When beasts could speak, (the learned say
     They still can do so every day,)
     It seems, they had religion then,
     As much as now we find in men.
     It happen'd, when a plague broke out,
     (Which therefore made them more devout,)
     The king of brutes (to make it plain,
     Of quadrupeds I only mean)
     By proclamation gave command,
     That every subject in the land
     Should to the priest confess their sins;
     And thus the pious Wolf begins:
     Good father, I must own with shame,
     That often I have been to blame:
     I must confess, on Friday last,
     Wretch that I was! I broke my fast:
     But I defy the basest tongue
     To prove I did my neighbour wrong;
     Or ever went to seek my food,
     By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.
       The Ass approaching next, confess'd,
     That in his heart he loved a jest:
     A wag he was, he needs must own,
     And could not let a dunce alone:
     Sometimes his friend he would not spare,
     And might perhaps be too severe:
     But yet the worst that could be said,
     He was a wit both born and bred;
     And, if it be a sin and shame,
     Nature alone must bear the blame:
     One fault he has, is sorry for't,
     His ears are half a foot too short;
     Which could he to the standard bring,
     He'd show his face before the king:
     Then for his voice, there's none disputes
     That he's the nightingale of brutes.
       The Swine with contrite heart allow'd,
     His shape and beauty made him proud:
     In diet was perhaps too nice,
     But gluttony was ne'er his vice:
     In every turn of life content,
     And meekly took what fortune sent:
     Inquire through all the parish round,
     A better neighbour ne'er was found;
     His vigilance might some displease;
     'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.
       The mimic Ape began his chatter,
     How evil tongues his life bespatter;
     Much of the censuring world complain'd,
     Who said, his gravity was feign'd:
     Indeed, the strictness of his morals
     Engaged him in a hundred quarrels:
     He saw, and he was grieved to see't,
     His zeal was sometimes indiscreet:
     He found his virtues too severe
     For our corrupted times to bear;
     Yet such a lewd licentious age
     Might well excuse a stoic's rage.
       The Goat advanced with decent pace,
     And first excused his youthful face;
     Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd
     ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard.
     'Tis true, he was not much inclined
     To fondness for the female kind:
     Not, as his enemies object,
     From chance, or natural defect;
     Not by his frigid constitution;
     But through a pious resolution:
     For he had made a holy vow
     Of Chastity, as monks do now:
     Which he resolved to keep for ever hence
     And strictly too, as doth his reverence.[2]
       Apply the tale, and you shall find,
     How just it suits with human kind.
     Some faults we own; but can you guess?
     —Why, virtue's carried to excess,
     Wherewith our vanity endows us,
     Though neither foe nor friend allows us.
       The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't)
     He never squeezed a needy client;
     And this he makes his constant rule,
     For which his brethren call him fool;
     His conscience always was so nice,
     He freely gave the poor advice;
     By which he lost, he may affirm,
     A hundred fees last Easter term;
     While others of the learned robe,
     Would break the patience of a Job.
     No pleader at the bar could match
     His diligence and quick dispatch;
     Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast,
     Above a term or two at most.
       The cringing knave, who seeks a place
     Without success, thus tells his case:
     Why should he longer mince the matter?
     He fail'd, because he could not flatter;
     He had not learn'd to turn his coat,
     Nor for a party give his vote:
     His crime he quickly understood;
     Too zealous for the nation's good:
     He found the ministers resent it,
     Yet could not for his heart repent it.
       The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn,
     Though it would raise him to the lawn:
     He pass'd his hours among his books;
     You find it in his meagre looks:
     He might, if he were worldly wise,
     Preferment get, and spare his eyes;
     But owns he had a stubborn spirit.
     That made him trust alone to merit;
     Would rise by merit to promotion;
     Alas! a mere chimeric notion.
       The Doctor, if you will believe him,
     Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!)
     Call'd up at midnight, ran to save
     A blind old beggar from the grave:
     But see how Satan spreads his snares;
     He quite forgot to say his prayers.
     He cannot help it, for his heart,
     Sometimes to act the parson's part:
     Quotes from the Bible many a sentence,
     That moves his patients to repentance;
     And, when his medicines do no good,
     Supports their minds with heavenly food:
     At which, however well intended,
     He hears the clergy are offended;
     And grown so bold behind his back,
     To call him hypocrite and quack.
     In his own church he keeps a seat;
     Says grace before and after meat;
     And calls, without affecting airs,
     His household twice a-day to prayers.
     He shuns apothecaries' shops,
     And hates to cram the sick with slops:
     He scorns to make his art a trade;
     Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid.
     Old nurse-keepers would never hire,
     To recommend him to the squire;
     Which others, whom he will not name,
     Have often practised to their shame.
       The Statesman tells you, with a sneer,
     His fault is to be too sincere;
     And having no sinister ends,
     Is apt to disoblige his friends.
     The nation's good, his master's glory,
     Without regard to Whig or Tory,
     Were all the schemes he had in view,
     Yet he was seconded by few:
     Though some had spread a thousand lies,
     'Twas he defeated the excise.[3]
     'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion,
     That standing troops were his aversion:
     His practice was, in every station:
     To serve the king, and please the nation.
     Though hard to find in every case
     The fittest man to fill a place:
     His promises he ne'er forgot,
     But took memorials on the spot;
     His enemies, for want of charity,
     Said, he affected popularity:
     'Tis true, the people understood,
     That all he did was for their good;
     Their kind affections he has tried;
     No love is lost on either side.
     He came to court with fortune clear,
     Which now he runs out every year;
     Must, at the rate that he goes on,
     Inevitably be undone:
     O! if his majesty would please
     To give him but a writ of ease,
     Would grant him license to retire,
     As it has long been his desire,
     By fair accounts it would be found,
     He's poorer by ten thousand pound.
     He owns, and hopes it is no sin,
     He ne'er was partial to his kin;
     He thought it base for men in stations,
     To crowd the court with their relations:
     His country was his dearest mother,
     And every virtuous man his brother;
     Through modesty or awkward shame,
     (For which he owns himself to blame,)
     He found the wisest man he could,
     Without respect to friends or blood;
     Nor ever acts on private views,
     When he has liberty to choose.
       The Sharper swore he hated play,
     Except to pass an hour away:
     And well he might; for, to his cost,
     By want of skill, he always lost;
     He heard there was a club of cheats,
     Who had contrived a thousand feats;
     Could change the stock, or cog a die,
     And thus deceive the sharpest eye:
     Nor wonder how his fortune sunk,
     His brothers fleece him when he's drunk.
       I own the moral not exact,
     Besides, the tale is false, in fact;
     And so absurd, that could I raise up,
     From fields Elysian, fabling Æsop,
     I would accuse him to his face,
     For libelling the four-foot race.
     Creatures of every kind but ours
     Well comprehend their natural powers,
     While we, whom reason ought to sway,
     Mistake our talents every day.
     The Ass was never known so stupid,
     To act the part of Tray or Cupid;
     Nor leaps upon his master's lap,
     There to be stroked, and fed with pap,
     As Æsop would the world persuade;
     He better understands his trade:
     Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles,
     But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.
     Our author's meaning, I presume, is
     A creature bipes et implumis;     Wherein the moralist design'd
     A compliment on human kind;
     For here he owns, that now and then
     Beasts may degenerate into men.[4]

     [Footnote 1: Wigs with long black tails, at that time very much in
     fashion. It was very common also to call the wearers of them by the same
     name.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: The priest, his confessor.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: A bill was brought into the House of Commons of England, in
     March, 1733, for laying an excise on wines and tobacco, but so violent
     was the outcry against the measure, that when it came on for the second
     reading, 11th April, Walpole moved that it be postponed for two months,
     and thus it was dropped.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: See Gulliver's Travels; voyage to the country of the
     Houyhnhnms, "Prose Works," vol. viii.—W. E. B.]

     That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic,
     Can wish to die in strains heroic,
     No real fortitude implies:
     Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise.
     Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,
     Thy busy, drudging scene of life,
     Thy insolent, illiterate vicar,
     Thy want of all-consoling liquor,
     Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent,
     Thy credit sunk, thy money spent,
     Thy week made up of fasting-days,
     Thy grate unconscious of a blaze,
     And to complete thy other curses,
     The quarterly demands of nurses,
     Are ills you wisely wish to leave,
     And fly for refuge to the grave;
     And, O, what virtue you express,
     In wishing such afflictions less!
       But, now, should Fortune shift the scene,
     And make thy curateship a dean:
     Or some rich benefice provide,
     To pamper luxury and pride;
     With labour small, and income great;
     With chariot less for use than state;
     With swelling scarf, and glossy gown,
     And license to reside in town:
     To shine where all the gay resort,
     At concerts, coffee-house, or court:
     And weekly persecute his grace
     With visits, or to beg a place:
     With underlings thy flock to teach,
     With no desire to pray or preach;
     With haughty spouse in vesture fine,
     With plenteous meals and generous wine;
     Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease,
     Thy years as numerous as thy days?

     Poor ladies! though their business be to play,
     'Tis hard they must be busy night and day:
     Why should they want the privilege of men,
     Nor take some small diversions now and then?
     Had women been the makers of our laws,
     (And why they were not, I can see no cause,)
     The men should slave at cards from morn to night
     And female pleasures be to read and write.

     Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
       Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart:
     I a slave in thy dominions;
       Nature must give way to art.

     Mild Arcadians, ever blooming
       Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
     See my weary days consuming
       All beneath yon flowery rocks.

     Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping
       Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth;
     Him the boar, in silence creeping,
       Gored with unrelenting tooth.

     Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
       Fair Discretion, string the lyre;
     Sooth my ever-waking slumbers:
       Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

     Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
       Arm'd in adamantine chains,
     Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
       Watering soft Elysian plains.

     Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
       Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
     Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
       Hear me pay my dying vows.

     Melancholy smooth Meander,
       Swiftly purling in a round,
     On thy margin lovers wander,
       With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

     Thus when Philomela drooping
       Softly seeks her silent mate,
     See the bird of Juno stooping;
       Melody resigns to fate.

     Pallas, a goddess chaste and wise
     Descending lately from the skies,
     To Neptune went, and begg'd in form
     He'd give his orders for a storm;
     A storm, to drown that rascal Hort,[1]
     And she would kindly thank him for't:
     A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her,
     Had lately honour'd with a mitre.
       The god, who favour'd her request,
     Assured her he would do his best:
     But Venus had been there before,
     Pleaded the bishop loved a whore,
     And had enlarged her empire wide;
     He own'd no deity beside.
     At sea or land, if e'er you found him
     Without a mistress, hang or drown him.
     Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench,
     Till Hort arrived, ne'er kept a wench;
     If Hort must sink, she grieves to tell it,
     She'll not have left one single prelate:
     For, to say truth, she did intend him,
     Elect of Cyprus in commendam.     And, since her birth the ocean gave her,
     She could not doubt her uncle's favour.
       Then Proteus urged the same request,
     But half in earnest, half in jest;
     Said he—"Great sovereign of the main,
     To drown him all attempts are vain.
     Hort can assume more forms than I,
     A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy;
     Can creep, or run, or fly, or swim;
     All motions are alike to him:
     Turn him adrift, and you shall find
     He knows to sail with every wind;
     Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride
     As well against as with the tide.
     But, Pallas, you've applied too late;
     For, 'tis decreed by Jove and Fate,
     That Ireland must be soon destroy'd,
     And who but Hort can be employ'd?
     You need not then have been so pert,
     In sending Bolton[2] to Clonfert.
     I found you did it, by your grinning;
     Your business is to mind your spinning.
     But how you came to interpose
     In making bishops, no one knows;
     Or who regarded your report;
     For never were you seen at court.
     And if you must have your petition,
     There's Berkeley[3] in the same condition;
     Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just,
     If one must drown, the other must;
     But, if you'll leave us Bishop Judas,
     We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.[4]
     Now, if 'twill gratify your spight,
     To put him in a plaguy fright,
     Although 'tis hardly worth the cost,
     You soon shall see him soundly tost.
     You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and damn
     (And every moment take a dram)
     His ghastly visage with an air
     Of reprobation and despair;
     Or else some hiding-hole he seeks,
     For fear the rest should say he squeaks;
     Or, as Fitzpatrick[5] did before,
     Resolve to perish with his whore;
     Or else he raves, and roars, and swears,
     And, but for shame, would say his prayers.
     Or, would you see his spirits sink?
     Relaxing downwards in a stink?
     If such a sight as this can please ye,
     Good madam Pallas, pray be easy.
     To Neptune speak, and he'll consent;
     But he'll come back the knave he went."
     The goddess, who conceived a hope
     That Hort was destined to a rope,
     Believed it best to condescend
     To spare a foe, to save a friend;
     But, fearing Berkeley might be scared,
     She left him virtue for a guard.

     [Footnote 1: Josiah Hort was born about 1674, and educated in London as a
     Nonconformist Minister; but he soon conformed to the Church of England,
     and held in succession several benefices. In 1709 he went to Ireland as
     chaplain to Lord Wharton, when Lord Lieutenant; and afterwards became, in
     1721, Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and ultimately Archbishop of Tuam. He
     died in 1751.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, afterwards Archbishop of
     Cashell.—F.]

     [Footnote 3: Dr. George Berkeley, a senior fellow of Trinity College,
     Dublin, who became Dean of Derry, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.]

     [Footnote 4: The Bishop had a project of a college at Bermuda for the
     propagation of the Gospel in 1722. See his Works, ut supra.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats
     in the Bay of Dublin, in a great storm.—F.]

     O, heavenly born! in deepest dells
     If fairest science ever dwells
       Beneath the mossy cave;
     Indulge the verdure of the woods,
     With azure beauty gild the floods,
       And flowery carpets lave.

     For, Melancholy ever reigns
     Delighted in the sylvan scenes
       With scientific light;
     While Dian, huntress of the vales,
     Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales,
       Though wrapt from mortal sight.

     Yet, goddess, yet the way explore
     With magic rites and heathen lore
       Obstructed and depress'd;
     Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine,
     Untaught, not uninspired, to shine,
       By Reason's power redress'd.

     When Solon and Lycurgus taught
     To moralize the human thought
       Of mad opinion's maze,
     To erring zeal they gave new laws,
     Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause
       That blends congenial rays.

     Bid bright Astræa gild the morn,
     Or bid a hundred suns be born,
       To hecatomb the year;
     Without thy aid, in vain the poles,
     In vain the zodiac system rolls,
       In vain the lunar sphere.

     Come, fairest princess of the throng,
     Bring sweet philosophy along,
       In metaphysic dreams;
     While raptured bards no more behold
     A vernal age of purer gold,
       In Heliconian streams.

     Drive Thraldom with malignant hand,
     To curse some other destined land,
       By Folly led astray:
     Iërne bear on azure wing;
     Energic let her soar, and sing
       Thy universal sway.

     So when Amphion[1] bade the lyre
     To more majestic sound aspire,
       Behold the madding throng,
     In wonder and oblivion drown'd,
     To sculpture turn'd by magic sound
       And petrifying song.

     [Footnote 1: King of Thebes, and husband of Niobe; famous for his magical
     power with the lyre by which the stones were collected for the building
     of the city.—Hor., "De Arte Poetica," 394.—W. E. B.]

     Blow, ye zephyrs, gentle gales;
     Gently fill the swelling sails.
     Neptune, with thy trident long,
     Trident three-fork'd, trident strong:
     And ye Nereids fair and gay,
     Fairer than the rose in May,
     Nereids living in deep caves,
     Gently wash'd with gentle waves;
     Nereids, Neptune, lull asleep
     Ruffling storms, and ruffled deep;
     All around, in pompous state,
     On this richer Argo wait:
     Argo, bring my golden fleece,
     Argo, bring him to his Greece.
     Will Cadenus longer stay?
     Come, Cadenus, come away;
     Come with all the haste of love,
     Come unto thy turtle-dove.
     The ripen'd cherry on the tree
     Hangs, and only hangs for thee,
     Luscious peaches, mellow pears,
     Ceres, with her yellow ears,
     And the grape, both red and white,
     Grape inspiring just delight;
     All are ripe, and courting sue,
     To be pluck'd and press'd by you.
     Pinks have lost their blooming red,
     Mourning hang their drooping head,
     Every flower languid seems,
     Wants the colour of thy beams,
     Beams of wondrous force and power,
     Beams reviving every flower.
     Come, Cadenus, bless once more,
     Bless again thy native shore,
     Bless again this drooping isle,
     Make its weeping beauties smile,
     Beauties that thine absence mourn,
     Beauties wishing thy return:
     Come, Cadenus, come with haste,
     Come before the winter's blast;
     Swifter than the lightning fly,
     Or I, like Vanessa, die.

     [Footnote 1: These verses, like the "Love Song in the Modern Taste" and
     the preceding one, seem designed to ridicule the commonplaces of
     poetry.—W. E. B.]

     Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans
     l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose,
     qui ne nous déplait pas."

     This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those
     suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published
     by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it
     commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5,
     1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by
     Swift.—W. E. B.

AS Rochefoucauld his maxims drew
     From nature, I believe 'em true:
     They argue no corrupted mind
     In him; the fault is in mankind.
       This maxim more than all the rest
     Is thought too base for human breast:
     "In all distresses of our friends,
     We first consult our private ends;
     While nature, kindly bent to ease us,
     Points out some circumstance to please us."
       If this perhaps your patience move,
     Let reason and experience prove.
     We all behold with envious eyes
     Our equal raised above our size.     Who would not at a crowded show
     Stand high himself, keep others low?
     I love my friend as well as you:
     [2]But why should he obstruct my view?
     Then let me have the higher post:
     [3]Suppose it but an inch at most.
     If in battle you should find
     One whom you love of all mankind,
     Had some heroic action done,
     A champion kill'd, or trophy won;
     Rather than thus be overtopt,
     Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
     Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
     Lies rackt with pain, and you without:
     How patiently you hear him groan!
     How glad the case is not your own!
       What poet would not grieve to see
     His breth'ren write as well as he?
     But rather than they should excel,
     He'd wish his rivals all in hell.
       Her end when Emulation misses,
     She turns to Envy, stings and hisses:
     The strongest friendship yields to pride,
     Unless the odds be on our side.
     Vain human kind! fantastic race!
     Thy various follies who can trace?
     Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
     Their empire in our hearts divide.
     Give others riches, power, and station,
     'Tis all on me an usurpation.
     I have no title to aspire;
     Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.
     In Pope I cannot read a line,
     But with a sigh I wish it mine;
     When he can in one couplet fix
     More sense than I can do in six;
     It gives me such a jealous fit,
     I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!"
     [4]I grieve to be outdone by Gay
     In my own hum'rous biting way.
     Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
     Who dares to irony pretend,
     Which I was born to introduce,
     Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use.
     St. John, as well as Pultney, knows
     That I had some repute for prose;
     And, till they drove me out of date
     Could maul a minister of state.
     If they have mortify'd my pride,
     And made me throw my pen aside;
     If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em,
     Have I not reason to detest 'em?
       To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
     Thy gifts; but never to my friend:
     I tamely can endure the first;
     But this with envy makes me burst.
       Thus much may serve by way of proem:
     Proceed we therefore to our poem.
       The time is not remote, when I
     Must by the course of nature die;
     When, I foresee, my special friends
     Will try to find their private ends:
     Tho' it is hardly understood
     Which way my death can do them good,
     Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak:
     "See, how the Dean begins to break!
     Poor gentleman, he droops apace!
     You plainly find it in his face.
     That old vertigo in his head
     Will never leave him till he's dead.
     Besides, his memory decays:
     He recollects not what he says;
     He cannot call his friends to mind:
     Forgets the place where last he din'd;
     Plyes you with stories o'er and o'er;
     He told them fifty times before.
     How does he fancy we can sit
     To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit?
     But he takes up with younger folks,
     Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
     Faith! he must make his stories shorter,
     Or change his comrades once a quarter:
     In half the time he talks them round,
     There must another set be found.
       "For poetry he's past his prime:
     He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
     His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
     His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
     I'd have him throw away his pen;—
     But there's no talking to some men!"
       And then their tenderness appears,
     By adding largely to my years;
     "He's older than he would be reckon'd,
     And well remembers Charles the Second.
     He hardly drinks a pint of wine;
     And that, I doubt, is no good sign.
     His stomach too begins to fail:
     Last year we thought him strong and hale;
     But now he's quite another thing:
     I wish he may hold out till spring!"
     Then hug themselves, and reason thus:
     "It is not yet so bad with us!"
       In such a case, they talk in tropes,
     And by their fears express their hopes:
     Some great misfortune to portend,
     No enemy can match a friend.
     With all the kindness they profess,
     The merit of a lucky guess
     (When daily how d'ye's come of course,
     And servants answer, "Worse and worse!")
     Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell,
     That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well."
     Then he, who prophecy'd the best,
     Approves his foresight to the rest:
     "You know I always fear'd the worst,
     And often told you so at first."
     He'd rather chuse that I should die,
     Than his prediction prove a lie.
     Not one foretells I shall recover;
     But all agree to give me over.
       Yet, shou'd some neighbour feel a pain
     Just in the parts where I complain;
     How many a message would he send!
     What hearty prayers that I should mend!
     Inquire what regimen I kept;
     What gave me ease, and how I slept?
     And more lament when I was dead,
     Than all the sniv'llers round my bed.
       My good companions, never fear;
     For though you may mistake a year,
     Though your prognostics run too fast,
     They must be verify'd at last.
       Behold the fatal day arrive!
     "How is the Dean?"—"He's just alive."
     Now the departing prayer is read;
     "He hardly breathes."—"The Dean is dead."
       Before the Passing-bell begun,
     The news thro' half the town has run.
     "O! may we all for death prepare!
     What has he left? and who's his heir?"—
     "I know no more than what the news is;
     'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."—
     "To public use! a perfect whim!
     What had the public done for him?
     Mere envy, avarice, and pride:
     He gave it all—but first he died.
     And had the Dean, in all the nation,
     No worthy friend, no poor relation?
     So ready to do strangers good,
     Forgetting his own flesh and blood!"
       Now, Grub-Street wits are all employ'd;
     With elegies the town is cloy'd:
     Some paragraph in ev'ry paper
     To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5]
       The doctors, tender of their fame,
     Wisely on me lay all the blame:
     "We must confess, his case was nice;
     But he would never take advice.
     Had he been ruled, for aught appears,
     He might have lived these twenty years;
     For, when we open'd him, we found,
     That all his vital parts were sound."
       From Dublin soon to London spread,
     'Tis told at court,[6] "the Dean is dead."
     Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen,
     Runs laughing up to tell the queen.
     The queen, so gracious, mild, and good,
     Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd.
     He's dead, you say; why, let him rot:
     I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot.
     I promised him, I own; but when?
     I only was a princess then;
     But now, as consort of a king,
     You know, 'tis quite a different thing."
     Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee,
     Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:
     "Why, is he dead without his shoes,"
     Cries Bob,[10] "I'm sorry for the news:
     O, were the wretch but living still,
     And in his place my good friend Will![11]
     Or had a mitre on his head,
     Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!"
     Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains:
     Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!
     And then, to make them pass the glibber,
     Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14]
     He'll treat me as he does my betters,
     Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15]
     Revive the libels born to die;
     Which Pope must bear, as well as I.
       Here shift the scene, to represent
     How those I love my death lament.
     Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
     A week, and Arbuthnot a day.
       St. John himself will scarce forbear
     To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
     The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
     "I'm sorry—but we all must die!"
       Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise,
     All fortitude of mind supplies:
     For how can stony bowels melt
     In those who never pity felt!
     When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod,
     Resigning to the will of God.
       The fools, my juniors by a year,
     Are tortur'd with suspense and fear;
     Who wisely thought my age a screen,
     When death approach'd, to stand between:
     The screen removed, their hearts are trembling;
     They mourn for me without dissembling.
       My female friends, whose tender hearts
     Have better learn'd to act their parts,
     Receive the news in doleful dumps:
     "The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?)
     Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
     (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16]
     Six deans, they say, must bear the pall:
     (I wish I knew what king to call.)
     Madam, your husband will attend
     The funeral of so good a friend.
     No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight:
     And he's engaged to-morrow night:
     My Lady Club wou'd take it ill,
     If he shou'd fail her at quadrille.
     He loved the Dean—(I lead a heart,)
     But dearest friends, they say, must part.
     His time was come: he ran his race;
     We hope he's in a better place."
       Why do we grieve that friends should die?
     No loss more easy to supply.
     One year is past; a different scene!
     No further mention of the Dean;
     Who now, alas! no more is miss'd,
     Than if he never did exist.
     Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo!
     Departed:—and his works must follow;
     Must undergo the common fate;
     His kind of wit is out of date.
       Some country squire to Lintot[17] goes,
     Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose."
     Says Lintot, "I have heard the name;
     He died a year ago."—"The same."
     He searches all the shop in vain.
     "Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;[18]
     I sent them with a load of books,
     Last Monday to the pastry-cook's.
     To fancy they could live a year!
     I find you're but a stranger here.
     The Dean was famous in his time,
     And had a kind of knack at rhyme.
     His way of writing now is past;
     The town has got a better taste;
     I keep no antiquated stuff,
     But spick and span I have enough.
     Pray do but give me leave to show 'em;
     Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem.
     This ode you never yet have seen,
     By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen.
     Then here's a letter finely penned
     Against the Craftsman and his friend:
     It clearly shows that all reflection
     On ministers is disaffection.
     Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,[20]
     And Mr. Henley's last oration.[21]
     The hawkers have not got them yet:
     Your honour please to buy a set?
       "Here's Woolston's[22] tracts, the twelfth edition;
     'Tis read by every politician:
     The country members, when in town,
     To all their boroughs send them down;
     You never met a thing so smart;
     The courtiers have them all by heart:
     Those maids of honour (who can read),
     Are taught to use them for their creed.[23]
     The rev'rend author's good intention
     Has been rewarded with a pension.
     He does an honour to his gown,
     By bravely running priestcraft down:
     He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester,
     That Moses was a grand impostor;
     That all his miracles were cheats,
     Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
     The church had never such a writer;
     A shame he has not got a mitre!"
       Suppose me dead; and then suppose
     A club assembled at the Rose;
     Where, from discourse of this and that,
     I grow the subject of their chat.
     And while they toss my name about,
     With favour some, and some without,
     One, quite indiff'rent in the cause,
     My character impartial draws:
       The Dean, if we believe report,
     Was never ill receiv'd at court.
     As for his works in verse and prose
     I own myself no judge of those;
     Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em:
     But this I know, all people bought 'em.
     As with a moral view design'd
     To cure the vices of mankind:
     And, if he often miss'd his aim,
     The world must own it, to their shame,
     The praise is his, and theirs the blame.
     "Sir, I have heard another story:
     He was a most confounded Tory,
     And grew, or he is much belied,
     Extremely dull, before he died."
       Can we the Drapier then forget?
     Is not our nation in his debt?
     'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!—
       "He should have left them for his betters,
     We had a hundred abler men,
     Nor need depend upon his pen.—
     Say what you will about his reading,
     You never can defend his breeding;
     Who in his satires running riot,
     Could never leave the world in quiet;
     Attacking, when he took the whim,
     Court, city, camp—all one to him.—
       "But why should he, except he slobber't,
     Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert,
     Whose counsels aid the sov'reign power
     To save the nation every hour?
     What scenes of evil he unravels
     In satires, libels, lying travels!
     Not sparing his own clergy-cloth,
     But eats into it, like a moth!"
     His vein, ironically grave,
     Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave.
     To steal a hint was never known,
     But what he writ was all his own.[24]
       "He never thought an honour done him,
     Because a duke was proud to own him,
     Would rather slip aside and chuse
     To talk with wits in dirty shoes;
     Despised the fools with stars and garters,
     So often seen caressing Chartres.[25]
     He never courted men in station,
     Nor persons held in admiration;     Of no man's greatness was afraid,
     Because he sought for no man's aid.
     Though trusted long in great affairs
     He gave himself no haughty airs:
     Without regarding private ends,
     Spent all his credit for his friends;
     And only chose the wise and good;
     No flatterers; no allies in blood:
     But succour'd virtue in distress,
     And seldom fail'd of good success;
     As numbers in their hearts must own,
     Who, but for him, had been unknown.
       "With princes kept a due decorum,
     But never stood in awe before 'em.
     He follow'd David's lesson just;
     In princes never put thy trust:     And would you make him truly sour,
     Provoke him with a slave in power.
     The Irish senate if you named,
     With what impatience he declaim'd!
     Fair LIBERTY was all his cry,
     For her he stood prepared to die;
     For her he boldly stood alone;
     For her he oft exposed his own.
     Two kingdoms,[26] just as faction led,
     Had set a price upon his head;
     But not a traitor could be found,
     To sell him for six hundred pound.
       "Had he but spared his tongue and pen
     He might have rose like other men:
     But power was never in his thought,
     And wealth he valued not a groat:
     Ingratitude he often found,
     And pitied those who meant the wound:
     But kept the tenor of his mind,
     To merit well of human kind:
     Nor made a sacrifice of those
     Who still were true, to please his foes.
     He labour'd many a fruitless hour,
     To reconcile his friends in power;
     Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
     While they pursued each other's ruin.
     But finding vain was all his care,
     He left the court in mere despair.[27]
       "And, oh! how short are human schemes!
     Here ended all our golden dreams.
     What St. John's skill in state affairs,
     What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares,
     To save their sinking country lent,
     Was all destroy'd by one event.
     Too soon that precious life was ended,
     On which alone our weal depended.[28]
     When up a dangerous faction starts,[29]
     With wrath and vengeance in their hearts;
     By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,     To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
     To turn religion to a fable,
     And make the government a Babel;
     Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown,
     Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
     To sacrifice old England's glory,
     And make her infamous in story:
     When such a tempest shook the land,
     How could unguarded Virtue stand!
     With horror, grief, despair, the Dean
     Beheld the dire destructive scene:
     His friends in exile, or the tower,
     Himself[30] within the frown of power,
     Pursued by base envenom'd pens,
     Far to the land of slaves and fens;[31]
     A servile race in folly nursed,
     Who truckle most, when treated worst.
     "By innocence and resolution,
     He bore continual persecution;
     While numbers to preferment rose,
     Whose merits were, to be his foes;
     When ev'n his own familiar friends,
     Intent upon their private ends,
     Like renegadoes now he feels,
     Against him lifting up their heels.       "The Dean did, by his pen, defeat
     An infamous destructive cheat;[32]
     Taught fools their int'rest how to know,
     And gave them arms to ward the blow.
     Envy has own'd it was his doing,
     To save that hapless land from ruin;
     While they who at the steerage stood,
     And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.
       "To save them from their evil fate,
     In him was held a crime of state,
     A wicked monster on the bench,[33]
     Whose fury blood could never quench;
     As vile and profligate a villain,
     As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian:[34]
     Who long all justice had discarded,
     Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded;     Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,
     And make him of his zeal repent:
     But Heaven his innocence defends,
     The grateful people stand his friends;
     Not strains of law, nor judge's frown,
     Nor topics brought to please the crown,
     Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd,
     Prevail to bring him in convict.
       "In exile,[35] with a steady heart,
     He spent his life's declining part;
     Where folly, pride, and faction sway,
     Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.
     Alas, poor Dean! his only scope
     Was to be held a misanthrope.
     This into gen'ral odium drew him,
     Which if he liked, much good may't do him.
     His zeal was not to lash our crimes,
     But discontent against the times:
     For had we made him timely offers
     To raise his post, or fill his coffers,
     Perhaps he might have truckled down,
     Like other brethren of his gown.
     For party he would scarce have bled:
     I say no more—because he's dead.
     What writings has he left behind?
     I hear, they're of a different kind;
     A few in verse; but most in prose—
     Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose;—
     All scribbled in the worst of times,
     To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes,
     To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her,
     As never fav'ring the Pretender;
     Or libels yet conceal'd from sight,
     Against the court to show his spite;
     Perhaps his travels, part the third;
     A lie at every second word—
     Offensive to a loyal ear:
     But not one sermon, you may swear."
     His friendships there, to few confined
     Were always of the middling kind;[36]
     No fools of rank, a mongrel breed,
     Who fain would pass for lords indeed:
     Where titles give no right or power,[37]
     And peerage is a wither'd flower;
     He would have held it a disgrace,
     If such a wretch had known his face.
     On rural squires, that kingdom's bane,
     He vented oft his wrath in vain;
     [Biennial[38]] squires to market brought;
     Who sell their souls and [votes] for nought;
     The [nation stripped,] go joyful back,
     To *** the church, their tenants rack,
     Go snacks with [rogues and rapparees,][39]
     And keep the peace to pick up fees;
     In every job to have a share,
     A gaol or barrack to repair;
     And turn the tax for public roads,
     Commodious to their own abodes.[40]
       "Perhaps I may allow the Dean,
     Had too much satire in his vein;
     And seem'd determined not to starve it,
     Because no age could more deserve it.
     Yet malice never was his aim;
     He lash'd the vice, but spared the name;
     No individual could resent,
     Where thousands equally were meant;
     His satire points at no defect,
     But what all mortals may correct;
     For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe
     Who call it humour when they gibe:
     He spared a hump, or crooked nose,
     Whose owners set not up for beaux.
     True genuine dulness moved his pity,
     Unless it offer'd to be witty.
     Those who their ignorance confest,
     He ne'er offended with a jest;
     But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
     A verse from Horace learn'd by rote.
       "Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd,
     Must be or ridiculed or lash'd.
     If you resent it, who's to blame?
     He neither knew you nor your name.
     Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,
     Because its owner is a duke?
       "He knew an hundred pleasant stories,
     With all the turns of Whigs and Tories:
     Was cheerful to his dying day;
     And friends would let him have his way.
       "He gave the little wealth he had
     To build a house for fools and mad;
     And show'd by one satiric touch,
     No nation wanted it so much.
     That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
     I wish it soon may have a better."
     And, since you dread no farther lashes
     Methinks you may forgive his ashes.