The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 53

Extol him for his generous mind: And, when we starve for want of corn, Come out with Amalthea's horn:[3]

For all experience this evinces The only art of pleasing princes: For princes' love you should descant On virtues which they know they want.

One compliment I had forgot, But songsters must omit it not; I freely grant the thought is old: Why, then, your hero must be told, In him such virtues lie inherent, To qualify him G.o.d's vicegerent; That with no t.i.tle to inherit, He must have been a king by merit.

Yet, be the fancy old or new, Tis partly false, and partly true: And, take it right, it means no more Than George and William claim'd before.

Should some obscure inferior fellow, Like Julius, or the youth of Pella,[4]

When all your list of G.o.ds is out, Presume to show his mortal snout, And as a Deity intrude, Because he had the world subdued; O, let him not debase your thoughts, Or name him but to tell his faults.-- Of G.o.ds I only quote the best, But you may hook in all the rest.

Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed To praise your empress and her breed; First of the first, to vouch your lies, Bring all the females of the skies; The Graces, and their mistress, Venus, Must venture down to entertain us: With bended knees when they adore her, What dowdies they appear before her!

Nor shall we think you talk at random, For Venus might be her great-grandam: Six thousand years has lived the G.o.ddess, Your heroine hardly fifty odd is; Besides, your songsters oft have shown That she has Graces of her own: Three Graces by Lucina brought her, Just three, and every Grace a daughter; Here many a king his heart and crown Shall at their snowy feet lay down: In royal robes, they come by dozens To court their English German cousins: Beside a pair of princely babies, That, five years hence, will both be Hebes.

Now see her seated in her throne With genuine l.u.s.tre, all her own: Poor Cynthia never shone so bright, Her splendour is but borrow'd light; And only with her brother linkt Can s.h.i.+ne, without him is extinct.

But Carolina s.h.i.+nes the clearer With neither spouse nor brother near her: And darts her beams o'er both our isles, Though George is gone a thousand miles.

Thus Berecynthia takes her place, Attended by her heavenly race; And sees a son in every G.o.d, Unawed by Jove's all-shaking nod.

Now sing his little highness Freddy Who struts like any king already: With so much beauty, show me any maid That could resist this charming Ganymede!

Where majesty with sweetness vies, And, like his father, early wise.

Then cut him out a world of work, To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk: Foretel his empire crown'd with bays, And golden times, and halcyon days; And swear his line shall rule the nation For ever--till the conflagration.

But, now it comes into my mind, We left a little duke behind; A Cupid in his face and size, And only wants, to want his eyes.

Make some provision for the younker, Find him a kingdom out to conquer; Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er, Make Gulliver his commodore; Into whose pocket valiant w.i.l.l.y put, Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput.

A skilful critic justly blames Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names The sense can ne'er be too jejune, But smooth your words to fit the tune.

Hanover may do well enough, But George and Brunswick are too rough; Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound, And Guelp the strongest ear will wound.

In vain are all attempts from Germany To find out proper words for harmony: And yet I must except the Rhine, Because it clinks to Caroline.

Hail, queen of Britain, queen of rhymes!

Be sung ten hundred thousand times; Too happy were the poets' crew, If their own happiness they knew: Three syllables did never meet So soft, so sliding, and so sweet: Nine other tuneful words like that Would prove even Homer's numbers flat.

Behold three beauteous vowels stand, With bridegroom liquids hand in hand; In concord here for ever fix'd, No jarring consonant betwixt.

May Caroline continue long, For ever fair and young!--in song.

What though the royal carca.s.s must, Squeezed in a coffin, turn to dust?

Those elements her name compose, Like atoms, are exempt from blows.

Though Caroline may fill your gaps, Yet still you must consult your maps; Find rivers with harmonious names, Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames, Britannia long will wear like steel, But Albion's cliffs are out at heel; And Patience can endure no more To hear the Belgic lion roar.

Give up the phrase of haughty Gaul, But proud Iberia soundly maul: Restore the s.h.i.+ps by Philip taken, And make him crouch to save his bacon.

Na.s.sau, who got the name of Glorious, Because he never was victorious, A hanger-on has always been; For old acquaintance bring him in.

To Walpole you might lend a line, But much I fear he's in decline; And if you chance to come too late, When he goes out, you share his fate, And bear the new successor's frown; Or, whom you once sang up, sing down.

Reject with scorn that stupid notion, To praise your hero for devotion; Nor entertain a thought so odd, That princes should believe in G.o.d; But follow the securest rule, And turn it all to ridicule: 'Tis grown the choicest wit at court, And gives the maids of honour sport; For, since they talk'd with Dr. Clarke,[5]

They now can venture in the dark: That sound divine the truth has spoke all, And p.a.w.n'd his word, h.e.l.l is not local.

This will not give them half the trouble Of bargains sold, or meanings double.

Supposing now your song is done, To Mynheer Handel next you run, Who artfully will pare and prune Your words to some Italian tune: Then print it in the largest letter, With capitals, the more the better.

Present it boldly on your knee, And take a guinea for your fee.

[Footnote 1: Alluding to the disputes between George I, and his son, while the latter was Prince of Wales.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: The Electress Sophia, mother of George II, was supposed to have had an intrigue with Count Konigsmark.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: The name of the goat with whose milk Jupiter was fed, and one of whose horns was placed among the stars as the Cornu Amaltheae, or Cornu Copiae. Ovid, "Fasti," lib. v.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: The ancient city in Macedonia, the birthplace of Alexander the Great.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: A famous Low Church divine, a favourite with Queen Caroline, distinguished as a man of science and a scholar. He became Rector of St.

James', Piccadilly, but his sermons and his theological writings were not considered quite orthodox. See note in Carruthers' edition of Pope, "Moral Essays," Epist. iv.--_W. E. B._]

THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK A FABLE BY DR. DELANY 1730

--quis iniquae Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?--_-Juv._ i, 30.

In ancient times, as bards indite, (If clerks have conn'd the records right.) A peac.o.c.k reign'd, whose glorious sway His subjects with delight obey: His tail was beauteous to behold, Replete with goodly eyes and gold; Fair emblem of that monarch's guise, Whose train at once is rich and wise; And princely ruled he many regions, And statesmen wise, and valiant legions.

A pheasant lord,[1] above the rest, With every grace and talent blest, Was sent to sway, with all his skill, The sceptre of a neighbouring hill.[2]

No science was to him unknown, For all the arts were all his own: In all the living learned read, Though more delighted with the dead: For birds, if ancient tales say true, Had then their Popes and Homers too; Could read and write in prose and verse, And speak like ***, and build like Pearce.[3]

He knew their voices, and their wings, Who smoothest soars, who sweetest sings; Who toils with ill-fledged pens to climb, And who attain'd the true sublime.

Their merits he could well descry, He had so exquisite an eye; And when that fail'd to show them clear, He had as exquisite an ear; It chanced as on a day he stray'd Beneath an academic shade, He liked, amidst a thousand throats, The wildness of a Woodlark's[4] notes, And search'd, and spied, and seized his game, And took him home, and made him tame; Found him on trial true and able, So cheer'd and fed him at his table.

Here some shrewd critic finds I'm caught, And cries out, "Better fed than taught"--Then jests on game and tame, and reads, And jests, and so my tale proceeds.

Long had he studied in the wood, Conversing with the wise and good: His soul with harmony inspired, With love of truth and virtue fired: His brethren's good and Maker's praise Were all the study of his lays; Were all his study in retreat, And now employ'd him with the great.

His friends.h.i.+p was the sure resort Of all the wretched at the court; But chiefly merit in distress His greatest blessing was to bless.-- This fix'd him in his patron's breast, But fired with envy all the rest: I mean that noisy, craving crew, Who round the court incessant flew, And prey'd like rooks, by pairs and dozens, To fill the maws of sons and cousins: "Unmoved their heart, and chill'd their blood To every thought of common good, Confining every hope and care, To their own low, contracted sphere."

These ran him down with ceaseless cry, But found it hard to tell you why, Till his own worth and wit supplied Sufficient matter to deride: "'Tis envy's safest, surest rule, To hide her rage in ridicule: The vulgar eye she best beguiles, When all her snakes are deck'd with smiles: Sardonic smiles, by rancour raised!

Tormented most when seeming pleased!"

Their spite had more than half expired, Had he not wrote what all admired; What morsels had their malice wanted, But that he built, and plann'd, and planted!

How had his sense and learning grieved them, But that his charity relieved them!

"At highest worth dull malice reaches, As slugs pollute the fairest peaches: Envy defames, as harpies vile Devour the food they first defile."

Now ask the fruit of all his favour-- "He was not hitherto a saver."-- What then could make their rage run mad?

"Why, what he hoped, not what he had."

"What tyrant e'er invented ropes, Or racks, or rods, to punish hopes?

Th' inheritance of hope and fame Is seldom Earthly Wisdom's aim; Or, if it were, is not so small, But there is room enough for all."

If he but chance to breathe a song, (He seldom sang, and never long,) The noisy, rude, malignant crowd, Where it was high, p.r.o.nounced it loud: Plain Truth was Pride; and, what was sillier, Easy and Friendly was Familiar.

Or, if he tuned his lofty lays, With solemn air to Virtue's praise, Alike abusive and erroneous, They call'd it hoa.r.s.e and inharmonious.

Yet so it was to souls like theirs, Tuneless as Abel to the bears!

A Rook[5] with harsh malignant caw Began, was follow'd by a Daw;[6]

(Though some, who would be thought to know, Are positive it was a crow:) Jack Daw was seconded by t.i.t, Tom t.i.t[7] could write, and so he writ; A tribe of tuneless praters follow, The Jay, the Magpie, and the Swallow; And twenty more their throats let loose, Down to the witless, waddling Goose.

Some peck'd at him, some flew, some flutter'd, Some hiss'd, some scream'd, and others mutter'd: The Crow, on carrion wont to feast, The Carrion Crow, condemn'd his taste: The Rook, in earnest too, not joking, Swore all his singing was but croaking.

Some thought they meant to show their wit, Might think so still--"but that they writ"-- Could it be spite or envy?--"No-- Who did no ill could have no foe."-- So wise Simplicity esteem'd; Quite otherwise True Wisdom deem'd; This question rightly understood, "What more provokes than doing good?

A soul enn.o.bled and refined Reproaches every baser mind: As strains exalted and melodious Make every meaner music odious."-- At length the Nightingale[8] was heard, For voice and wisdom long revered, Esteem'd of all the wise and good, The Guardian Genius of the wood: He long in discontent retired, Yet not obscured, but more admired: His brethren's servile souls disdaining, He lived indignant and complaining: They now afresh provoke his choler, (It seems the Lark had been his scholar, A favourite scholar always near him, And oft had waked whole nights to hear him.) Enraged he canva.s.ses the matter, Exposes all their senseless chatter, Shows him and them in such a light, As more inflames, yet quells their spite.

They hear his voice, and frighted fly, For rage had raised it very high: Shamed by the wisdom of his notes, They hide their heads, and hush their throats.

[Footnote 1: Lord Carteret, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: Ireland.--_F_]

[Footnote 3: A famous modern architect, who built the Parliament-house in Dublin.--_F_.]

[Footnote 4: Dr. Delany.--_F_.]

[Footnote 5: Dr. T----r.--_F._]

[Footnote 6: Right Hon. Rich. Tighe.--_F._]

[Footnote 7: Dr. Sheridan.--_F._]

[Footnote 8: Dean Swift.--_F._]

ANSWER TO DR. DELANY'S FABLE OF THE PHEASANT AND LARK.