The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 28

With fawning whine, and rueful tone, With artful sigh, and feigned groan, With couchant cringe, and flattering tale, Smooth Bawty[3] did so far prevail, That Music gave her leave to litter; (But mark what follow'd--faith! she bit her;) Whole baskets full of bits and sc.r.a.ps, And broth enough to fill her paps; For well she knew, her numerous brood, For want of milk, would suck her blood.

But when she thought her pains were done, And now 'twas high time to be gone, In civil terms, "My friend," said she, "My house you've had on courtesy; And now I earnestly desire, That you would with your cubs retire; For, should you stay but one week longer, I shall be starved with cold and hunger."

The guest replied--"My friend, your leave I must a little longer crave; Stay till my tender cubs can find Their way--for now, you see, they're blind; But, when we've gather'd strength, I swear, We'll to our barn again repair."

The time pa.s.s'd on; and Music came Her kennel once again to claim, But Bawty, lost to shame and honour, Set all her cubs at once upon her; Made her retire, and quit her right, And loudly cried--"A bite! bite!"

THE MORAL

Thus did the Grecian wooden horse Conceal a fatal armed force: No sooner brought within the walls, But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.

[Footnote 1: _See post_, "A Tale of a Nettle."]

[Footnote 2: The Church of England.]

[Footnote 3: A Scotch name for b.i.t.c.h, alluding to the kirk.]

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE II

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716

These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal attachment.--_Scott._ See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope's "Works," edit.

Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191.--_W. E. B._

How blest is he who for his country dies, Since death pursues the coward as he flies!

The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack; With trembling knees, and Terror at his back; Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind, Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind.

Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine; But shall with unattainted honour s.h.i.+ne; Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down, Just as the rabble please to smile or frown.

Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try Some new unbeaten pa.s.sage to the sky; Where Jove a seat among the G.o.ds will give To those who die, for meriting to live.

Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward; Within our breast be every secret barr'd!

He who betrays his friend, shall never be Under one roof, or in one s.h.i.+p, with me: For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just?

And though the villain'scape a while, he feels Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER

Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh.

In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be.

But we must silent be, amidst our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers.

So ravishers, that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH

High Church is undone, As sure as a gun, For old Peter Patch is departed; And Eyres and Delaune, And the rest of that sp.a.w.n, Are tacking about broken-hearted.

For strong Gill of Sarum, That _decoctum amarum_, Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail; Which will make them resign Their flasks of French wine, And spice up their Nottingham ale.

It purges the spleen Of dislike to the queen, And has one effect that is odder; When eas.e.m.e.nt they use, They always will chuse The Conformity Bill for b.u.mfodder.

A POEM OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, IN WHICH THE STORY OF PHAETHON IS EXPRESSED

Not asking or expecting aught, One day I went to view the court, Unbent and free from care or thought, Though thither fears and hopes resort.

A piece of tapestry took my eye, The faded colours spoke it old; But wrought with curious imagery, The figures lively seem'd and bold.

Here you might see the youth prevail, (In vain are eloquence and wit,) The boy persists, Apollo's frail; Wisdom to nature does submit.

There mounts the eager charioteer; Soon from his seat he's downward hurl'd; Here Jove in anger doth appear, There all, beneath, the flaming world.

What does this idle fiction mean?

Is truth at court in such disgrace, It may not on the walls be seen, Nor e'en in picture show its face?

No, no, 'tis not a senseless tale, By sweet-tongued Ovid dress'd so fine;[1]

It does important truths conceal, And here was placed by wise design.

A lesson deep with learning fraught, Worthy the cabinet of kings; Fit subject of their constant thought, In matchless verse the poet sings.

Well should he weigh, who does aspire To empire, whether truly great, His head, his heart, his hand, conspire To make him equal to that seat.

If only fond desire of sway, By avarice or ambition fed, Make him affect to guide the day, Alas! what strange confusion's bred!

If, either void of princely care, Remiss he holds the slacken'd rein; If rising heats or mad career, Unskill'd, he knows not to restrain:

Or if, perhaps, he gives a loose, In wanton pride to show his skill, How easily he can reduce And curb the people's rage at will;

In wild uproar they hurry on;-- The great, the good, the just, the wise, (Law and religion overthrown,) Are first mark'd out for sacrifice.

When, to a height their fury grown, Finding, too late, he can't retire, He proves the real Phaethon, And truly sets the world on fire.

[Footnote 1: "Metamorphoseon," lib. ii.]

A TALE OF A NETTLE[1]