The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 22

Another strange story That vexes the Tory, But sure there's no mystery in it, That a pension and place Give communicants grace, Who design to turn tail the next minute.

For if it be not strange, That religion should change, As often as climates and fas.h.i.+ons; Then sure there's no harm, That one should conform.

To serve their own private occasions.

Another new dance, Which of late they advance, Is to cry up the birth of Pretender, And those that dare own The queen heir to the crown, Are traitors, not fit to defend her.

The subject's most loyal That hates the blood royal, And they for employments have merit, Who swear queen and steeple Were made by the people, And neither have right to inherit.

The monarchy's fixt, By making on't mixt, And by non-resistance o'erthrown; And preaching obedience Destroys our allegiance, And thus the Whigs prop up the throne.

That viceroy [2] is best, That would take off the test, And made a sham speech to attempt it; But being true blue, When he found 'twould not do, Swore, d.a.m.n him, if ever he meant it.

'Tis no news that Tom Double The nation should bubble, Nor is't any wonder or riddle, That a parliament rump Should play hop, step, and jump, And dance any jig to his fiddle.

But now, sir, they tell, How Sacheverell, By bringing old doctrines in fas.h.i.+on, Hath, like a d.a.m.n'd rogue, Brought religion in vogue, And so open'd the eyes of the nation.

Then let's pray without spleen, May G.o.d bless the queen, And her fellow-monarchs the people; May they prosper and thrive, Whilst I am alive, And so may the church with the steeple.

[Footnote 1: Alluding to the year 1641, when the great rebellion broke out. _Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: Lord Wharton.]

ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE[1]

TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD 1710

Atlas, we read in ancient song, Was so exceeding tall and strong, He bore the skies upon his back, Just as the pedler does his pack; But, as the pedler overpress'd Unloads upon a stall to rest, Or, when he can no longer stand Desires a friend to lend a hand; So Atlas, lest the ponderous spheres Should sink, and fall about his ears, Got Hercules to bear the pile, That he might sit and rest awhile.

Yet Hercules was not so strong, Nor could have borne it half so long.

Great statesmen are in this condition; And Atlas is a politician, A premier minister of state; Alcides one of second rate.

Suppose then Atlas ne'er so wise; Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies Too long upon his single shoulders, Sink down he must, or find upholders.

[Footnote 1: In these free, and yet complimentary verses, Swift cautions Oxford against his greatest political error, that affectation of mystery, and wish of engrossing the whole management of public affairs, which first disgusted, and then alienated, Harcourt and Bolingbroke. On this point our author has spoken very fully in the "Free Thoughts upon. The present State of Affairs."--_Scott_. See "Prose Works," v, 391.--_W. E. B_. ]

LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON MR. HARLEY'S BEING STABBED, AND ADDRESSED TO HIS PHYSICIAN, 1710-11 [1]

On Britain Europe's safety lies, Britain is lost if Harley dies: Harley depends upon your skill: Think what you save, or what you kill.

[Footnote 1: For details of Guiscard's murderous attack on Harley, see Journal to Stella, March 8, 1710-11, "Prose Works," ii.--_W. E. B._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG

BEING THE INTENDED SPEECH OF A FAMOUS ORATOR AGAINST PEACE. 1711

An orator _dismal_ of _Nottinghams.h.i.+re,_ Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire, Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place, Is come up, _vi et armis_, to break the queen's peace.

He has vamp'd an old speech, and the court, to their sorrow, Shall hear him harangue against Prior to-morrow.

When once he begins, he never will flinch, But repeats the same note a whole day like a Finch.[1]

I have heard all the speech repeated by Hoppy,'

And, "mistakes to prevent, I've obtained a copy."

THE SPEECH

Whereas, notwithstanding I am in great pain, To hear we are making a peace without Spain; But, most n.o.ble senators, 'tis a great shame, There should be a peace, while I'm _Not-in-game._ The duke show'd me all his fine house; and the d.u.c.h.ess From her closet brought out a full purse in her clutches: I talk'd of a peace, and they both gave a start, His grace swore by G--d, and her grace let a f--t: My long old-fas.h.i.+on'd pocket was presently cramm'd; And sooner than vote for a peace I'll be d.a.m.n'd.

But some will cry turn-coat, and rip up old stories, How I always pretended to be for the Tories: I answer; the Tories were in my good graces, Till all my relations were put into places.

But still I'm in principle ever the same, And will quit my best friends, while I'm _Not-in-game._ When I and some others subscribed our names To a plot for expelling my master King James, I withdrew my subscription by help of a blot, And so might discover or gain by the plot: I had my advantage, and stood at defiance, For Daniel[2] was got from the den of the lions: I came in without danger, and was I to blame?

For, rather than hang, I would be _Not-in-game._ I swore to the queen, that the Prince of Hanover During her sacred life would never come over: I made use of a trope; that "an heir to invite, Was like keeping her monument always in sight."

But, when I thought proper, I alter'd my note; And in her own hearing I boldly did vote, That her Majesty stood in great need of a tutor, And must have an old or a young coadjutor: For why; I would fain have put all in a flame, Because, for some reasons, I was _Not-in-game._ Now my new benefactors have brought me about, And I'll vote against peace, with Spain or without: Though the court gives my nephews, and brothers, and cousins, And all my whole family, places by dozens; Yet, since I know where a full purse may be found, And hardly pay eighteen-pence tax in the pound: Since the Tories have thus disappointed my hopes, And will neither regard my figures nor tropes, I'll speech against peace while _Dismal's_ my name, And be a true Whig, while I'm _Not-in-game._

[Footnote 1: Lord Nottingham's family name.]

[Footnote 2: This was the Earl's Christian name.]

THE WINDSOR PROPHECY[1]

"About three months ago, at Windsor, a poor knight's widow was buried in the cloisters. In digging the grave, the s.e.xton struck against a small leaden coffer, about half a foot in length, and four inches wide. The poor man, expecting he had discovered a treasure, opened it with some difficulty; but found only a small parchment, rolled up very fast, put into a leather case; which case was tied at the top, and sealed with St.

George, the impression on black wax, very rude and gothic. The parchment was carried to a gentleman of learning, who found in it the following lines, written in a black old English letter, and in the orthography of the age, which seems to be about two hundred years ago. I made a s.h.i.+ft to obtain a copy of it; but the transcriber, I find, hath in many parts altered the spelling to the modern way. The original, as I am informed, is now in the hands of the ingenious Dr. Woodward, F. R. S. where, I suppose, the curious will not be refused the satisfaction of seeing it.

"The lines seem to be a sort of prophecy, and written in verse, as old prophecies usually are, but in a very hobbling kind of measure. Their meaning is very dark, if it be any at all; of which the learned reader can judge better than I: however it be, several persons were of opinion that they deserved to be published, both as they discover somewhat of the genius of a former age, and may be an amus.e.m.e.nt to the present."--_Swift_.

The subject of this virulent satire was Elizabeth, Baroness Percy, daughter and heiress of Josceline, Earl of Northumberland, who died in 1670. She was born in 1666. In 1679 she was married to Henry Cavendish, Earl of Ogle, who died in 1680. In 1681, she married Thomas Thynne, a man of great wealth, a friend of the Duke of Monmouth and the Issachar of Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel." A few months afterwards, in February 1681-2, Thynne was a.s.sa.s.sinated in the Haymarket by foreigners, who were devoted friends of Count Konigsmark, and appear to have acted under his direction. The Count had been in London shortly before Lady Ogle's marriage to Thynne, and had then paid his addresses to her. He fled the day after the murder, but was brought back, and was tried with the princ.i.p.als as an accessory, but was acquitted. Four months after the murder of Thynne, his widow was married to Charles Seymour, Duke of Somerset, on 30th May, 1682, and ultimately became the favourite and friend of Queen Anne, and a zealous partisan of the Whig party. Hence Swift's "Prophecy." See "State Trials," vol. ix, and "Notes and Queries," 1st S., v. 269.--_W. E. B._

When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob,[2]

With a saint[3] at his chin and a seal at his fob, Shall not see one[4] New-Years-day in that year, Then let old England make good cheer: Windsor[5] and Bristol[5] then shall be Joined together in the Low-countree.[5]

Then shall the tall black Daventry Bird[6]

Speak against peace right many a word; And some shall admire his coneying wit, For many good groats his tongue shall slit.

But spight of the Harpy[7] that crawls on all four, There shall be peace, pardie, and war no more But England must cry alack and well-a-day, If the stick be taken from the dead sea.[8]

And, dear Englond, if ought I understond, Beware of Carrots[9] from Northumberlond.

Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get, If so be they are in Somer set: Their Conyngs[10] mark thou; for I have been told, They a.s.sa.s.sine when younge, and poison when old.

Root out these Carrots, O thou,[11] whose name is backwards and forwards always the same; And keep thee close to thee always that name Which backwards and forwards is [12] almost the same.

And, England, wouldst thou be happy still, Burn those Carrots under a Hill.[13]

[Footnote 1: Although Swift was advised by Mrs. Masham "not to let the Prophecy be published," and he acted on her advice, many copies were "printed and given about, but not sold." To Stella, Swift writes: "I doubt not but you will have the Prophecy in Ireland although it is not published here, only printed copies given to friends." See Journal to Stella, 26, 27 Dec. 1711, and Jan. 4, 1711-12.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Dr. John Robinson, Bishop of Bristol, one of the plenipotentiaries at Utrecht.--_Scott_.]