sometimes fighting the battles of church and state against a virulent, opposing faction, which threatened to undermine the constitution; sometimes resisting the torrent of ecclesiastical, and frequently the torrent of ministerial power, whenever the rights of the clergy, or the liberties of his country, were occasionally invaded; and generally fighting with beasts of one species or other, like a fierce and bold champion, resolutely bent on either death or victory: yet still he could find opportunities, by snatching hours of leisure, to write poetry for his amusement. He had read many of the Greek and Latin poets, relished and admired what was agreeable to his own taste, but never devoted either his thoughts or his time to Apollo and the Muses. Throughout his whole works, there is no such thing as an ode to Calliope, to Mercury, to Venus, to Apollo and Diana, to his Lyre, to Bacchus or to Pan; nothing which was ever intended as a rapture of poetry. Is it not then somewhat very amazing, if we consider him in this fair and true light, that he should produce, by the mere force of taste and abilities, without any laboured correction at all, such wonders in the poetic strain, as to make any the most partial of his admirers not only prefer him to all the poets of these latter centuries, but compare him to that immortal genius of the Augustan age, whose whole delight, speculation, and amusement, whether in bed or in the fields, was in meditating, writing, polishing, or correcting, his verses?
DR. PARNELL TO DR. SWIFT,
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1713.
URGED by the warmth of friendship's sacred flame,
But more by all the glories of thy fame,
By all those offsprings of thy learned mind,
In judgment solid, as in wit refined,
Resolved I sing, though labouring up the way
To reach my theme. O Swift! accept my lay.
Rapt by the force of thought, and raised above,
Through Contemplation's airy fields I rove,
Where powerful Fancy purifies my eye,
And lights the beauties of a brighter sky,
Fresh paints the meadows, bids green shades
ascend,
Clear rivers wind, and opening plains extend,
Then fills its landscape through the varied parts
With Virtues, Graces, Sciences and Arts;
Superior forms, of more than mortal air,
More large than mortals, more serenely fair.'
Of these, two chiefs, the guardians of thy name,
Conspire to raise thee to the point of fame.
Ye future Times! I heard the silver sound,
I saw the Graces form a circle round;
Each where she fix'd attentive seem'd to root,
And all but Eloquence herself was mute.
High o'er the rest I see the goddess rise,
Loose to the breeze her upper garment flies :
By turns within her eyes the passions burn,
And softer passions languish in their turn:
Upon her tongue persuasion or command,
And decent action dwells upon her hand.
From out her breast ('twas there the treasure lay)
She drew thy labours to the blaze of day;
Then gazed, and read the charms she could inspire,
And taught the listening audience to admire.
How strong thy flight, how large thy grasp of
thought,
How just thy schemes, how regularly wrought!
How sure you wound when Ironies deride,
Which must be seen, and feign to turn aside!
'Twas thus exploring she rejoiced to see
Her brightest features drawn so near by thee:
'Then here, (she cries,) let future ages dwell,
And learn to copy where they can't excel.'
She spake; applause attended on the close: Then Poesy, her sister-art, arose ;
Her fairer sister, born in deeper ease,
Not made so much for business, more to please.
Upon her cheek sits Beauty, ever young;
The soul of Music warbles on her tongue;
Bright in her eyes a pleasing ardour glows,
And from her heart the sweetest temper flows;
A laurel-wreath adorns her curls of hair,
And binds their order to the dancing air:
She shakes the colours of her radiant wing,
And from the spheres she takes a pitch to sing.
Thrice happy genius his! whose Works have hit
The lucky point of business and of wit:
They seem like showers, which April months prepare,
To call their flowery glories up to air;
The drops, descending, take the painted bow,
And dress with sunshine, while for good they flow:
To me retiring oft, he finds relief
In slowly-wasting care and biting grief:
From me retreating oft, he gives to view
What eases care and grief in others too.
Ye fondly grave! be wise enough to know,
'Life ne'er unbent were but a life of woe.'
Some full in stretch for greatness, some for gain,
On his own rack each puts himself to pain.
I'll gently steal you from your toils away,
Where balmy winds with scents ambrosial play;
Where on the banks, as crystal rivers flow,
They teach immortal amaranths to grow;
Then from the mild indulgence of the scene
Restore your tempers strong for toils again.
She ceased; soft music trembled in the wind,
And sweet delight diffused through every mind:
The little Smiles, which still the goddess grace,
Sportive arose, and ran from face to face.
But chief (and in that place the virtues bless)
A gentle band their eager joys express:
Here Friendship asks, and love of merit longs
To hear the goddesses renew their
Here great Benevolence to man is pleased; These own their Swift, and grateful hear him praised.
You, gentle band! you well may bear your part, You reign superior graces in his heart.
O Swift! if fame be life, (as well we know That bards and heroes have esteem'd it so) Thou canst not wholly die; thy Works will shine To future times, and life in fame be thine.
WRITTEN AT MOOR PARK, JUNE, 1689.
VIRTUE, the greatest of all monarchies,
Till its first emperor, rebellious man,
Deposed from off his seat,
It fell, and broke with its own weight
Into small states and principalities,
By many a petty lord possess'd,
But ne'er since seated in one single breast;
'Tis you who must this land subdue,
The mighty conquest's left for you,
The conquest and discovery too:
Search out this Utopian ground,
Virtue's Terra Incognita,
Where none ever led the way,
Nor ever since but in descriptions found,
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