The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 1

     [Footnote 1: A delicate way of speaking of a lady retiring behind a bush
     in a garden.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2:
       "Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull
       Strong without rage, without o'erflowing, full."
DENHAM, Cooper's Hill.]

     [Footnote 3: A veil with which the Roman brides covered themselves when
     going to be married.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Marriage song, sung at weddings.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: Diana.]

     [Footnote 6: Who married Thetis, the Nereid, by whom he became the father
     of Achilles.—Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. xi, 221, seq.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 7: See Ovid, "Metamorph.," lib. iii.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 8: A precept of Pythagoras. Hence, in French argot, beans, as
     causing wind, are called musiciens.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 9: Provocative of perspiration and urine.]

     [Footnote 1: "Mingere cum bombis res est saluberrima lumbis." A precept
     to be found in the "Regimen Sanitatis," or "Schola Salernitana," a work
     in rhyming Latin verse composed at Salerno, the earliest school in
     Christian Europe where medicine was professed, taught, and practised. The
     original text, if anywhere, is in the edition published and commented
     upon by Arnaldus de Villa Nova, about 1480. Subsequently above one
     hundred and sixty editions of the "Schola Salernitana" were published,
     with many additions. A reprint of the first edition, edited by Sir
     Alexander Croke, with woodcuts from the editions of 1559, 1568, and
     1573, was published at Oxford in 1830.—W. E. B.]

     Apollo, god of light and wit,
     Could verse inspire, but seldom writ,
     Refined all metals with his looks,
     As well as chemists by their books;
     As handsome as my lady's page;
     Sweet five-and-twenty was his age.
     His wig was made of sunny rays,
     He crown'd his youthful head with bays;
     Not all the court of Heaven could show
     So nice and so complete a beau.
     No heir upon his first appearance,
     With twenty thousand pounds a-year rents,
     E'er drove, before he sold his land,
     So fine a coach along the Strand;
     The spokes, we are by Ovid told,
     Were silver, and the axle gold:
     I own, 'twas but a coach-and-four,
     For Jupiter allows no more.
       Yet, with his beauty, wealth, and parts,
     Enough to win ten thousand hearts,
     No vulgar deity above
     Was so unfortunate in love.
       Three weighty causes were assign'd,
     That moved the nymphs to be unkind.
     Nine Muses always waiting round him,
     He left them virgins as he found them.
     His singing was another fault;
     For he could reach to B in alt:
     And, by the sentiments of Pliny,[1]
     Such singers are like Nicolini.
     At last, the point was fully clear'd;
     In short, Apollo had no beard.

     [Footnote 1: "Bubus tantum feminis vox gravior, in alio omni genere
     exilior quam maribus, in homine etiam castratis."—"Hist. Nat.," xi, 51.
     "A condicione castrati seminis quae spadonia appellant Belgae,"
     ib. xv.—W. E. B.]

     All folks who pretend to religion and grace,
     Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place:
     But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined
     The place of the damn'd—I'll tell you my mind.
     Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound,
     Most certainly there is HELL to be found:
     Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves,
     Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves;
     Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires;
     Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars;
     Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station;
     Damn'd time-serving priests all over the nation;
     And into the bargain I'll readily give you
     Damn'd ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy.
     Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd,
     For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd:
     And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome.
     How happy for us that it is not at home!

     With a whirl of thought oppress'd,
     I sunk from reverie to rest.
     An horrid vision seized my head;
     I saw the graves give up their dead!
     Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies,
     And thunder roars and lightning flies!
     Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown,
     The world stands trembling at his throne!
     While each pale sinner hung his head,
     Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said:
     "Offending race of human kind,
     By nature, reason, learning, blind;
     You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside;
     And you, who never fell—through pride:
     You who in different sects were shamm'd,
     And come to see each other damn'd;
     (So some folk told you, but they knew
     No more of Jove's designs than you;)
     —The world's mad business now is o'er,
     And I resent these pranks no more.
     —I to such blockheads set my wit!
     I damn such fools!—Go, go, you're bit."

     [Footnote 1: This Poem was sent in a letter from Lord Chesterfield to
     Voltaire, dated 27th August, 1752, in which he says: "Je vous envoie
     ci-jointe une pièce par le feu Docteur Swift, laquelle je crois ne vous
     déplaira pas. Elle n'a jamais été imprimée, vous en dévinerez bien la
     raison, roais elle est authentique. J'en ai l'original, écrit de sa
     propre main."—W. E. B.]

     By the just vengeance of incensed skies,
     Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies.
     The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe,
     Amounting hardly to a crown a-tribe;
     Which though his conscience forced him to restore,
     (And parsons tell us, no man can do more,)
     Yet, through despair, of God and man accurst,
     He lost his bishopric, and hang'd or burst.
     Those former ages differ'd much from this;
     Judas betray'd his master with a kiss:
     But some have kiss'd the gospel fifty times,
     Whose perjury's the least of all their crimes;
     Some who can perjure through a two inch-board,
     Yet keep their bishoprics, and 'scape the cord:
     Like hemp, which, by a skilful spinster drawn
     To slender threads, may sometimes pass for lawn.
       As ancient Judas by transgression fell,
     And burst asunder ere he went to hell;
     So could we see a set of new Iscariots
     Come headlong tumbling from their mitred chariots;
     Each modern Judas perish like the first,
     Drop from the tree with all his bowels burst;
     Who could forbear, that view'd each guilty face,
     To cry, "Lo! Judas gone to his own place,
     His habitation let all men forsake,
     And let his bishopric another take!"

     How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's train,
     To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain![2]
     Fain would I think our female friend [3] sincere,
     Till Bob,[4] the poet's foe, possess'd her ear.
     Did female virtue e'er so high ascend,
     To lose an inch of favour for a friend?
       Say, had the court no better place to choose
     For triee, than make a dry-nurse of thy Muse?
     How cheaply had thy liberty been sold,
     To squire a royal girl of two years old:
     In leading strings her infant steps to guide,
     Or with her go-cart amble side by side![5]
       But princely Douglas,[6] and his glorious dame,
     Advanced thy fortune, and preserved thy fame.
     Nor will your nobler gifts be misapplied,
     When o'er your patron's treasure you preside:
     The world shall own, his choice was wise and just,
     For sons of Phoebus never break their trust.
       Not love of beauty less the heart inflames
     Of guardian eunuchs to the sultan's dames,
     Their passions not more impotent and cold,
     Than those of poets to the lust of gold.
     With Pæan's purest fire his favourites glow,
     The dregs will serve to ripen ore below:
     His meanest work: for, had he thought it fit
     That wealth should be the appanage of wit,
     The god of light could ne'er have been so blind
     To deal it to the worst of human kind.
       But let me now, for I can do it well,
     Your conduct in this new employ foretell.
       And first: to make my observation right,
     I place a statesman full before my sight,
     A bloated minister in all his gear,
     With shameless visage and perfidious leer:
     Two rows of teeth arm each devouring jaw,
     And ostrich-like his all-digesting maw.
     My fancy drags this monster to my view,
     To shew the world his chief reverse in you.
     Of loud unmeaning sounds, a rapid flood
     Rolls from his mouth in plenteous streams of mud;
     With these the court and senate-house he plies,
     Made up of noise, and impudence, and lies.
       Now let me show how Bob and you agree:
     You serve a potent prince,[7] as well as he.
     The ducal coffers trusted to your charge,
     Your honest care may fill, perhaps enlarge:
     His vassals easy, and the owner blest;
     They pay a trifle, and enjoy the rest.
     Not so a nation's revenues are paid;
     The servant's faults are on the master laid.
     The people with a sigh their taxes bring,
     And, cursing Bob, forget to bless the king.
       Next hearken, Gay, to what thy charge requires,
     With servants, tenants, and the neighbouring squires,
     Let all domestics feel your gentle sway;
     Nor bribe, insult, nor flatter, nor betray.
     Let due reward to merit be allow'd;
     Nor with your kindred half the palace crowd;
     Nor think yourself secure in doing wrong,
     By telling noses [8] with a party strong.
       Be rich; but of your wealth make no parade;
     At least, before your master's debts are paid;
     Nor in a palace, built with charge immense,
     Presume to treat him at his own expense.[9]
     Each farmer in the neighbourhood can count
     To what your lawful perquisites amount.
     The tenants poor, the hardness of the times,
     Are ill excuses for a servant's crimes.
     With interest, and a premium paid beside,
     The master's pressing wants must be supplied;
     With hasty zeal behold the steward come
     By his own credit to advance the sum;
     Who, while th'unrighteous Mammon is his friend,
     May well conclude his power will never end.
     A faithful treasurer! what could he do more?
     He lends my lord what was my lord's before.
       The law so strictly guards the monarch's health,
     That no physician dares prescribe by stealth:
     The council sit; approve the doctor's skill;
     And give advice before he gives the pill.
     But the state empiric acts a safer part;
     And, while he poisons, wins the royal heart.
       But how can I describe the ravenous breed?
     Then let me now by negatives proceed.
       Suppose your lord a trusty servant send
     On weighty business to some neighbouring friend:
     Presume not, Gay, unless you serve a drone,
     To countermand his orders by your own.
     Should some imperious neighbour sink the boats,
     And drain the fish-ponds, while your master dotes;
     Shall he upon the ducal rights intrench,
     Because he bribed you with a brace of tench?
       Nor from your lord his bad condition hide,
     To feed his luxury, or soothe his pride.
     Nor at an under rate his timber sell,
     And with an oath assure him, all is well;
     Or swear it rotten, and with humble airs [10]
     Request it of him, to complete your stairs;
     Nor, when a mortgage lies on half his lands,
     Come with a purse of guineas in your hands.
       Have Peter Waters [11] always in your mind;
     That rogue, of genuine ministerial kind,
     Can half the peerage by his arts bewitch,
     Starve twenty lords to make one scoundrel rich:
     And, when he gravely has undone a score,
     Is humbly pray'd to ruin twenty more.
       A dext'rous steward, when his tricks are found,
     Hush-money sends to all the neighbours round;
     His master, unsuspicious of his pranks,
     Pays all the cost, and gives the villain thanks.
     And, should a friend attempt to set him right,
     His lordship would impute it all to spite;
     Would love his favourite better than before,
     And trust his honesty just so much more.
     Thus families, like realms, with equal fate,
     Are sunk by premier ministers of state.
       Some, when an heir succeeds, go bodily on,
     And, as they robb'd the father, rob the son.
     A knave, who deep embroils his lord's affairs,
     Will soon grow necessary to his heirs.
     His policy consists in setting traps,
     In finding ways and means, and stopping gaps;
     He knows a thousand tricks whene'er he please,
     Though not to cure, yet palliate each disease.
     In either case, an equal chance is run;
     For, keep or turn him out, my lord's undone.
     You want a hand to clear a filthy sink;
     No cleanly workman can endure the stink.
     A strong dilemma in a desperate case!
     To act with infamy, or quit the place.
       A bungler thus, who scarce the nail can hit,
     With driving wrong will make the panel split:
     Nor dares an abler workman undertake
     To drive a second, lest the whole should break.
       In every court the parallel will hold;
     And kings, like private folks, are bought and sold.
     The ruling rogue, who dreads to be cashler'd,
     Contrives, as he is hated, to be fear'd;
     Confounds accounts, perplexes all affairs:
     For vengeance more embroils, than skill repairs.
     So robbers, (and their ends are just the same,)
     To 'scape inquiries, leave the house in flame.
       I knew a brazen minister of state,[12]
     Who bore for twice ten years the public hate.
     In every mouth the question most in vogue
     Was, when will they turn out this odious rogue?
     A juncture happen'd in his highest pride:
     While he went robbing on, his master died.[13]
     We thought there now remain'd no room to doubt;
     The work is done, the minister must out.
     The court invited more than one or two:
     Will you, Sir Spencer?[14] or will you, or you?
     But not a soul his office durst accept;
     The subtle knave had all the plunder swept:
     And, such was then the temper of the times,
     He owed his preservation to his crimes.
     The candidates observed his dirty paws;
     Nor found it difficult to guess the cause:
     But, when they smelt such foul corruptions round him,
     Away they fled, and left him as they found him.
       Thus, when a greedy sloven once has thrown
     His snot into the mess, 'tis all his own.

     [Footnote 1: The Dean having been told by an intimate friend that the
     Duke of Queensberry had employed Mr. Gay to inspect the accounts and
     management of his grace's receivers and stewards (which, however, proved
     to be a mistake), wrote this Epistle to his friend.—H. Through the
     whole piece, under the pretext of instructing Gay in his duty as the
     duke's auditor of accounts, he satirizes the conduct of Sir Robert
     Walpole, then Prime Minister.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 2: See the "Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret," post.]

     [Footnote 3: The Countess of Suffolk.—H.]

     [Footnote 4: Sir Robert Walpole.—Faulkner.]

     [Footnote 5: The post of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa was
     offered to Gay, which he and his friends considered as a great indignity,
     her royal highness being a mere infant.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Queensberry.]

     [Footnote 7: A title given to every duke by the
     heralds.—Faulkner.]

     [Footnote 8: Counting the numbers of a division. A horse dealer's
     term.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 9: Alluding to the magnificence of Houghton, the seat of Sir
     Robert Walpole, by which he greatly impaired his fortune.
       "What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste?
       Some Demon whispered, 'Visto! have a Taste.'"
POPE, Moral Essays, Epist. iv.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 10: These lines are thought to allude to some story concerning
     a vast quantity of mahogany declared rotten, and then applied by somebody
     to wainscots, stairs, door-cases, etc.—Dublin edition.]

     [Footnote 11: He hath practised this trade for many years, and still
     continues it with success; and after he hath ruined one lord, is
     earnestly solicited to take another.—Dublin edition.
     Properly Walter, a dexterous and unscrupulous attorney.
       "Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold,
       And therefore hopes this nation may be sold."
POPE, Moral Essays, Epist. iii.
     And see his character fully displayed in Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams'
     poem, "Peter and my Lord Quidam," Works, with notes, edit. 1822. Peter
     was the original of Peter Pounce in Fielding's "Joseph
     Andrews."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 12: Sir Robert Walpole, who was called Sir Robert Brass.]

     [Footnote 13: King George I, who died on the 12th June,
     1727.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 14: Sir Spencer Compton, Speaker of the House of Commons,
     afterwards created Earl of Wilmington. George II, on his accession to the
     throne, intended that Compton should be Prime Minister, but Walpole,
     through the influence of the queen, retained his place, Compton having
     confessed "his incapacity to undertake so arduous a task." As Lord
     Wilmington, he is constantly ridiculed by Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams.
     See his Works, with notes by Horace Walpole, edit. 1822.—W. E. B.]

     After venting all my spite,
     Tell me, what have I to write?
     Every error I could find
     Through the mazes of your mind,
     Have my busy Muse employ'd,
     Till the company was cloy'd.
     Are you positive and fretful,
     Heedless, ignorant, forgetful?
     Those, and twenty follies more,
     I have often told before.
       Hearken what my lady says:
     Have I nothing then to praise?
     Ill it fits you to be witty,
     Where a fault should move your pity.
     If you think me too conceited,
     Or to passion quickly heated;
     If my wandering head be less
     Set on reading than on dress;
     If I always seem too dull t'ye;
     I can solve the diffi—culty.
       You would teach me to be wise:
     Truth and honour how to prize;
     How to shine in conversation,
     And with credit fill my station;
     How to relish notions high;
     How to live, and how to die.
       But it was decreed by Fate—
     Mr. Dean, you come too late.
     Well I know, you can discern,
     I am now too old to learn:
     Follies, from my youth instill'd,
     Have my soul entirely fill'd;
     In my head and heart they centre,
     Nor will let your lessons enter.
       Bred a fondling and an heiress;
     Drest like any lady mayoress:
     Cocker'd by the servants round,
     Was too good to touch the ground;
     Thought the life of every lady
     Should be one continued play-day—
     Balls, and masquerades, and shows,
     Visits, plays, and powder'd beaux.
       Thus you have my case at large,
     And may now perform your charge.
     Those materials I have furnish'd,
     When by you refined and burnish'd,
     Must, that all the world may know 'em,
     Be reduced into a poem.
       But, I beg, suspend a while
     That same paltry, burlesque style;
     Drop for once your constant rule,
     Turning all to ridicule;
     Teaching others how to ape you;
     Court nor parliament can 'scape you;
     Treat the public and your friends
     Both alike, while neither mends.
       Sing my praise in strain sublime:
     Treat me not with dogg'rel rhyme.
     'Tis but just, you should produce,
     With each fault, each fault's excuse;
     Not to publish every trifle,
     And my few perfections stifle.
     With some gifts at least endow me,
     Which my very foes allow me.
     Am I spiteful, proud, unjust?
     Did I ever break my trust?
     Which of all our modern dames
     Censures less, or less defames?
     In good manners am I faulty?
     Can you call me rude or haughty?
     Did I e'er my mite withhold
     From the impotent and old?
     When did ever I omit
     Due regard for men of wit?
     When have I esteem express'd
     For a coxcomb gaily dress'd?
     Do I, like the female tribe,
     Think it wit to fleer and gibe?
     Who with less designing ends
     Kindlier entertains her friends;
     With good words and countenance sprightly,
     Strives to treat them more politely?
       Think not cards my chief diversion:
     'Tis a wrong, unjust aspersion:
     Never knew I any good in 'em,
     But to dose my head like laudanum.
     We, by play, as men, by drinking,
     Pass our nights to drive out thinking.
     From my ailments give me leisure,
     I shall read and think with pleasure;
     Conversation learn to relish,
     And with books my mind embellish.
       Now, methinks, I hear you cry,
     Mr. Dean, you must reply.
       Madam, I allow 'tis true:
     All these praises are your due.
     You, like some acute philosopher,
     Every fault have drawn a gloss over;[1]
     Placing in the strongest light
     All your virtues to my sight.
       Though you lead a blameless life,
     Are an humble prudent wife,
     Answer all domestic ends:
     What is this to us your friends?
     Though your children by a nod
     Stand in awe without a rod;
     Though, by your obliging sway,
     Servants love you, and obey;
     Though you treat us with a smile;
     Clear your looks, and smooth your style;
     Load our plates from every dish;
     This is not the thing we wish.

     We expect employment better.
     You must learn, if you would gain us,
     With good sense to entertain us.
       Scholars, when good sense describing,
     Call it tasting and imbibing;
     Metaphoric meat and drink
     Is to understand and think;
     We may carve for others thus;
     And let others carve for us;
     To discourse, and to attend,
     Is, to help yourself and friend.
     Conversation is but carving;
     Carve for all, yourself is starving:
     Give no more to every guest,
     Than he's able to digest;
     Give him always of the prime;
     And but little at a time.
     Carve to all but just enough:
     Let them neither starve nor stuff:
     And, that you may have your due,
     Let your neighbours carve for you.
     This comparison will hold,
     Could it well in rhyme be told,
     How conversing, listening, thinking,
     Justly may resemble drinking;
     For a friend a glass you fill,
     What is this but to instil?
       To conclude this long essay;
     Pardon if I disobey,
     Nor against my natural vein,
     Treat you in heroic strain.
     I, as all the parish knows,
     Hardly can be grave in prose:
     Still to lash, and lashing smile,
     Ill befits a lofty style.
     From the planet of my birth
     I encounter vice with mirth.
     Wicked ministers of state
     I can easier scorn than hate;
     And I find it answers right:
     Scorn torments them more than spight.
     All the vices of a court
     Do but serve to make me sport.
     Were I in some foreign realm,
     Which all vices overwhelm;
     Should a monkey wear a crown,
     Must I tremble at his frown?
     Could I not, through all his ermine,
     'Spy the strutting chattering vermin;
     Safely write a smart lampoon,
     To expose the brisk baboon?
       When my Muse officious ventures
     On the nation's representers:
     Teaching by what golden rules
     Into knaves they turn their fools;
     How the helm is ruled by Walpole,
     At whose oars, like slaves, they all pull;
     Let the vessel split on shelves;
     With the freight enrich themselves:
     Safe within my little wherry,
     All their madness makes me merry:
     Like the waterman of Thames,
     I row by, and call them names;
     Like the ever-laughing sage,[2]
     In a jest I spend my rage:
     (Though it must be understood,
     I would hang them if I could;)
     If I can but fill my niche,
     I attempt no higher pitch;
     Leave to d'Anvers and his mate
     Maxims wise to rule the state.
     Pulteney deep, accomplish'd St. Johns,
     Scourge the villains with a vengeance;
     Let me, though the smell be noisome,
     Strip their bums; let Caleb[3] hoise 'em;
     Then apply Alecto's[4] whip
     Till they wriggle, howl, and skip.
       Deuce is in you, Mr. Dean:
     What can all this passion mean?
     Mention courts! you'll ne'er be quiet
     On corruptions running riot.
     End as it befits your station;
     Come to use and application;
     Nor with senates keep a fuss.
     I submit; and answer thus:
       If the machinations brewing,
     To complete the public ruin,
     Never once could have the power
     To affect me half an hour;
     Sooner would I write in buskins,
     Mournful elegies on Blueskins.[5]
     If I laugh at Whig and Tory;
     I conclude à fortiori,
     All your eloquence will scarce
     Drive me from my favourite farce.
     This I must insist on; for, as
     It is well observed by Horace,[6]
     Ridicule has greater power
     To reform the world than sour.
     Horses thus, let jockeys judge else,
     Switches better guide than cudgels.
     Bastings heavy, dry, obtuse,
     Only dulness can produce;
     While a little gentle jerking
     Sets the spirits all a-working.
       Thus, I find it by experiment,
     Scolding moves you less than merriment.
     I may storm and rage in vain;
     It but stupifies your brain.
     But with raillery to nettle,
     Sets your thoughts upon their mettle;
     Gives imagination scope;
     Never lets your mind elope;
     Drives out brangling and contention.
     Brings in reason and invention.
     For your sake as well as mine,
     I the lofty style decline.
     I should make a figure scurvy,
     And your head turn topsy-turvy.
       I who love to have a fling
     Both at senate-house and king:
     That they might some better way tread,
     To avoid the public hatred;
     Thought no method more commodious,
     Than to show their vices odious;
     Which I chose to make appear,
     Not by anger, but by sneer.
     As my method of reforming,
     Is by laughing, not by storming,
     (For my friends have always thought
     Tenderness my greatest fault,)
     Would you have me change my style?
     On your faults no longer smile;
     But, to patch up all our quarrels,
     Quote you texts from Plutarch's Morals,
     Or from Solomon produce
     Maxims teaching Wisdom's use?
       If I treat you like a crown'd head,
     You have cheap enough compounded;
     Can you put in higher claims,
     Than the owners of St. James?
     You are not so great a grievance,
     As the hirelings of St. Stephen's.
     You are of a lower class
     Than my friend Sir Robert Brass.
     None of these have mercy found:
     I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round.
       Have you seen a rocket fly?
     You would swear it pierced the sky:
     It but reach'd the middle air,
     Bursting into pieces there;
     Thousand sparkles falling down
     Light on many a coxcomb's crown.
     See what mirth the sport creates!
     Singes hair, but breaks no pates.
     Thus, should I attempt to climb,
     Treat you in a style sublime,
     Such a rocket is my Muse:
     Should I lofty numbers choose,
     Ere I reach'd Parnassus' top,
     I should burst, and bursting drop;
     All my fire would fall in scraps,
     Give your head some gentle raps;
     Only make it smart a while;
     Then could I forbear to smile,
     When I found the tingling pain
     Entering warm your frigid brain;
     Make you able upon sight
     To decide of wrong and right;
     Talk with sense whate'er you please on;
     Learn to relish truth and reason!
       Thus we both shall gain our prize;
     I to laugh, and you grow wise.

     [Footnote 1:
       "Beside, he was a shrewd Philosopher,
       And had read ev'ry Text and Gloss over."
                       Hudibras.]

     [Footnote 2: Democritus, the Greek philosopher, one of the founders of
     the atomic theory.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Caleb d'Anvers was the name assumed by Nicholas Amhurst, the
     ostensible editor of the celebrated journal, entitled "The Craftsman,"
     written by Bolingbroke and Pulteney. See "Prose Works," vii, p.
     219.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: One of the three Furies—Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera, the
     avenging deities.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: The famous thief, who, while on his trial at the Old Bailey,
     stabbed Jonathan Wild. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild," Book iv,
     ch. i.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 6:
       "Ridiculum acri
       Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res."—Sat. I, x, 14.]

       "Sic siti laetantur docti."

     With honour thus by Carolina placed,
     How are these venerable bustoes graced!
     O queen, with more than regal title crown'd,
     For love of arts and piety renown'd!
     How do the friends of virtue joy to see
     Her darling sons exalted thus by thee!
     Nought to their fame can now be added more,
     Revered by her whom all mankind adore.[2]

     [Footnote 1: Newton, Locke, Clarke, and Woolaston.]

     [Footnote 2: Queen Caroline's regard for learned men was chiefly directed
     to those who had signalized themselves by philosophical research. Horace
     Walpole alludes to this her peculiar taste, in his fable called the
     "Funeral of the Lioness," where the royal shade is made to say:
       "... where Elysian waters glide,
       With Clarke and Newton by my side,
       Purrs o'er the metaphysic page,
       Or ponders the prophetic rage
       Of Merlin, who mysterious sings
       Of men and lions, beasts and kings."
     Lord Orford's Works, iv, 379.—W. E. B.]

     Louis the living learned fed,
     And raised the scientific head;
     Our frugal queen, to save her meat,
     Exalts the heads that cannot eat.

     Since Anna, whose bounty thy merits had fed,
     Ere her own was laid low, had exalted thy head:
     And since our good queen to the wise is so just,
     To raise heads for such as are humbled in dust,
     I wonder, good man, that you are not envaulted;
     Prithee go, and be dead, and be doubly exalted.

     Her majesty never shall be my exalter;
     And yet she would raise me, I know, by a halter!

     To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send;
     Small is the present, but sincere the friend.
     Think not so poor a book below thy care;
     Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear?
     Tho' tawdry now, and, like Tyrilla's face,
     The specious front shines out with borrow'd grace;
     Tho' pasteboards, glitt'ring like a tinsell'd coat,
     A rasa tabula within denote:
     Yet, if a venal and corrupted age,
     And modern vices should provoke thy rage;
     If, warn'd once more by their impending fate,
     A sinking country and an injur'd state,
     Thy great assistance should again demand,
     And call forth reason to defend the land;
     Then shall we view these sheets with glad surprise,
     Inspir'd with thought, and speaking to our eyes;
     Each vacant space shall then, enrich'd, dispense
     True force of eloquence, and nervous sense;
     Inform the judgment, animate the heart,
     And sacred rules of policy impart.
     The spangled cov'ring, bright with splendid ore,
     Shall cheat the sight with empty show no more;
     But lead us inward to those golden mines,
     Where all thy soul in native lustre shines.
     So when the eye surveys some lovely fair,
     With bloom of beauty graced, with shape and air;
     How is the rapture heighten'd, when we find
     Her form excell'd by her celestial mind!

     [Footnote 1: It was occasioned by an annual custom, which I found pursued
     among his friends, of making him a present on his birth-day. Orrery's
     "Remarks," p. 202.—W. E. B.]

     Hither from Mexico I came,
     To serve a proud Iernian dame:
     Was long submitted to her will;
     At length she lost me at quadrille.
     Through various shapes I often pass'd,
     Still hoping to have rest at last;
     And still ambitious to obtain
     Admittance to the patriot Dean;
     And sometimes got within his door,
     But soon turn'd out to serve the poor:[1]
     Not strolling Idleness to aid,
     But honest Industry decay'd.
     At length an artist purchased me,
     And wrought me to the shape you see.
       This done, to Hermes I applied:
     "O Hermes! gratify my pride;
     Be it my fate to serve a sage,
     The greatest genius of his age;
     That matchless pen let me supply,
     Whose living lines will never die!"
       "I grant your suit," the God replied,
     And here he left me to reside.

     [Footnote 1: Alluding to sums lent by the Dean, without interest, to
     assist poor tradesmen.—W. E. B.]

     A paper book is sent by Boyle,
     Too neatly gilt for me to soil.
     Delany sends a silver standish,
     When I no more a pen can brandish.
     Let both around my tomb be placed:
     As trophies of a Muse deceased;
     And let the friendly lines they writ,
     In praise of long-departed wit,
     Be graved on either side in columns,
     More to my praise than all my volumes,
     To burst with envy, spite, and rage,
     The Vandals of the present age.

VERSES
SENT TO THE DEAN WITH AN EAGLE QUILL,
ON HEARING OF THE PRESENTS BY THE EARL OF ORRERY AND DR. DELANY.
BY MRS. PILKINGTON
     Shall then my kindred all my glory claim,
     And boldly rob me of eternal fame?
     To every art my gen'rous aid I lend,
     To music, painting, poetry, a friend.
     'Tis I celestial harmony inspire,
     When fix'd to strike the sweetly warbling wire.[1]
     I to the faithful canvas have consign'd
     Each bright idea of the painter's mind;
     Behold from Raphael's sky-dipt pencils rise
     Such heavenly scenes as charm the gazer's eyes.
     O let me now aspire to higher praise!
     Ambitious to transcribe your deathless lays:
     Nor thou, immortal bard, my aid refuse,
     Accept me as the servant of your Muse;
     Then shall the world my wondrous worth declare,
     And all mankind your matchless pen revere.

     [Footnote 1: Quills of the harpsichord.]

     Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call,
     To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all;
     Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care,
     For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare.
     I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies,
     As friend Virgil has it, I've aliud mercedis;
     For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale;
     And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal;
     And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood,
     I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good:
     Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health:
     High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5]

     [Footnote 1: To correct Mrs. Barber's poems; which were published at
     London, in 4to, by subscription.]

     [Footnote 2: The name by which Mrs, Barber was distinguished by her
     friends.—N.]

     [Footnote 2: Mrs. Pilkington.—N.]

     [Footnote 3: Mrs. Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who
     died in 1733, at the age of 27.—N.]

     [Footnote 4: Mrs. Van Lewen, Mrs. Pilkington's mother. Swift had
     ultimately good reason to regret his intimacy with the Pilkingtons, and
     the favours he showed them. See accounts of them in the "Dictionary of
     National Biography."—. W. E. B.]