At every stroke of mine he fell : 'Tis true he roar'd and cry'd; But his impenetrable shell

Could feel no harm beside.

The tortoise thus, with motion slow,
Will clamber up a wall;
Yet, senseless to the hardest blow,
Gets nothing but a fall.

Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I,

Attack his pericrany?

And, since it is in vain to try,

We'll send him to Delany.

POSTSCRIPT.

STELLA TO DR. SWIFT.

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1721. Sr. Patrick's dean, your country's pride, My early and my only guide,

Let me among the rest attend,
Your pupil and your humble friend,

To celebrate in female strains

The day that paid your mother's pains; Descend to take that tribute due

In gratitude alone to you.

When men began to call me fair,
You interpos'd your timely care;

You early taught me to despise
The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes;

HAD I ten thousand mouths and tongues,
Had I ten thousand pair of lungs,
Ten thousand sculls with brains to think,
Ten thousand standishes of ink,
Ten thousand hands and pens, to write
Thy praise I'd study day and night.

Oh may thy work for ever live!
(Dear Tom, a friendly zeal forgive)
May no vile miscreant saucy cook
Presume to tear thy learned book,
To singe his fowl for nicer guest,
Or pin it on the turkey's breast.
Keep it from pasty bak'd or flying,
From broiling steak, or fritters frying,
From lighting pipe, or making snuff,
Or casing up a feather muff;

From all the several ways the grocer
(Who to the learned world 's a foe, sir)
Has found in twisting, folding, packing,
His brains and ours at once a racking.
And may it never curl the head
Of either living block or dead!
Thus, when all dangers they have past,
Your leaves, like leaves of brass, shall last.
No blast shall from a critic's breath,
By vile infe. tion, cause their death,

Till they in flames at last expire,

And help to set the world on fire.

Refin'd my fancy and my taste.

Behold that beauty just decay'd,
Invoking art to nature's aid:
Forsook by her admiring train,
She spreads her tatter'd nets in vain :
Short was her part upon the stage;
Went smoothly on for half a page;
Her bloom was gone, she wanted art,
As the scene chang'd, to change her part:
She, whom no lover could resist,

Before the second act was hiss'd.
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face;
Before the thirtieth year of life,
A maid forlorn, or hated wife.

Stella to you, her tutor, owes
That she has ne'er resembled those;
Nor was a burden to mankind
With half her course of years behind.
You taught how I might youth prolong,
By knowing what was right and wrong;
How from my heart to bring supplies
Of lustre to my fading eyes;
How soon a beauteous mind repairs
The loss of chang'd or falling hairs;
How wit and virtue from within
Send out a smoothness o'er the skin:
Your lectures could my fancy fix,
And I can please at thirty-six.
The sight of Chloe at ufteen
Coquetting, gives me not the spleen;
The idol now of every fool,

Till time shall make their passions cool;
Then tumbling down time's steepy hill,
While Stella holds her station still.
Oh! turn your precepts into laws,
Redeem the women's run'd cause;
Retrieve lost empire to our sex,
That men may bow their rebel necks.

Long be the day that gave you birth
Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth!
Late dying may you cast a shred
Of your rich mantle o'er my head;
To bear with dignity my sorrow,
One day alone, then die tomorrow!

TO STELLA,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 1721-2.

420.

The Muse her annual tribute pays,

While I assign myself a task

Which you expect, but scorn to ask ;
If I perform this task with pain,
Let me of partial fate complain;
You every year the debt enlarge,
I grow less equal to the charge:
In you each virtue brighter shines,
But my poetic vein declines;

My harp will soon in vain be strung,
And all your virtues left unsung:
For none among the upstart race
Of poets dare assume my place;
Your worth will be to them unknown,
They must have Stellas of their own;
And thus, my stock of wit decay'd,
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany, as my heir,
Will answer for the whole arrear.

ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE.

BY DR. DEIANY.

AMPHORA, quæ mæstum linquis, lætumque revises Arentem dominum, sit tibi terra levis.

Tu quoque depositum serves, neve opprime, marmor; Amphora non meruit tam pretiosa mori,

EPITAPH.

BY THE SAME.

Hoc tumulata jacet proles Lenæa sepulchro,
inmortale genus, nec peritura jacet;
Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo;
Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.

STELLP'S BIRTH-DAY.

A GREAT BOTTLE OF WINE, LONG BURIED, BEING
THAT DAY DEG UP. 1722-3.

RESOLV'D my annual verse to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella's day,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely sat me down to think :

I bit my nails, and scratch'd my head,
But found my wit and fancy fied:
Or if, with more than usual pain,

A thought came slowly from my brain,
It cost me Lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curse,
Long thinking made my fancy worse.
Forsaken by th inspiring Nine,

I waited at Apollo's shrine:

I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unsung to-day;

How I should hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer;
How Sheridan the rogue would sneer,
And swear it does not always follow,
That semel 'n anno ridet Apollo.

I have assur'd them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes;
Phoebus inspir'd me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me so dull and dry since,
They'll call it all poetic licence;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eusden's right as good as mine,

Nor do I ask for Stella's sake;
'Tis my own credit lies at stake:
And Stella will be sung, while I
Can only be a stander-by.

Apollo, having thought a little, Return'd this answer to a tittle.

"Though you should live like old Methusalem,
I furnish hunts, and you shall use all 'em,
You yearly sing as she grows on,
You'd leave her virtues hal untold.
But, to say truth, such dulness reigns
Through the whole set of Irish deans,
I'm daily stumm d with such a medley,
Dean W-, dean D-, and dean Smedley,
That, let what dean soever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home;
And, if your voice had not been loud,
You must have pass'd among the crowd.

"But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent;
For she, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her describe a circle round
In Saunders' cellar, on the ground:
A spade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould;
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.

"Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated towards the skies!
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth conspire;
And Bacchus, for the poet's use,
Pour'd in a strong inspiring juice.
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A sovereign medicine for the brains.

"You'll find it soon, if fate consents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thousand Archy's arm'd with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the Muse
(But first let Robert, on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees):
The Muse will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the year."

A SATIRICAL ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF

A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL.

His grace! impossible! what dead! Of old age too, and in his bed!

And could that mighty warrior fall,

And so inglorious, after all!

Well, since he 's gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now:
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the news-papers we 're told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
"Twas time in conscience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough,
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that's the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a s-k.
Behold his funeral appears,

Nor widow's sighs, nor orphan's tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that? his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he dy'd,

Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate.
Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing 's a duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,

Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung.

DEAN SMEDLEY'S PETITION

TO THE DUKE OF CRAFTON.

Non domus aut fundus

Ir was, my lord, the dextrous shift
Of t' other Jonathan, viz. Swift;
But now St. Patrick s saucy dean,
With silver verge and surplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace,
In looser rhyme to beg a place.
A place he got, yclept a stall,
And eke a thousand pounds withal;
And, were he a less witty writer,
He might as well have got a nitre.

Hor.

Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher, In humble lays my thanks to offer, Approach your grace with grateful heart, My thanks and verse both void of art, Content with what your bounty gave, No larger income do I crave; Rejoicing that, in better times, Grafton requires my loyal lines. Proud! while my patron is polite, I likewise to the patriot write! Proud! that at once I can commend King George's and the Muses' friend! Endear'd to Britain; and to thee (Disjoin'd, Hibernia, by the sea) Endear'd by twice three anxious years, Employ'd in guardian toils and cares; By love, by wisdom, and by skill; For he has sav'd thee 'gainst thy will.

But where shall Smedley make his nest, And lay his wandering head to rest?

Where shall he find a decent house,
To treat his friends and cheer his spouse?
Oh! tack, my lord, some pretty cure;
In wholsome soil, and ether pure;
The garden stor'd with artless flowers,
In either angle shady bowers.
No gay parterre, with costly green,
Within the ambient hedge be seen:
Let Nature freely take her course,
Nor fear from me ungrateful force;
No sheers shall check her sprouting vigour,
Nor shape the yews to antic figure:
A limpid brook shall trout supply,
In May, to take the mimic fly,
Round a small orchard may it run,
Whose apples redden to the sun.
Let all be snug, and warm, and neat;
For fifty turn'd a safe retreat.

A little Euston may it be,
Euston I'll carve on every tree.
But then, to keep it in repair,
My lord-twice fifty pounds a year
Will barely do; but if your grace
Could make them hundreds-charming place!
Thou then wouldst show another face.
Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies,
Midst snowy hills, inclement skies;
One shivers with the arctic wind;
One hears the polar axis grind.

Good John indeed, with beef and claret,
Makes the place warm that one may bear it.
He has a purse to keep a table,
And eke a soul as hospitable.

My heart is good; but assets fail,
To tight with storms of snow and hail.
Besides the country 's thin of people,
Who seldom meet but at the steeple:
The strapping dean, that 's gone to Down,
Ne'er nain'd the thing without a frown;
When, much fatigu'd with sermon-study,
He felt his brain grow dull and muddy ;
No fit companion could be found,
To push the lazy bottle round;
Sure then, for want of better folks
To pledge, his clerk was orthodox.

Ah! how unlike to Gerard-street,
Where beaux and belles in parties meet;
Where gilded chairs and coaches throng,
And jostle as they trowl along;
Where tea and coffee hourly flow,

And gape-seed does in plenty grow;
And Griz (no clock more certain) cries,
Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies!'
There lady Luna in her sphere
Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near;
But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said,
Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed.
There-but 'tis endless to write down
All the amusements of the town;

And spouse will think herself quite undone,
To trudge to Connor 2 from sweet London;
And care we must our wives to please,
Or else we shall be ill at ease.

You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack; 'Tis only some convenient tack,

Some parsonage-house, with garden sweet,

To be my late, my last retreat;

A decent church close by its side,

There preaching, praying, to reside;

And, as my time securely rolls,
To save my own and other souls.

DEAR

THE DUKE'S ANSWER.

BY DR. SWIFT.

EAR Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, Where wit in all its glory shines; Where compliments, with all their pride, Are by their numbers dignified : I hope to make you yet as clean As that same Viz, St. Fatrick's dean. I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, And may be something else withal; And, were you not so good a writer, I should present you with a mitre. Write worse then, if you can-be wise-Believe me, 'tis the way to rise. Talk not of making of thy nest: Ah! never lay thy head to rest! That head so well with wisdom fraught, That writes without the toil of thought! While others rack their busy brains, You are not in the least at, pains. Down to your deaury now repair, And build a castle in the air. I'm sure a man of your fine sense Can do it with a small expense. There your dear spouse and you together May breathe your bellies full of ether. When lady Luna is your neighbour, She'll help your wife when she 's in labour; Well skill'd in midwife artifices, For she herself oft' falls in pieces. There you shall see a raree-show Will make you scorn this world below, When you behold the milky way, As white as snow, as bright as day; The glittering constellations roll About the grinding Bretic pole; The lovely tingling in your ears, Wrought by the music of the spheresYour spouse shall then no longer hector, You need not fear a curtain-lecture; Nor shall she think that she is undone For quitting her beloved London. When she 's exalted in the skies, She'll never think of mutton-pies; When you 're advanc'd above dean Viz, You'll never think of goody Griz. But ever, ever, live at ease, And strive, and strive, your wife to please; In her you'll centre all your joys, And get ten thousand girls and boys: Ten thousand girls and boys you 'll get, And they like stars shall rise and set; While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon Be a new sun and a new moon: Nor shall you strive your horns to hide, For then your horns shall be your pride.

O Shield me from his rage, celestial Powers;
This tyrant, that embitters all my hours!
Ah, Love you 've poorly play'd the hero's part;
You conquer'd, but you can't defend my heart.
When first I bent beneath your gentle reign,

I thought this monster banish'd from your train:
But you would raise him to support your throne;
And now he claims your empire as his own.
Or tell me, tyrants! have you both agreed,
That where one reigns, the other shall succeed!

WOULD

DR. DELANY'S VILLA.

OULD you that Delville I describe? Believe me, sir, I will not gibe:

For who would be satirical

Upon a thing so very small?

You scarce upon the borders enter,
Before you 're at the very centre.
A single crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Observe a vast variety;

Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs,
And hills and dales, and woods and fields,
And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields;
All to your haggard brought so cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping :
A razor, though to say 't I'm loth,
Would shave you and your meadows both.
Though small 's the farm, yet here's a house
Full large to entertain a mouse,
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than savage Caledonian boar;
For, if it's enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.
A little rivulet seems to steal
Down through a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leck;
And this you call your sweet meander,
Which might be suck'd up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To scoop the channel of the rill:
For sure you'd make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city-gutter.

Next come I to your kitchen-garden,
Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;
And round this garden is a walk,
No longer than a taylor's chalk:

1 On the publication of Cadenus and Vanessa,