The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 10

ON THE GALLOWS

There is a gate, we know full well, That stands 'twixt Heaven, and Earth, and h.e.l.l, Where many for a pa.s.sage venture, Yet very few are fond to enter: Although 'tis open night and day, They for that reason shun this way: Both dukes and lords abhor its wood, They can't come near it for their blood.

What other way they take to go, Another time I'll let you know.

Yet commoners with greatest ease Can find an entrance when they please.

The poorest hither march in state (Or they can never pa.s.s the gate) Like Roman generals triumphant, And then they take a turn and jump on't, If gravest parsons here advance, They cannot pa.s.s before they dance; There's not a soul that does resort here, But strips himself to pay the porter.

ON THE VOWELS

We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in gla.s.s is set, One of us you'll find in jet.

T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within.

If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.

ON SNOW

From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin, No lady alive can show such a skin.

I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather, But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.

Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear, Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.

Though so much of Heaven appears in my make, The foulest impressions I easily take.

My parent and I produce one another, The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.

ON A CANNON

Begotten, and born, and dying with noise, The terror of women, and pleasure of boys, Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind, I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined.

For silver and gold I don't trouble my head, But all I delight in is pieces of lead; Except when I trade with a s.h.i.+p or a town, Why then I make pieces of iron go down.

One property more I would have you remark, No lady was ever more fond of a spark; The moment I get one, my soul's all a-fire, And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.

ON A PAIR OF DICE

We are little brethren twain, Arbiters of loss and gain, Many to our counters run, Some are made, and some undone: But men find it to their cost, Few are made, but numbers lost.

Though we play them tricks for ever, Yet they always hope our favour.

ON A CANDLE

TO LADY CARTERET

Of all inhabitants on earth, To man alone I owe my birth, And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee, Are all my parents more than he: I, a virtue, strange and rare, Make the fairest look more fair, And myself, which yet is rarer, Growing old, grow still the fairer.

Like sots, alone I'm dull enough, When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff; But, in the midst of mirth and wine, I with double l.u.s.tre s.h.i.+ne.

Emblem of the Fair am I, Polish'd neck, and radiant eye; In my eye my greatest grace, Emblem of the Cyclops' race; Metals I like them subdue, Slave like them to Vulcan too; Emblem of a monarch old, Wise, and glorious to behold; Wasted he appears, and pale, Watching for the public weal: Emblem of the bashful dame, That in secret feeds her flame, Often aiding to impart All the secrets of her heart; Various is my bulk and hue, Big like Bess, and small like Sue: Now brown and burnish'd like a nut, At other times a very s.l.u.t; Often fair, and soft, and tender, Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender: Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers, Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours: But whatever be my dress, Greater be my size or less, Swelling be my shape or small, Like thyself I s.h.i.+ne in all.

Clouded if my face is seen, My complexion wan and green, Languid like a love-sick maid, Steel affords me present aid.

Soon or late, my date is done, As my thread of life is spun; Yet to cut the fatal thread Oft revives my drooping head; Yet I perish in my prime, Seldom by the death of time; Die like lovers as they gaze, Die for those I live to please; Pine unpitied to my urn, Nor warm the fair for whom I burn: Unpitied, unlamented too, Die like all that look on you.

TO LADY CARTERET

BY DR. DELANY

I reach all things near me, and far off to boot, Without stretching a finger, or stirring a foot; I take them all in too, to add to your wonder, Though many and various, and large and asunder, Without jostling or crowding they pa.s.s side by side, Through a wonderful wicket, not half an inch wide; Then I lodge them at ease in a very large store, Of no breadth or length, with a thousand things more.

All this I can do without witchcraft or charm, Though sometimes they say, I bewitch and do harm; Though cold, I inflame; and though quiet, invade: And nothing can s.h.i.+eld from my spell but a shade.

A thief that has robb'd you, or done you disgrace, In magical mirror, I'll show you his face: Nay, if you'll believe what the poets have said, They'll tell you I kill, and can call back the dead.

Like conjurers safe in my circle I dwell; I love to look black too, it heightens my spell; Though my magic is mighty in every hue, Who see all my power must see it in you.

ANSWERED BY DR. SWIFT

WITH half an eye your riddle I spy, I observe your wicket hemm'd in by a thicket, And whatever pa.s.ses is strain'd through gla.s.ses.

You say it is quiet: I flatly deny it.

It wanders about, without stirring out; No pa.s.sion so weak but gives it a tweak; Love, joy, and devotion, set it always in motion.

And as for trie tragic effects of its magic, Which you say it can kill, or revive at its will, The dead are all sound, and they live above ground: After all you have writ, it cannot be wit; Which plainly does follow, since it flies from Apollo.

Its cowardice such it cries at a touch; 'Tis a perfect milksop, grows drunk with a drop, Another great fault, it cannot bear salt: And a hair can disarm it of every charm.

TO LADY CARTERET

BY DR. SWIFT

FROM India's burning clime I'm brought, With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.

Not Iris, when she paints the sky, Can show more different hues than I; Nor can she change her form so fast, I'm now a sail, and now a mast.

I here am red, and there am green, A beggar there, and here a queen.

I sometimes live in house of hair, And oft in hand of lady fair.

I please the young, I grace the old, And am at once both hot and cold.

Say what I am then, if you can, And find the rhyme, and you're the man.

ANSWERED BY DR. SHERIDAN

Your house of hair, and lady's hand, At first did put me to a stand.