The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 40

But, O Humphry, great and free, While my tuneful songs are read, Old forgetful Time on thee Dark oblivion ne'er shall spread.

When the deep cut notes shall fade On the mouldering Parian stone, On the bra.s.s no more be read The peris.h.i.+ng inscription; Forgotten all the enemies, Envious G----n's cursed spite, And P----l's derogating lies, Lost and sunk in Stygian night; Still thy labour and thy care, What for Dublin thou hast done, In full l.u.s.tre shall appear, And outs.h.i.+ne th' unclouded sun.

Large thy mind, and not untried, For Hibernia now doth stand, Through the calm, or raging tide, Safe conducts the s.h.i.+p to land.

Falsely we call the rich man great, He is only so that knows His plentiful or small estate Wisely to enjoy and use.

He in wealth or poverty, Fortune's power alike defies; And falsehood and dishonesty More than death abhors and flies: Flies from death!--no, meets it brave, When the suffering so severe May from dreadful bondage save Clients, friends, or country dear.

This the sovereign man, complete; Hero; patriot; glorious; free; Rich and wise; and good and great; Generous Humphry, thou art he.

[Footnote 1: Elected M. P. for Dublin, by the interest of Swift, in the name of the Drapier. See Advice to the Freemen of the City of Dublin, etc., "Prose Works," vii, 310.--_W. E. B._]

ON MR. PULTENEY'S[1] BEING PUT OUT OF THE COUNCIL. 1731

SIR ROBERT,[2] wearied by Will Pulteney's teasings, Who interrupted him in all his leasings, Resolved that Will and he should meet no more, Full in his face Bob shuts the council door; Nor lets him sit as justice on the bench, To punish thieves, or lash a suburb wench.

Yet still St. Stephen's chapel open lies For Will to enter--What shall I advise?

Ev'n quit the house, for thou too long hast sat in't, Produce at last thy dormant ducal patent; There near thy master's throne in shelter placed, Let Will, unheard by thee, his thunder waste; Yet still I fear your work is done but half, For while he keeps his pen you are not safe.

Hear an old fable, and a dull one too; It bears a moral when applied to you.

A hare had long escaped pursuing hounds, By often s.h.i.+fting into distant grounds; Till, finding all his artifices vain, To save his life he leap'd into the main.

But there, alas! he could no safety find, A pack of dogfish had him in the wind.

He scours away; and, to avoid the foe, Descends for shelter to the shades below: There Cerberus lay watching in his den, (He had not seen a hare the lord knows when.) Out bounced the mastiff of the triple head; Away the hare with double swiftness fled; Hunted from earth, and sea, and h.e.l.l, he flies (Fear lent him wings) for safety to the skies.

How was the fearful animal distrest!

Behold a foe more fierce than all the rest: Sirius, the swiftest of the heavenly pack, Fail'd but an inch to seize him by the back.

He fled to earth, but first it cost him dear; He left his scut behind, and half an ear.

Thus was the hare pursued, though free from guilt; Thus, Bob, shall thou be maul'd, fly where thou wilt.

Then, honest Robin, of thy corpse beware; Thou art not half so nimble as a hare: Too ponderous is thy bulk to mount the sky; Nor can you go to h.e.l.l before you die.

So keen thy hunters, and thy scent so strong, Thy turns and doublings cannot save thee long.[3]

[Footnote 1: Right Honourable William Pulteney, afterwards Earl of Bath.]

[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, at that time Prime Minister, afterwards first Earl of Orford.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: This hunting ended in the promotion of Will and Bob. Bob was no longer first minister, but Earl of Orford; and Will was no longer his opponent, but Earl of Bath.--_H_.]

ON THE WORDS BROTHER PROTESTANTS AND FELLOW CHRISTIANS, SO FAMILIARLY USED BY THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REPEAL OF THE TEST-ACT IN IRELAND 1733

AN inundation, says the fable, Overflow'd a farmer's barn and stable; Whole ricks of hay and stacks of corn Were down the sudden current borne; While things of heterogeneous kind Together float with tide and wind.

The generous wheat forgot its pride, And sail'd with litter side by side; Uniting all, to show their amity, As in a general calamity.

A ball of new-dropp'd horse's dung, Mingling with apples in the throng, Said to the pippin plump and prim, "See, brother, how we apples swim."

Thus Lamb, renown'd for cutting corns, An offer'd fee from Radcliff scorns, "Not for the world--we doctors, brother, Must take no fees of one another."

Thus to a dean some curate sloven Subscribes, "Dear sir, your brother loving."

Thus all the footmen, s...o...b..ys, porters, About St. James's, cry, "We courtiers."

Thus Horace in the house will prate, "Sir, we, the ministers of state."

Thus at the bar the b.o.o.by Bettesworth,[1]

Though half a crown o'erpays his sweat's worth; Who knows in law nor text nor margent, Calls Singleton[2] his brother sergeant.

And thus fanatic saints, though neither in Doctrine nor discipline our brethren, Are brother Protestants and Christians, As much as Hebrews and Philistines: But in no other sense, than nature Has made a rat our fellow-creature.

Lice from your body suck their food; But is a louse your flesh and blood?

Though born of human filth and sweat, it As well may say man did beget it.

And maggots in your nose and chin As well may claim you for their kin.

Yet critics may object, why not?

Since lice are brethren to a Scot: Which made our swarm of sects determine Employments for their brother vermin.

But be they English, Irish, Scottish, What Protestant can be so sottish, While o'er the church these clouds are gathering To call a swarm of lice his brethren?

As Moses, by divine advice, In Egypt turn'd the dust to lice; And as our sects, by all descriptions, Have hearts more harden'd than Egyptians As from the trodden dust they spring, And, turn'd to lice, infest the king: For pity's sake, it would be just, A rod should turn them back to dust.

Let folks in high or holy stations Be proud of owning such relations; Let courtiers hug them in their bosom, As if they were afraid to lose 'em: While I, with humble Job, had rather Say to corruption--"Thou'rt my father."

For he that has so little wit To nourish vermin, may be bit.

[Footnote 1: These lines were the cause of the personal attack upon the Dean. See "Prose Works," iv, pp. 27,261. _--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Henry Singleton, Esq., then prime sergeant, afterwards lord-chief-justice of the common pleas, which he resigned, and was some time after made master of the rolls.--_F_.]

BETTESWORTH'S EXULTATION

UPON HEARING THAT HIS NAME WOULD BE TRANSMITTED TO POSTERITY IN DR. SWIFT'S WORKS.

BY WILLIAM DUNKIN

Well! now, since the heat of my pa.s.sion's abated, That the Dean hath lampoon'd me, my mind is elated:-- Lampoon'd did I call it?--No--what was it then?

What was it?--'Twas fame to be lash'd by his pen: For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till E'en doomsday, a poor insignificant reptile; Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious, Obscure, and unheard of--but now I'm notorious: Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one; The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one: If the end be obtain'd 'tis equal what portal I enter, since I'm to be render'd immortal: So clysters applied to the a.n.u.s, 'tis said, By skilful physicians, give ease to the head-- Though my t.i.tle be spurious, why should I be dastard, A man is a man, though he should be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Why sure 'tis some comfort that heroes should slay us, If I fall, I would fall by the hand of aeneas; And who by the Drapier would not rather d.a.m.n'd be, Than demiG.o.ddized by madrigal Namby?[1]

A man is no more who has once lost his breath; But poets convince us there's life after death.

They call from their graves the king, or the peasant; Re-act our old deeds, and make what's past present: And when they would study to set forth alike, So the lines be well drawn, and the colours but strike, Whatever the subject be, coward or hero, A tyrant or patriot, a t.i.tus or Nero; To a judge 'tis all one which he fixes his eye on, And a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion.

[Footnote 1: Ambrose Philips. See _ante_, vol. i, p. 288.--_W. E. B._]

AN EPIGRAM

The scriptures affirm (as I heard in my youth, For indeed I ne'er read them, to speak for once truth) That death is the wages of sin, but the just Shall die not, although they be laid in the dust.

They say so; so be it, I care not a straw, Although I be dead both in gospel and law; In verse I shall live, and be read in each climate; What more can be said of prime sergeant or primate?

While Carter and Prendergast both may be rotten, And d.a.m.n'd to the bargain, and yet be forgotten.

AN EPIGRAM INSCRIBED TO THE HONOURABLE SERGEANT KITE

In your indignation what mercy appears, While Jonathan's threaten'd with loss of his ears; For who would not think it a much better choice, By your knife to be mangled than rack'd with your voice.

If truly you [would] be revenged on the parson, Command his attendance while you act your farce on; Instead of your maiming, your shooting, or banging, Bid Povey[1] secure him while you are haranguing.

Had this been your method to torture him, long since, He had cut his own ears to be deaf to your nonsense.