The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 35

VERSES ON THE UPRIGHT JUDGE, WHO CONDEMNED THE DRAPIER'S PRINTER

The church I hate, and have good reason, For there my grandsire cut his weasand: He cut his weasand at the altar; I keep my gullet for the halter.

ON THE SAME

In church your grandsire cut his throat; To do the job too long he tarried: He should have had my hearty vote To cut his throat before he married.

ON THE SAME

THE JUDGE SPEAKS

I'm not the grandson of that a.s.s Quin;[1]

Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin.

My grandame had gallants by twenties, And bore my mother by a 'prentice.

This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he In Christ-Church cut his throat for jealousy.

And, since the alderman was mad you say, Then I must be so too, _ex traduce_.

[Footnote 1: Alderman Quin, the judge's maternal grandfather, who cut his throat in church.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM

IN ANSWER TO THE DEAN'S VERSES ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS [1]

What though the Dean hears not the knell Of the next church's pa.s.sing bell; What though the thunder from a cloud, Or that from female tongue more loud, Alarm not; At the Drapier's ear, c.h.i.n.k but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear.

[Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 284.]

HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XIV PARAPHRASED AND INSCRIBED TO IRELAND 1726

THE INSCRIPTION

Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves, Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves; Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand; Thou fix'd of old, be now the moving land!

Although the metaphor be worn and stale, Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail; Let me suppose thee for a s.h.i.+p a while, And thus address thee in the sailor style.

Unhappy s.h.i.+p, thou art return'd in vain; New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.[1]

Look to thyself, and be no more the sport Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port.

Lost are thy oars, that used thy course to guide, Like faithful counsellors, on either side.

Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood, The single pillar for his country's good, To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind, Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind; Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel The waves impetuous enter at your keel; Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke, When the strong cords of union once are broke.

Tom by a sudden tempest is thy sail, Expanded to invite a milder gale.

As when some writer in a public cause His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws, While all is calm, his arguments prevail; The people's voice expands his paper sail; Till power, discharging all her stormy bags, Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags, The nation scared, the author doom'd to death, Who fondly put his trust in poplar breath.

A larger sacrifice in vain you vow; There's not a power above will help you now; A nation thus, who oft Heaven's call neglects, In vain from injured Heaven relief expects.

'Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke That thy descent is from the British oak; Or, when your name and family you boast, From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallic coast.

Such was Ierne's claim, as just as thine, Her sons descended from the British line; Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains On French records for twenty long campaigns; Yet, from an empress now a captive grown, She saved Britannia's rights, and lost her own.

In s.h.i.+ps decay'd no mariner confides, Lured by the gilded stern and painted sides: Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight In the gay trappings of a birth-day night: They on the gold brocades and satins raved, And quite forgot their country was enslaved.

Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just, Nor change thy course with every sudden gust; Like supple patriots of the modern sort, Who turn with every gale that blows from court.

Weary and sea-sick, when in thee confined, Now for thy safety cares distract my mind; As those who long have stood the storms of state Retire, yet still bemoan their country's fate.

Beware, and when you hear the surges roar, Avoid the rocks on Britain's angry sh.o.r.e.

They lie, alas! too easy to be found; For thee alone they lie the island round.

[Footnote 1: "O navis, referent in mare te novi Fluctus! O quid agis?"]

VERSES ON THE SUDDEN DRYING UP OF ST. PATRICK'S WELL NEAR TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN. 1726

By holy zeal inspired, and led by fame, To thee, once favourite isle, with joy I came; What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun, Had my own native Italy[1] o'errun.

Ierne, to the world's remotest parts, Renown'd for valour, policy, and arts.

Hither from Colchos,[2] with the fleecy ore, Jason arrived two thousand years before.

Thee, happy island, Pallas call'd her own, When haughty Britain was a land unknown:[3]

From thee, with pride, the Caledonians trace[4]

The glorious founder of their kingly race: Thy martial sons, whom now they dare despise, Did once their land subdue and civilize; Their dress, their language, and the Scottish name, Confess the soil from whence the victors came.

Well may they boast that ancient blood which runs Within their veins, who are thy younger sons.

A conquest and a colony from thee, The mother-kingdom left her children free; From thee no mark of slavery they felt: Not so with thee thy base invaders dealt; Invited here to vengeful Morrough's aid,[5]

Those whom they could not conquer they betray'd.

Britain, by thee we fell, ungrateful isle!

Not by thy valour, but superior guile: Britain, with shame, confess this land of mine First taught thee human knowledge and divine; My prelates and my students, sent from hence, Made your sons converts both to G.o.d and sense: Not like the pastors of thy ravenous breed, Who come to fleece the flocks, and not to feed.

Wretched Ierne! with what grief I see The fatal changes time has made in thee!

The Christian rites I introduced in vain: Lo! infidelity return'd again!

Freedom and virtue in thy sons I found, Who now in vice and slavery are drown'd.

By faith and prayer, this crosier in my hand, I drove the venom'd serpent from thy land: The shepherd in his bower might sleep or sing,[6]

Nor dread the adder's tooth, nor scorpion's sting.

With omens oft I strove to warn thy swains, Omens, the types of thy impending chains.

I sent the magpie from the British soil, With restless beak thy blooming fruit to spoil; To din thine ears with unharmonious clack, And haunt thy holy walls in white and black.

What else are those thou seest in bishop's gear, Who crop the nurseries of learning here; Aspiring, greedy, full of senseless prate, Devour the church, and chatter to the state?

As you grew more degenerate and base, I sent you millions of the croaking race; Emblems of insects vile, who spread their sp.a.w.n Through all thy land, in armour, fur, and lawn; A nauseous brood, that fills your senate walls, And in the chambers of your viceroy crawls!

See, where that new devouring vermin runs, Sent in my anger from the land of Huns!

With harpy-claws it undermines the ground, And sudden spreads a numerous offspring round.

Th' amphibious tyrant, with his ravenous band, Drains all thy lakes of fish, of fruits thy land.

Where is the holy well that bore my name?

Fled to the fountain back, from whence it came!

Fair Freedom's emblem once, which smoothly flows, And blessings equally on all bestows.

Here, from the neighbouring nursery of arts,[7]