The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 50

Once on a time, a righteous sage, Grieved with the vices of the age, Applied to Jove with fervent prayer-- "O Jove, if Virtue be so fair As it was deem'd in former days, By Plato and by Socrates, Whose beauties mortal eyes escape, Only for want of outward shape; Make then its real excellence, For once the theme of human sense; So shall the eye, by form confined, Direct and fix the wandering mind, And long-deluded mortals see, With rapture, what they used to flee!"

Jove grants the prayer, gives Virtue birth, And bids him bless and mend the earth.

Behold him blooming fresh and fair, Now made--ye G.o.ds--a son and heir; An heir: and, stranger yet to hear, An heir, an orphan of a peer;[2]

But prodigies are wrought to prove Nothing impossible to Jove.

Virtue was for this s.e.x design'd, In mild reproof to womankind; In manly form to let them see The loveliness of modesty, The thousand decencies that shone With lessen'd l.u.s.tre in their own; Which few had learn'd enough to prize, And some thought modish to despise.

To make his merit more discern'd, He goes to school--he reads--is learn'd; Raised high above his birth, by knowledge, He s.h.i.+nes distinguish'd in a college; Resolved nor honour, nor estate, Himself alone should make him great.

Here soon for every art renown'd, His influence is diffused around; The inferior youth to learning led, Less to be famed than to be fed, Behold the glory he has won, And blush to see themselves outdone; And now, inflamed with rival rage, In scientific strife engage, Engage; and, in the glorious strife The arts new kindle into life.

Here would our hero ever dwell, Fix'd in a lonely learned cell: Contented to be truly great, In Virtue's best beloved retreat; Contented he--but Fate ordains, He now shall s.h.i.+ne in n.o.bler scenes, Raised high, like some celestial fire, To s.h.i.+ne the more, still rising higher; Completely form'd in every part, To win the soul, and glad the heart.

The powerful voice, the graceful mien, Lovely alike, or heard, or seen; The outward form and inward vie, His soul bright beaming from his eye, Enn.o.bling every act and air, With just, and generous, and sincere.

Accomplish'd thus, his next resort Is to the council and the court, Where Virtue is in least repute, And interest the one pursuit; Where right and wrong are bought and sold, Barter'd for beauty, and for gold; Here Manly Virtue, even here, Pleased in the person of a peer, A peer; a scarcely bearded youth, Who talk'd of justice and of truth, Of innocence the surest guard, Tales here forgot, or yet unheard; That he alone deserved esteem, Who was the man he wish'd to seem; Call'd it unmanly and unwise, To lurk behind a mean disguise; (Give fraudful Vice the mask and screen, 'Tis Virtue's interest to be seen;) Call'd want of shame a want of sense, And found, in blushes, eloquence.

Thus acting what he taught so well, He drew dumb merit from her cell, Led with amazing art along The bashful dame, and loosed her tongue; And, while he made her value known, Yet more display'd and raised his own.

Thus young, thus proof to all temptations, He rises to the highest stations; For where high honour is the prize, True Virtue has a right to rise: Let courtly slaves low bend the knee To Wealth and Vice in high degree: Exalted Worth disdains to owe Its grandeur to its greatest foe.

Now raised on high, see Virtue shows The G.o.dlike ends for which he rose; For him, let proud Ambition know The height of glory here below, Grandeur, by goodness made complete!

To bless, is truly to be great!

He taught how men to honour rise, Like gilded vapours to the skies, Which, howsoever they display Their glory from the G.o.d of day, Their n.o.blest use is to abate His dangerous excess of heat, To s.h.i.+eld the infant fruits and flowers, And bless the earth with genial showers.

Now change the scene; a n.o.bler care Demands him in a higher sphere:[3]

Distress of nations calls him hence, Permitted so by Providence; For models, made to mend our kind, To no one clime should be confined; And Manly Virtue, like the sun, His course of glorious toils should run: Alike diffusing in his flight Congenial joy, and life, and light.

Pale Envy sickens, Error flies, And Discord in his presence dies; Oppression hides with guilty dread, And Merit rears her drooping head; The arts revive, the valleys sing, And winter softens into spring: The wondering world, where'er he moves, With new delight looks up, and loves; One s.e.x consenting to admire, Nor less the other to desire; While he, though seated on a throne, Confines his love to one alone; The rest condemn'd with rival voice Repining, do applaud his choice.

Fame now reports, the Western isle Is made his mansion for a while, Whose anxious natives, night and day, (Happy beneath his righteous sway,) Weary the G.o.ds with ceaseless prayer, To bless him, and to keep him there; And claim it as a debt from Fate, Too lately found, to lose him late.

[Footnote 1: See Swift's "Vindication of Lord Carteret," "Prose Works,"

vii, 227; and his character as Lord Granville in my "Wit and Wisdom of Lord Chesterfield."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: George, the first Lord Carteret, father of the Lord Lieutenant, died when his son was between four and five years of age.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Lord Carteret had the honour of mediating peace for Sweden, with Denmark, and with the Czar.--_H._]

ON PADDY'S CHARACTER OF THE "INTELLIGENCER."[1] 1729

As a thorn bush, or oaken bough, Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow, Above the door, at country fair, Betokens entertainment there; So bays on poets' brows have been Set, for a sign of wit within.

And as ill neighbours in the night Pull down an alehouse bush for spite; The laurel so, by poets worn, Is by the teeth of Envy torn; Envy, a canker-worm, which tears Those sacred leaves that lightning spares.

And now, t'exemplify this moral: Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel, (Which, measured on his head, was found Not long enough to reach half round, But, like a girl's c.o.c.kade, was tied, A trophy, on his temple-side,) Paddy repined to see him wear This badge of honour in his hair; And, thinking this c.o.c.kade of wit Would his own temples better fit, Forming his Muse by Smedley's model, Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle, Pelts him by turns with verse and prose Hums like a hornet at his nose.

At length presumes to vent his satire on The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron.

The eagle in the tale, ye know, Teazed by a buzzing wasp below, Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest Securely in the thunderer's breast: In vain; even there, to spoil his nod, The spiteful insect stung the G.o.d.

[Footnote 1: For particulars of this publication, the work of two only, Swift and Sheridan, see "Prose Works," vol. ix, p. 311. The satire seems To have provoked retaliation from Tighe, Prendergast, Smedley, and even from Delany. Hence this poem.--_W. E. B._]

AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN, LORD CARTERET BY DR. DELANY. 1729[1]

Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes forta.s.se rogare, Propter quae vulgus cra.s.saque turba rogat.

MART., _Epig._, lib. ix, 22.

Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle, Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile; When next your generous soul shall condescend T' instruct or entertain your humble friend; Whether, retiring from your weighty charge, On some high theme you learnedly enlarge; Of all the ways of wisdom reason well, How Richelieu rose, and how Seja.n.u.s fell: Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends, Circled with Swift and some delighted friends; When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine, Like that your wit shall flow, your genius s.h.i.+ne: Nor with less praise the conversation guide, Than in the public councils you decide: Or when the Dean, long privileged to rail, a.s.serts his friend with more impetuous zeal; You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute) With soft concessions shortening the dispute; Then close with kind inquiries of my state, "How are your t.i.thes, and have they rose of late?

Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation, There are not many better in the nation!

This, with your other things, must yield you clear Some six--at least five hundred pounds a-year."

Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em; You shall rejoin, my lord, when I've replied, And, if you please, my lady shall decide.

"My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well, And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell; But you'll forgive me, if I own the event Is short, is very short, of your intent: At least, I feel some ills unfelt before, My income less, and my expenses more."

"How, doctor! double vicar! double rector!

A dignitary! with a city lecture!

What glebes--what dues--what t.i.thes--what fines--what rent!

Why, doctor!--will you never be content?"

"Would my good Lord but cast up the account, And see to what my revenues amount;[2]

My t.i.tles ample; but my gain so small, That one good vicarage is worth them all: And very wretched, sure, is he that's double In nothing but his t.i.tles and his trouble.

And to this crying grievance, if you please, My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways; Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone, Where every step endangers every bone; And, more to raise your pity and your wonder, Two churches--twelve Hibernian miles asunder: With complicated cures, I labour hard in, Beside whole summers absent from--my garden!

But that the world would think I play'd the fool, I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3]

What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make, Fixt in the centre of th' Iernian lake!

There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe, Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4]

There's not a better steerer in the realm; I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm."-- "Doctor--a glorious scheme to ease your grief!

When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief.

You cannot fail of being happy there, The lake will be the Lethe of your care: The scheme is for your honour and your ease: And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please.

Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit, Yet, doctor, you've a philosophic spirit; Your wants are few, and, like your income, small, And you've enough to gratify them all: You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store: And what would a philosopher have more?

You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks--"

"My lord, I've not enough to buy me books-- Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied, Are there no wants I should regard beside?

Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve, Compa.s.s'd with miseries he can't relieve?

Who can be happy--who should wish to live, And want the G.o.dlike happiness to give?

That I'm a judge of this, you must allow: I had it once--and I'm debarr'd it now.

Ask your own heart, my lord; if this be true, Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!"

"'Tis true--but, doctor, let us wave all that-- Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?"

"Excuse me, good my lord--I won't be sounded, Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded.

My lord, I challenge nothing as my due, Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you.

Yet this might Symmachus himself avow, (Whose rigid rules[5] are antiquated now)-- My lord; I'd wish to pay the debts I owe-- I'd wish besides--to build and to bestow."

[Footnote 1: Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chancellors.h.i.+p of Christ-Church, and a prebend's stall in St. Patrick's, neither of which exceeded the same annual amount. Yet a clamour was raised among the Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant of extravagant favour to a Tory divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret." It appears, from the following verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who thought he was too amply provided for.--_Scott._ See the "Vindication,"

"Prose Works," vii, p. 244.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Which, according to Swift's calculation, in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret," amounted only to 300 a year. "Prose Works," vol. vii, p. 245.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, Esq.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 4: Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of Erin.--_F._]

[Footnote 5: Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the inc.u.mbent.--_H._]

AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE

FROM A CERTAIN DOCTOR TO A CERTAIN GREAT LORD.

BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY