The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 4

And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare With what unhappy men shall dare To be successors to these great unknown, On learning's high-establish'd throne.

Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride, Numberless nations, stretching far and wide, Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth From Ignorance's universal North, And with blind rage break all this peaceful government: Yet shall the traces of your wit remain, Like a just map, to tell the vast extent Of conquest in your short and happy reign: And to all future mankind shew How strange a paradox is true, That men who lived and died without a name Are the chief heroes in the sacred lists of fame.

[Footnote 1: "I have been told, that Dryden having perused these verses, said, 'Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet;' and that this denunciation was the motive of Swift's perpetual malevolence to Dryden."--Johnson in his "Life of Swift."--_W. E. B._

In Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 241, it is stated that John Dunton, the original projector of the Athenian Society, in his "Life and Errours," 1705, mentions this Ode, "which being an ingenious poem, was prefixed to the fifth Supplement of the Athenian Mercury."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 3: The floating island, which, by order of Neptune, became fixed for the use of Latona, who there brought forth Apollo and Diana.

See Ovid, "Metam.," vi, 191, etc.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Gyges, who, thanks to the possession of a golden ring, which made him invisible, put Candaules to death, married his widow, and mounted the throne, 716 B.C. See the story in Cicero, "De Off.," iii, 9.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Proteus. See Ovid, "Fasti," lib. i.--_W. E. B._]

TO MR. CONGREVE

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1693

Thrice, with a prophet's voice, and prophet's power, The Muse was called in a poetic hour, And insolently thrice the slighted maid Dared to suspend her unregarded aid; Then with that grief we form in spirits divine, Pleads for her own neglect, and thus reproaches mine.

Once highly honoured! false is the pretence You make to truth, retreat, and innocence!

Who, to pollute my shades, bring'st with thee down The most ungenerous vices of the town; Ne'er sprung a youth from out this isle before I once esteem'd, and loved, and favour'd more, Nor ever maid endured such courtlike scorn, So much in mode, so very city-born; 'Tis with a foul design the Muse you send, Like a cast mistress, to your wicked friend; But find some new address, some fresh deceit, Nor practise such an antiquated cheat; These are the beaten methods of the stews, Stale forms, of course, all mean deceivers use, Who barbarously think to 'scape reproach, By prost.i.tuting her they first debauch.

Thus did the Muse severe unkindly blame This offering long design'd to Congreve's fame; First chid the zeal as unpoetic fire, Which soon his merit forced her to inspire; Then call this verse, that speaks her largest aid, The greatest compliment she ever made, And wisely judge, no power beneath divine Could leap the bounds which part your world and mine; For, youth, believe, to you unseen, is fix'd A mighty gulf, unpa.s.sable betwixt.

Nor tax the G.o.ddess of a mean design To praise your parts by publis.h.i.+ng of mine; That be my thought when some large bulky writ Shows in the front the ambition of my wit; There to surmount what bears me up, and sing Like the victorious wren perch'd on the eagle's wing.

This could I do, and proudly o'er him tower, Were my desires but heighten'd to my power.

G.o.dlike the force of my young Congreve's bays, Softening the Muse's thunder into praise; Sent to a.s.sist an old unvanquish'd pride That looks with scorn on half mankind beside; A pride that well suspends poor mortals' fate, Gets between them and my resentment's weight, Stands in the gap 'twixt me and wretched men, T'avert th'impending judgments of my pen.

Thus I look down with mercy on the age, By hopes my Congreve will reform the stage: For never did poetic mind before Produce a richer vein, or cleaner ore; The bullion stamp'd in your refining mind Serves by retail to furnish half mankind.

With indignation I behold your wit Forced on me, crack'd, and clipp'd, and counterfeit, By vile pretenders, who a stock maintain From broken sc.r.a.ps and filings of your brain.

Through native dross your share is hardly known, And by short views mistook for all their own; So small the gains those from your wit do reap, Who blend it into folly's larger heap, Like the sun's scatter'd beams which loosely pa.s.s, When some rough hand breaks the a.s.sembling gla.s.s.

Yet want your critics no just cause to rail, Since knaves are ne'er obliged for what they steal.

These pad on wit's high road, and suits maintain With those they rob, by what their trade does gain.

Thus censure seems that fiery froth which breeds O'er the sun's face, and from his heat proceeds, Crusts o'er the day, shadowing its partent beam, As ancient nature's modern masters dream; This bids some curious praters here below Call t.i.tan sick, because their sight is so; And well, methinks, does this allusion fit To scribblers, and the G.o.d of light and wit; Those who by wild delusions entertain A l.u.s.t of rhyming for a poet's vein, Raise envy's clouds to leave themselves in night, But can no more obscure my Congreve's light, Than swarms of gnats, that wanton in a ray Which gave them birth, can rob the world of day.

What northern hive pour'd out these foes to wit?

Whence came these Goths to overrun the pit?

How would you blush the shameful birth to hear Of those you so ign.o.bly stoop to fear; For, ill to them, long have I travell'd since, Round all the circles of impertinence, Search'd in the nest where every worm did lie Before it grew a city b.u.t.terfly; I'm sure I found them other kind of things Than those with backs of silk and golden wings; A search, no doubt, as curious and as wise As virtuosoes' in dissecting flies: For, could you think? the fiercest foes you dread, And court in prologues, all are country bred; Bred in my scene, and for the poet's sins Adjourn'd from tops and grammar to the inns; Those beds of dung, where schoolboys sprout up beaux Far sooner than the n.o.bler mushroom grows: These are the lords of the poetic schools, Who preach the saucy pedantry of rules; Those powers the critics, who may boast the odds O'er Nile, with all its wilderness of G.o.ds; Nor could the nations kneel to viler shapes, Which wors.h.i.+pp'd cats, and sacrificed to apes; And can you think the wise forbear to laugh At the warm zeal that breeds this golden calf?

Haply you judge these lines severely writ Against the proud usurpers of the pit; Stay while I tell my story, short, and true; To draw conclusions shall be left to you; Nor need I ramble far to force a rule, But lay the scene just here at Farnham[1] school.

Last year, a lad hence by his parents sent With other cattle to the city went; Where having cast his coat, and well pursued The methods most in fas.h.i.+on to be lewd, Return'd a finish'd spark this summer down, Stock'd with the freshest gibberish of the town; A jargon form'd from the lost language, wit, Confounded in that Babel of the pit; Form'd by diseased conceptions, weak and wild, Sick l.u.s.t of souls, and an abortive child; Born between wh.o.r.es and fops, by lewd compacts, Before the play, or else between the acts; Nor wonder, if from such polluted minds Should spring such short and transitory kinds, Or crazy rules to make us wits by rote, Last just as long as every cuckoo's note: What bungling, rusty tools are used by fate!

'Twas in an evil hour to urge my hate, My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed: When man's ill genius to my presence sent This wretch, to rouse my wrath, for ruin meant; Who in his idiom vile, with Gray's-Inn grace, Squander'd his noisy talents to my face; Named every player on his fingers' ends, Swore all the wits were his peculiar friends; Talk'd with that saucy and familiar ease Of Wycherly, and you, and Mr. Bayes:[2]

Said, how a late report your friends had vex'd, Who heard you meant to write heroics next; For, tragedy, he knew, would lose you quite, And told you so at Will's[3] but t'other night.

Thus are the lives of fools a sort of dreams, Rendering shades things, and substances of names; Such high companions may delusion keep, Lords are a footboy's cronies in his sleep.

As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown, Render'd the topping beauty of the town, Draws every rhyming, prating, dressing sot, To boast of favours that he never got; Of which, whoe'er lacks confidence to prate, Brings his good parts and breeding in debate; And not the meanest c.o.xcomb you can find, But thanks his stars, that Phillis has been kind; Thus prost.i.tute my Congreve's name is grown To every lewd pretender of the town.

Troth, I could pity you; but this is it, You find, to be the fas.h.i.+onable wit; These are the slaves whom reputation chains, Whose maintenance requires no help from brains.

For, should the vilest scribbler to the pit, Whom sin and want e'er furnish'd out a wit; Whose name must not within my lines be shown, Lest here it live, when perish'd with his own;[4]

Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place, And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face; I'll bet my life but the dull cheat would pa.s.s, Nor need the lion's skin conceal the a.s.s; Yes, that beau's look, that vice, those critic ears, Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs.

Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant; In how ill season her resentments rule, What's that to her if mankind be a fool?

Happy beyond a private Muse's fate, In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5]

Where though her elder sisters crowding throng, She still is welcome with her innocent song; Whom were my Congreve blest to see and know, What poor regards would merit all below!

How proudly would he haste the joy to meet, And drop his laurel at Apollo's feet!

Here by a mountain's side, a reverend cave Gives murmuring pa.s.sage to a lasting wave: 'Tis the world's watery hour-gla.s.s streaming fast, Time is no more when th'utmost drop is past; Here, on a better day, some druid dwelt, And the young Muse's early favour felt; Druid, a name she does with pride repeat, Confessing Albion once her darling seat; Far in this primitive cell might we pursue Our predecessors' footsteps still in view; Here would we sing--But, ah! you think I dream, And the bad world may well believe the same; Yes: you are all malicious slanders by, While two fond lovers prate, the Muse and I.

Since thus I wander from my first intent, Nor am that grave adviser which I meant, Take this short lesson from the G.o.d of bays, And let my friend apply it as he please: Beat not the dirty paths where vulgar feet have trod, But give the vigorous fancy room.

For when, like stupid alchymists, you try To fix this nimble G.o.d, This volatile mercury, The subtile spirit all flies up in fume; Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find More than _fade_ insipid mixture left behind.[6]

While thus I write, vast shoals of critics come, And on my verse p.r.o.nounce their saucy doom; The Muse like some bright country virgin shows Fallen by mishap among a knot of beaux; They, in their lewd and fas.h.i.+onable prate, Rally her dress, her language, and her gait; Spend their base coin before the bashful maid, Current like copper, and as often paid: She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep Near better animals, her father's sheep, Shamed and amazed, beholds the chattering throng, To think what cattle she is got among; But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd, In haste she does th'offensive herd avoid.

'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell, The muse retreats far in yon crystal cell; Faint inspiration sickens as she flies, Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies.

In this descending sheet you'll haply find Some short refreshment for your weary mind, Nought it contains is common or unclean, And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again.[7]

[Footnote 1: Where Swift lived with Sir William Temple, who had bought an estate near Farnham, called Compton Hall, which he afterwards named Moor Park. See "Prose Works," vol. xi, 378.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Dryden. See "The Rehearsal," and _post_, p. 43.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Will's coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, where the wits of that time used to a.s.semble. See "The Tatler," No. I, and notes, edit. 1786.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: To this resolution Swift always adhered; for of the infinite mult.i.tude of libellers who personally attacked him, there is not the name mentioned of any one of them throughout his works; and thus, together with their writings, have they been consigned to eternal oblivion.--_S._]

[Footnote 5: This alludes to Sir William Temple, to whom he presently gives the name of Apollo.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: Out of an Ode I writ, inscribed "The Poet." The rest of it is lost.--_Swift_.]

[Footnote 7: For an account of Congreve, see Leigh Hunt's edition of "Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar."--_W. E. B._]

OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS AND RECOVERY

WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1693

Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike At distant hours the mind with forms so like!

Whether in time, Deduction's broken chain Meets, and salutes her sister link again; Or haunted Fancy, by a circling flight, Comes back with joy to its own seat at night; Or whether dead Imagination's ghost Oft hovers where alive it haunted most; Or if Thought's rolling globe, her circle run, Turns up old objects to the soul her sun; Or loves the Muse to walk with conscious pride O'er the glad scene whence first she rose a bride: Be what it will; late near yon whispering stream, Where her own Temple was her darling theme; There first the visionary sound was heard, When to poetic view the Muse appear'd.

Such seem'd her eyes, as when an evening ray Gives glad farewell to a tempestuous day; Weak is the beam to dry up Nature's tears, Still every tree the pendent sorrow wears; Such are the smiles where drops of crystal show Approaching joy at strife with parting woe.

As when, to scare th'ungrateful or the proud, Tempests long frown, and thunder threatens loud, Till the blest sun, to give kind dawn of grace, Darts weeping beams across Heaven's watery face; When soon the peaceful bow unstring'd is shown, A sign G.o.d's dart is shot, and wrath o'erblown: Such to unhallow'd sight the Muse divine Might seem, when first she raised her eyes to mine.

What mortal change does in thy face appear, Lost youth, she cried, since first I met thee here!

With how undecent clouds are overcast Thy looks, when every cause of grief is past!

Unworthy the glad tidings which I bring, Listen while the Muse thus teaches thee to sing: As parent earth, burst by imprison'd winds, Scatters strange agues o'er men's sickly minds, And shakes the atheist's knees; such ghastly fear Late I beheld on every face appear; Mild Dorothea,[1] peaceful, wise, and great, Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate; Mild Dorothea, whom we both have long Not dared to injure with our lowly song; Sprung from a better world, and chosen then The best companion for the best of men: As some fair pile, yet spared by zeal and rage, Lives pious witness of a better age; So men may see what once was womankind, In the fair shrine of Dorothea's mind.

You that would grief describe, come here and trace Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's[2] face: Grief from Dorinda's face does ne'er depart Farther than its own palace in her heart: Ah, since our fears are fled, this insolent expel, At least confine the tyrant to his cell.

And if so black the cloud that Heaven's bright queen Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen?

Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook, And grief flung sables on each menial look; The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.-- Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; And to mistaken man these truths rehea.r.s.e, Who dare revile the integrity of verse: Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!-- But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not; Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect Thy just submission for this bold neglect.

Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use At the divine appearance of the Muse, Which to divulge might shake profane belief, And tell the irreligion of my grief; Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, And shaped my pa.s.sion in such words as these!

Malignant G.o.ddess! bane to my repose, Thou universal cause of all my woes; Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late A poor amus.e.m.e.nt for my scorn and hate; The malice thou inspirest I never fail On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort: Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth, Deals out to man the planet of his birth: But sees thy meteor blaze about me s.h.i.+ne, And pa.s.sing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine: Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown, That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own, But a wild form dependent on the brain, Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein; Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight, Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light; Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies, Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes: In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name, A walking vapour, like thy sister fame.

But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate, A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create; Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay, So highly courted by the brisk and gay?

Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook; Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, a.s.sign'd for life to unremitting grief; For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days, If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays.

Time o'er the happy takes so swift a flight, And treads so soft, so easy, and so light, That we the wretched, creeping far behind, Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find; Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3]

Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, Salutes the weary traveller as he walks; But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face.