish nation Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.

He that cou'd once have half a kingdom bought, In half a minute is not worth a groat.

His coffers from the coffin could not save, Nor all his int'rest keep him from the grave.

A golden monument would not be right, Because we wish the earth upon him light.

Oh London Tavern![2] thou hast lost a friend, Tho' in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend; He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot; The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot.

Old as he was, no vulgar known disease On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize; "[3]But as the gold he weigh'd, grim death in spight Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light; And, as he saw his darling money fail, Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale."

He who so long was current, 'twould be strange If he should now be cry'd down since his change.

The s.e.xton shall green sods on thee bestow; Alas, the s.e.xton is thy banker now!

A dismal banker must that banker be, Who gives no bills but of mortality!

[Footnote 1: The subject was John Demar, a great merchant in Dublin who died 6th July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was brought to them; and the elegy was the joint composition of the company.--_C. Walker_.]

[Footnote 2: A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: These four lines were written by Stella.--_F_.]

EPITAPH ON THE SAME

Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demar, the wealthy and the wise, His heirs,[1] that he might safely rest, Have put his carca.s.s in a chest; The very chest in which, they say, His other self, his money, lay.

And, if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe, that four in five Will think his better self alive.

[Footnote 1: "His heirs for winding sheet bestow'd His money bags together sew'd And that he might securely rest,"

Variation--From the Chetwode MS.--_W. E. B_.]

TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT, ON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT

You always are making a G.o.d of your spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in grat.i.tude due, And you adore him, because he adores you.

Your argument's weak, and so you will find; For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE DEANERY HOUSE, ST. PATRICK'S

Are the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated?

Sure the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated.

In the days of good John[1] if you came here to dine, You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine.

In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat.

O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest, Wouldst thou but agree to this humble request!

Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble, Instead of the deans, make the deanery double.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Sterne, the predecessor of Swift in the deanery of St.

Patrick's, and afterwards Bishop of Clogher, was distinguished for his hospitality. See Journal to Stella, _pa.s.sim_, "Prose Works," vol.

ii--_W. E. B._]