in it. And for the Ode enclosed, I have sent it to a person of very great learning and honour, and since to some others, the best of my acquaintance, (to which I thought very proper to inure it for a greater light) and they have all been pleased to tell me that they are sure it will not be unwelcome, and that I should beg the honour of you to let it be printed before your next volume, (which, I think, is soon to be, published) it being so usual before most books of any great value among poets; and before its seeing the world I submit it wholly to the correction of your pens.

I entreat, therefore, one of you would descend so far as to write two or three lines to me of your pleasure upon it; which, as I cannot but expect from gentlemen who have so well shown, upon so many occasions, that greatest character of scholars, in being favourable to the ignorant; so I am sure nothing at present can more highly oblige me, or make me happier. I am,

Gentlemen,

Your ever most humble,

and most admiring servant,

JONATHAN SWIFT.

ODE

TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY.

As when the deluge first began to fall,
That mighty ebb never to flow again,
(When this huge body's moisture was so great,
It quite o'ercame the vital heat)

That mountain which was highest first of all
Appear'd above the universal main,
To bless the primitive sailors' weary sight,
And 'twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height
It be as great as 'tis in fame,

And nigh to heaven as is its name:
So, after the' inundation of a war,

When Learning's little household did embark With her world's fruitful system in her sacred ark, At the first ebb of noise and fears

Philosophy's exalted head appears,

And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay, But plumes her silver wings, and flies away; And now a laurel wreath she brings from far, To crown the happy conqueror,

To show the flood begins to cease,

And brings the dear reward of victory and peace.

The eager Muse took wing upon the waves' decline, When War her cloudy aspect just withdrew, When the bright sun of peace began to shine, And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat On the high top of peaceful Ararat,

And pluck'd a laurel branch, (for laurel was the first that grew,

The first of plants after the thunder, storm, and rain)
And thence with joyful nimble wing
Flew dutifully back again,

And made an humble chaplet for the king.
And the Dove-Muse is fled once more,

(Glad of the victory, yet frighted at the war)
And now discovers from afar

A peaceful and a flourishing shore.
No sooner did she land

On the delightful strand,

Than straight she sees the country all around, Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile,

Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown'd,

And many a pleasant wood,

As if the universal Nile

Had rather water'd it than drown'd.

It seems some floating piece of Paradise,
Preserved by wonder from the flood,

Long wandering through the deep, as we are told
Famed Delos did of old,

And the transported Muse imagined it
To be a fitter birthplace for the god of wit,
Or the much talk'd-of oracular grove;
When with amazing joy she hears

An unknown music all around.

Charming her greedy ears

With many a heavenly song

Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and love, Whilst angels tune the voice, and God inspires the tongue.

In vain she catches at the empty sound, In vain pursues the music with her longing eye, And courts the wanton echoes as they fly.

Pardon, ye great unknown and far exalted men !
The wild excursions of a youthful pen;
Forgive a young and (almost) virgin Muse,
Whom blind and eager curiosity

(Yet curiosity, they say,

Is in her sex a crime needs no excuse)
Has forced to grope her uncouth way
After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye:
No wonder then she quits the narrow path of sense
For a dear ramble through impertinence;
Impertinence! the scurvy of mankind:
And all we fools, who are the greater part of it,
Though we be of two different factions still,
Both the good-natured and the ill,
Yet wheresoe'er you look, you'll always find
We join like flies and wasps in buzzing about wit.
In me, who am of the first sect of these,
All merit that transcends the humble rules
Of my own dazzled scanty sense
Begets a kinder folly and impertinence
Of admiration and of praise;

And our good brethren of the surly sect

Must e'en all herd with us their kindred-fools; For though, possess'd of present vogue, they've made

Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade,
Yet the same want of brains produces each effect:
And you, whom Pluto's helm does wisely
shroud,

From us the blind and thoughtless crowd,
Like the famed hero in his mother's cloud,
Who both our follies and impertinences see,
Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me.

But censure's to be understood

The' authentic mark of the elect,

[good,

The public stamp Heaven sets on all that's great and
Our shallow search and judgment to direct.
The war, methinks, has made

Our wit and learning narrow as our trade;
Instead of boldly sailing far to buy
A stock of wisdom and philosophy,
We fondly stay at home in fear

Of every censuring privateer,

Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the sale, And selling basely by retail.

The wits, I mean the Atheists of the age, Who fain would rule the pulpit as they do the stage, Wondrous refiners of philosophy,

Of morals and divinity!

By the new modish system of reducing all to sense,
Against all logic and concluding laws,
Do own the' effects of Providence,
And yet deny the cause.

This hopeful sect, now it begins to see
How little, very little, do prevail
Their first and chiefest force,

To censure, to cry down, and rail,
Not knowing what, or where, or who, you be,
Will quickly take another course,

And by their never-failing ways

Of solving all appearances they please, We soon shall see them to their ancient methods fall, And straight deny you to be men, or any thing at all. I laugh at the grave answer they will make, Which they have always ready, general, and cheap;