The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 5

Should Solomon wise In majesty rise, And show them his wit and his learning; They never would hear, But turn the deaf ear, As a matter they had no concern in.

You tell a good jest, And please all the rest; Comes Dingley, and asks you, what was it?

And, curious to know, Away she will go To seek an old rag in the closet.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift's housekeeper.]

TO STELLA

WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF HER BIRTH, MARCH 13, 1723-4, BUT NOT ON THE SUBJECT, WHEN I WAS SICK IN BED

Tormented with incessant pains, Can I devise poetic strains?

Time was, when I could yearly pay My verse to Stella's native day: But now unable grown to write, I grieve she ever saw the light.

Ungrateful! since to her I owe That I these pains can undergo.

She tends me like an humble slave; And, when indecently I rave, When out my brutish pa.s.sions break, With gall in every word I speak, She with soft speech my anguish cheers, Or melts my pa.s.sions down with tears; Although 'tis easy to descry She wants a.s.sistance more than I; Yet seems to feel my pains alone, And is a stoic in her own.

When, among scholars, can we find So soft and yet so firm a mind?

All accidents of life conspire To raise up Stella's virtue higher; Or else to introduce the rest Which had been latent in her breast.

Her firmness who could e'er have known, Had she not evils of her own?

Her kindness who could ever guess, Had not her friends been in distress?

Whatever base returns you find From me, dear Stella, still be kind.

In your own heart you'll reap the fruit, Though I continue still a brute.

But, when I once am out of pain, I promise to be good again; Meantime, your other juster friends Shall for my follies make amends; So may we long continue thus, Admiring you, you pitying us.

VERSES BY STELLA

If it be true, celestial powers, That you have form'd me fair, And yet, in all my vainest hours, My mind has been my care: Then, in return, I beg this grace, As you were ever kind, What envious Time takes from my face Bestow upon my mind!

A RECEIPT TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH. 1724-5

The Scottish hinds, too poor to house In frosty nights their starving cows, While not a blade of gra.s.s or hay Appears from Michaelmas to May, Must let their cattle range in vain For food along the barren plain: Meagre and lank with fasting grown, And nothing left but skin and bone; Exposed to want, and wind, and weather, They just keep life and soul together, Till summer showers and evening's dew Again the verdant glebe renew; And, as the vegetables rise, The famish'd cow her want supplies; Without an ounce of last year's flesh; Whate'er she gains is young and fresh; Grows plump and round, and full of mettle, As rising from Medea's [1] kettle.

With youth and beauty to enchant Europa's[2] counterfeit gallant.

Why, Stella, should you knit your brow, If I compare you to a cow?

'Tis just the case; for you have fasted So long, till all your flesh is wasted; And must against the warmer days Be sent to Quilca down to graze; Where mirth, and exercise, and air, Will soon your appet.i.te repair: The nutriment will from within, Round all your body, plump your skin; Will agitate the lazy flood, And fill your veins with sprightly blood.

Nor flesh nor blood will be the same Nor aught of Stella but the name: For what was ever understood, By human kind, but flesh and blood?

And if your flesh and blood be new, You'll be no more the former you; But for a blooming nymph will pa.s.s, Just fifteen, coming summer's gra.s.s, Your jetty locks with garlands crown'd: While all the squires for nine miles round, Attended by a brace of curs, With jockey boots and silver spurs, No less than justices o' quorum, Their cow-boys bearing cloaks before 'em, Shall leave deciding broken pates, To kiss your steps at Quilca gates.

But, lest you should my skill disgrace, Come back before you're out of case; For if to Michaelmas you stay, The new-born flesh will melt away; The 'squires in scorn will fly the house For better game, and look for grouse; But here, before the frost can mar it, We'll make it firm with beef and claret.

[Footnote 1: The celebrated sorceress, daughter of aeetes, King of Colchis, who a.s.sisted Jason in obtaining possession of the Golden Fleece.--_W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Carried off by Jupiter under the form of a bull. Ovid, "Met." ii, 836.]

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1724-5

As when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she's past her dancing days; So poets lose their feet by time, And can no longer dance in rhyme.

Your annual bard had rather chose To celebrate your birth in prose: Yet merry folks, who want by chance A pair to make a country dance, Call the old housekeeper, and get her To fill a place for want of better: While Sheridan is off the hooks, And friend Delany at his books, That Stella may avoid disgrace, Once more the Dean supplies their place.

Beauty and wit, too sad a truth!

Have always been confined to youth; The G.o.d of wit and beauty's queen, He twenty-one and she fifteen, No poet ever sweetly sung, Unless he were, like Phoebus, young; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, Unless, like Venus, in her prime.

At fifty-six, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you?

Or, at the age of forty-three, Are you a subject fit for me?

Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes!

You must be grave and I be wise.

Our fate in vain we would oppose: But I'll be still your friend in prose: Esteem and friends.h.i.+p to express, Will not require poetic dress; And if the Muse deny her aid To have them sung, they may be said.

But, Stella, say, what evil tongue Reports you are no longer young; That Time sits with his scythe to mow Where erst sat Cupid with his bow; That half your locks are turn'd to gray?

I'll ne'er believe a word they say.

'Tis true, but let it not be known, My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown; For nature, always in the right, To your decays adapts my sight; And wrinkles undistinguished pa.s.s, For I'm ashamed to use a gla.s.s: And till I see them with these eyes, Whoever says you have them, lies.

No length of time can make you quit Honour and virtue, sense and wit; Thus you may still be young to me, While I can better hear than see.

O ne'er may Fortune show her spite, To make me deaf, and mend my sight![1]

[Footnote 1: Now deaf, 1740.--_Swift_. This pathetic note was in Swift's writing in his own copy of the "Miscellanies," edit.

1727-32.--_W. E. B._]

BEC'S[1] BIRTH-DAY NOV. 8, 1726

This day, dear Bec, is thy nativity; Had Fate a luckier one, she'd give it ye.

She chose a thread of greatest length, And doubly twisted it for strength: Nor will be able with her shears To cut it off these forty years.

Then who says care will kill a cat?

Rebecca shows they're out in that.

For she, though overrun with care, Continues healthy, fat, and fair.

As, if the gout should seize the head, Doctors p.r.o.nounce the patient dead; But, if they can, by all their arts, Eject it to the extremest parts, They give the sick man joy, and praise The gout that will prolong his days.

Rebecca thus I gladly greet, Who drives her cares to hands and feet: For, though philosophers maintain The limbs are guided by the brain, Quite contrary Rebecca's led; Her hands and feet conduct her head; By arbitrary power convey her, She ne'er considers why or where: Her hands may meddle, feet may wander, Her head is but a mere by-stander: And all her bustling but supplies The part of wholesome exercise.

Thus nature has resolved to pay her The cat's nine lives, and eke the care.

Long may she live, and help her friends Whene'er it suits her private ends; Domestic business never mind Till coffee has her stomach lined; But, when her breakfast gives her courage, Then think on Stella's chicken porridge: I mean when Tiger[2]has been served, Or else poor Stella may be starved.

May Bec have many an evening nap, With Tiger slabbering in her lap; But always take a special care She does not overset the chair; Still be she curious, never hearken To any speech but Tiger's barking!

And when she's in another scene, Stella long dead, but first the Dean, May fortune and her coffee get her Companions that will please her better!

Whole afternoons will sit beside her, Nor for neglects or blunders chide her.

A goodly set as can be found Of hearty gossips prating round; Fresh from a wedding or a christening, To teach her ears the art of listening, And please her more to hear them tattle, Than the Dean storm, or Stella rattle.

Late be her death, one gentle nod, When Hermes,[3] waiting with his rod, Shall to Elysian fields invite her, Where there will be no cares to fright her!

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley.]

[Footnote 2: Mrs. Dingley's favourite lap-dog. See next page.--_W. E. B._]