That noble genius, who unbinds
The chain which fetter free-born minds;
Redeems us from the slavish fears,
Which lasted near two thousand years;
He can alone the priesthood humble,
Make gilded spires and altars tumble.
Must I commend against my conscience Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense? To such a subject tune my lyre, And sing like one of Milton's choir, Where devils to a vale retreat, And call the laws of wisdom fate, Lament upon their hapless fall,
That force free virtue should enthrall ? Or shall the charms of wealth and power Make me pollute the Muses' bower?
As from the tripod of Apollo,
Hear from my desk the words that follow: "Some, by philosophers misled, Must honour you alive and dead;
And such as know what Greece hath writ,
Must taste your irony and wit;
Whilst most that are, or would be great,
Must dread your pen, your person hate;
And you on Drapier's 6 hill must lie,
And there without a mitre die."
ON BURNING A DULL POEM. 1729.
Ay ass's hoof alone can hold
That poisonous juice which kills by cold.
Methought, when I this poem read,
No vessel but an ass's head
Such frigid fustian could contain;
I mean, the head without the brain.
The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts,
Went down like stupifying draughts:
I found my head began to swim,
A numbness crept through every limb.
In haste, with imprecations dire,
I threw the volume in the fire:
When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to ashes in a trice.
How could I more enhance its fame? Though born in snow, it died in flame.
HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN LORD CARTERET,
Credis ob hoc, me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare,
Propter quod, vulgus, crassaque turba rogat.
Mart. Epig. lib. iz
THOU wise and learned ruler of our isle,
Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile;
6 In the county of Armagh, where Dr. Swift, in the year 1729, had some thoughts of building; as appears by several of the following poems. F.
When next your generous soul shall condescend T' instruct or entertain your humble friend; Whether, retiring from your weighty charge, On some high theme you learnedly enlarge; Of all the ways of wisdom reason well, How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell: Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends, Circled with Swift and some delighted friends; When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine, Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine, Nor with less praise the conversation guide, Than in the public councils you decide: Or when the dean, long privileg'd to rail, Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal; You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute), With soft concessions shortening the dispute; Then close with kind inquiries of my state, "How are your tithes, and have they rose of late? Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation, There are not many better in the nation! This, with your other things, must yield you clear Some six-at least five hundred pounds a year."
Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em (You shall rejoin, my lord, when I 've replied, And, if you please, my lady shall decide):
My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well; And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell : But you'll forgive me, if I own th' event Is short, is very short, of your intent; At least, I feel some ills unfelt before, My income less, and my expenses more.'
"How, doctor! double vicar! double rector!
A dignitary with a city lecture!
What glebes-what dues-what tithes-what fines
--what rent!
Why, doctor!-will you never be content?"
"Would my good lord but cast up the account,
And see to what my revenues amount.
My titles ample! but my gain so small,
That one good vicarage is worth them all :
And very wretched sure is he, that 's double
In nothing but his titles and his trouble.
Add to this crying grievance, if you please,
My horses founder'd on Fermanah ways;
Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone,
Where every step endangers every bone;
And more to raise your pity and your wonder,
Two churches-twelve Hibernian miles asunder!
With complicated cures, I labour hard in,
Besides whole summers absent from my garden!-
But that the world would think I play'd the fool,
I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school 1-
What fine cascades, what vistos, might I make
Fixt in the centre of th' Iernian lake!
There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe,
Beneath the conduct of my good sir Ralph *:
There 's not a better steerer in the realm;
I hope, my lord, you 'll call him to the helm."-
"Doctor-a glorious scheme to ease your grief!
When cures are cross, a school 's a sure relief.
You cannot fail of being happy there,
The lake will be the Lethe of your care:
The scheme is for your honour and your ease;
And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please.
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Mean-while, allowing things below your merit,
Yet, doctor, you 've a philosophic spirit;
Your wants are few, and, like your income, small,
And you 've enough to gratify them all:
You 've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store:
And what would a philosopher have more?
You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks-"
"My lord, I 've not enough to buy me books-
Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied,
Are there no wants I should regard beside?
Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve,
Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve?
Who can be happy-who should wish to live,
And want the godlike happiness to give?
(That I'm a judge of this, you must allow :
I had it once-and I'm debarr'd it now).
Ask your own heart, my lord, if this be true,
Then how unblest am 1! how blest are you!"
""Tis true-but, doctor, let us wave all thatSay, if you had your wish, what you'd be at.”
"Excuse ine, good my lord-I won't be sounded, Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded. My lord, I challenge nothing as my due, Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you. Yet this might Symmachos himself avow (Whose rigid rules are antiquated now)— My lord, I'd wish to pay the debts I oweI'd wish besides-to build, and to bestow."
AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE
A CERTAIN GREAT LORD.
BEING A CHRISTMAS-BOX FOR DR. DELANY.
As Jove will not attend on less,
When things of more importance press;
You can't, grave sir, believe it hard,
That you, a low Hibernian bard,
Should cool your heels awhile, and wait
Unanswer'd at your pation's gate:
And would my lord vouchsafe to grant
This one, poor, humble boon I want,
Free leave to play his secretary,
As Falstafi acted old king Harry;
I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print:
Folks shrug, and cry There's nothing in 4
And, after several readings over,
It shines most in the marble cover.
How could so fine a taste dispense,
With mean degrees of wit and sense?
Nor will my lord so far beguile
The tcise and learned of our isle;
To make it pass upon the nation,
By dint of his sole approbation.
The task is arduous, patrons find,
To warp the sense of all mankind;
Who think your Muse must first aspire,
Ere he advance the doctor higher.
You've cause to say he meant you well:
That you are thunkful, who can tell?
For still you 're short (which grieves your spirit)
Of his intent; you mean, your merit.
Ah! quanto rectius, tu adepte, Qui nil moliris tam inepte?
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Smedley, thou Jonathan of Clogher,
"When thou thy humble lay dost offer
To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart,
Thy thanks and verse devoid of art:
Content with what his bounty gave,
No larger income dost thou crave.`
But you must have cascades, and all
Ierne's lake for your canal,
Your vistos, barges, and (a pox on
All pride!) our speaker for your coxon :
It 's pity that he can't bestow you
Twelve commoners in caps to row you.
Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,
Held monarchs labouring at the oar;
And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee,
Enrag'd, as Ern would do at thee.
How different is this from Smedley!
(His name is up, he may in bed lie)
"Who only asks some pretty cure,
In wholesome soil and ether pure;
The garden stor'd with artless flowers,
In either angle shady bowers:
No gay parterre with costly green
Must in the ambient hedge be seen;
But Nature freely takes her course,'
Nor fears from him ungrateful force:
No sheers to check her sprouting vigour,
Or shape the yews to antic figure."
But you, forsooth, your all must squander
On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville yonder :
And when you 've been at vast expenses
In whims, parterres, canals, and fences,
Your assets fail, and cash is wanting;
Nor farther buildings, farther planting?
No wonder, when you raise and level,
Think this wall low, and that wall bevel.
Here a convenient box you found,
Which you demolish'd to the ground:
Then built, then took up with your arbour,
And set the house to Rupert Barber.
You sprang an arch, which, in a scurvy
Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy.
You change a circle to a square,
Then to a circle as you were:
Who can imagine whence the fund is,
That you quadrata change rotundis ?
T. Fame a temple you erect,
A Flora does the dome protect;
Mounts, walks, on high: and in a hollow
You place the Muses and Apollo ;
There shining 'midst his train, to grace
Your whimsical poetic place.
These stories were of old design'd
As fables; but you have refin'd
The poets' mythologic dreams,
To real Muses, gods, and streams.
Who would not swear, when you contrive thus,
That you 're Don Quixote Redivivus?
Beneath, a dry canal there lies,
Which only winter's rain supplies.
Oh! couldst thou, by some magic spell,
Hither convey St. Patrick's well!
Here may it re-assume its stream 2,
And take a greater Patrick's name!
1 See a Petition to the Duke of Grafton, p. 427.
2 See Dr. Swift's verses on the drying-up of this well, in this volume, p. 451.
If your expenses rise so high,
What income can your wants supply?
Yet still you fancy you inherit
A fund of such superior merit,
That you can't fail of more provision,,
All by my lady's kind decision.
For, the more livings you can fish up,
You think you'll sooner be a bishop:
That could not be my lord's intent,
Nor can it answer the event.
Most think what has been heap'd on you,
To other sort of folk was due:
Rewards too great for your flim-flams,
Epistles, riddles, epigrams.
Though now your depth must not be sounded,
The time was, when you 'd have compounded
For less than Charley Grattan's school:
Five hundred pound a year 's no fool!
Take this advice then from your friend :
To your ambition put an end.
Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe,
Before you build and you bestow.
Be modest; nor address your betters
With begging, vain, familiar letters.
A passage may be found 3, I 've heard,
In some old Greek or Latian bard,
Which says, " Would crows in silence eat
Their offals, or their better meat,
Their generous feeders not provoking
By loud and unharmonious croaking;
They might, unhurt by Envy's claws,
Live on, and stuff to boot their maws.'
JOHN LORD CARTERET. DELUDED mortals, whom the great Choose for companions téte à tête; Who at their dinners, en famille, Get leave to sit whene'er you will; Then boasting tell us where you din'd, And how his lordship was so kind; How many pleasant things he spoke, And how you laugh'd at every joke: Swear he's a most facetious man; That you and he are cup and can: You travel with a heavy load, And quite mistake preferment's road. Suppose my lord and you alone; Hint the least interest of your own, His visage drops, he knits his brow, He cannot talk of business now:
Or, mention but a vacant post,
He'll turn it off with, " Name your toast:"
Nor could the nicest artist paint
A countenance with more constraint.
For as, their appetites to quench,
Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench;
So men of wit are but a kind
Of pandars to a vicious mind;
Who proper objects must provide
To gratify their lust of pride,
When, wearied with intrigues of state,
They find an idle hour to prate.
Then, shall you dare to ask a place,
You forfeit all your patron's grace,
And disappoint the sole design
For which he summon'd you to dine.
Thus Congreve spent in writing plays,
And one poor office, half his days:
While Montagne, who claim'd the station
To be Mæcenas of the nation,
For poets open table kept,
But ne'er consider'd where they slept:
Himself as rich as fifty Jews,
Was easy, though they wanted shoes:
And crazy Congreve scarce could spare
A shilling to discharge his chair;
Till prudence taught him to appeal
From Pæan's fire to party zeal;
Not owing to his happy vein
The fortunes of his later scene,
Took proper principles to thrive;
And so might every dunce alive.
Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ,
And flourish'd by imputed wit,
From perils of a hundred jails
Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales.
Thus Gay, the hare with many friends,
Twice seven long years the court attends:
Who, under tales conveying truth,
To virtue form'd a princely youth 1 :
Who paid his courtship with the crowd
As far as modest pride allow'd;
Rejects a servile usher's place,
And leaves St. James's in disgrace.
Thus Addison, by lords carest,
Was left in foreign lands distrest;
Forgot at home, became for hire
A travelling tutor to a squire:
But wisely left the Muses' hill,
To business shap'd the poet's quill,
Let all his barren laurels fade,
Took up himself the courtier's trade,
And, grown a minister of state,
Saw poets at his levee wait.
Hail, happy Pope! whose generous mind
Detesting all the statesman kind,
Contemning courts, at courts unseen,
Refus'd the visits of a queen.
A soul with every virtue fraught,
By sages, priests, or poets taught;
Whose filial piety excels
Whatever Grecian story tells;
A genius for all stations fit,
Whose meanest talent is his wit;
His heart too great, though fortune little,
To lick a rascal statesman's spittle;
Appealing to the nation's taste,
Above the reach of want is plac'd :
By Homer dead was taught to thrive,
Which Homer never could alive;
And sits aloft on Pindus' head,
Despising slaves that cringe for bread.
True politicians only pay
For solid work, but not for play;
Nor ever chuse to work with tools
Forg'd up in colleges and schools.
Consider how much more is due
To all their journeymen than you:
At table you can Horace quote;
They at a pinch can bribe a vote:
You show your skill in Grecian story ;
But they can manage Whig and Tory:
You, as a critic, are so curious
To find a verse in Virgil spurious;
But they can smoke the deep designs,
When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines.
Besides, your patron may upbraid ye,
That you have got a place already;
An office for your talents fit,
To flatter, carve, and show your wit;
To snuff the lights, and stir the fire,
And get a dinner for your hire.
What claim have you to place or pension?
He overpays in condescension.
But, reverend doctor, you, we know,
Could never condescend so low :
The vice-roy, whom you now attend,
Would, if he durst, be more your friend;
Nor will in you those gifts despise,
By which himself was taught to rise:
When he has virtue to retire,
He'll grieve he did not raise you higher,
And place you in a better station,
Although it might have pleas'd the nation.
This may be true-submitting still
To Walpole's more than royal will;
And what condition can be worse?
He comes to drain a beggar's purse;
He comes to tie our chains on faster,
And show us, England is our master :
Caressing knaves, and dunces wooing,
To make them work their own undoing.
What has he else to bait his traps,
Or bring his vermin in, but scraps?
The offals of a church distrest;
A hungry vicarage at best;
Or some remote inferior post,
With forty pounds a year at most?
But here again you interpose-
Your favourite lord is none of those
Who owe their virtues to their stations,
And characters to dedications:
For keep him in, or turn him out,
His learning none will call in doubt;
His learning, though a poet said it
Before a play, would lose no credit;
Nor Pope would dare deny him wit,
Although to praise it Phillips writ.
I own, he hates an action base,
His virtues battling with his place;
Nor wants a nice discerning spirit
Betwixt a true and spurious merit;
Can sometimes drop a voter's claim,
And give up party to his faine.
I do the most that friendship can;
I hate the vice-roy, love the man.
But you who, till your fortune 's made,
Must be a sweetener by your trade,
Should swear he never meant us ill;
We suffer sore against his will;
That, if we could but see his heart,
He would have chose a milder part:
We rather should lament his case,
Who must obey, or lose his place.
Since this reflection slipt your pen,
William duke of Cumberland, son to George II. Insert it when you write again:
Aud, to illustrate it, produce
This simile for his excuse:
"So to destroy a guilty land
An angel 2 sent by heaven's command,
While he obeys almighty will,
Perhaps may feel compassion still;
And wish the task had been assign'd
To spirits of less gentle kind."
But I, in politics grown old,
Whose thoughts are of a different mould,
Who from my soul sincerely hate
Both kings and ministers of state,
Who look on courts with stricter eyes
To see the seeds of vice arise,
Can lend you an allusion fitter,
Though flattering knaves may call it bitter;
Which, if you durst but give it place,
Would show you many a statesman's face :
Fresh from the tripod of Apollo
I had it in the words that follow
(Take notice, to avoid offence,
I here except his excellence),
"So, to effect his monarch's ends,
From Hell a vice-roy devil ascends;
His budget with corruptions cramm'd,
The contributions of the damn'd;
Which with unsparing hand he strows
Through courts and senates as he goes;
And then at Beelzebub's black hall
Complains his budget was too small."
Your simile may better shine
In verse; but there is truth in mine,
For no imaginable things
Can differ more than gods and kings:
And statesmen by ten thousand odds
Are angels just as kings are gods.
LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM.
-Tanti tibi non sit opaci Omnis arena Tagi.
As some raw youth in country bred,
To armis by thirst of honour led,
When at a skirmish first he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
Will duck his head aside, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart,
Till 'scaping oft without a wound
Lessens the terrour of the sound;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops:
An author thus, who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and shame ;
When first in print, you see him dread
Each pop-gun level'd at his head :
The lead yon critic's quill contains,
Is destin'd to beat out his brains :
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries, Lord, have mercy on his soul!
Concluding, that another shot
Will strike him dead upon the spot.
2 So when an angel by divine command, &c. Addison's Campaign.
But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping,
He cannot see one creature dropping;
That, missing fire, or missing aim,
His life is safe, I mean his fame;
The danger past, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critic in the face.
Though splendour gives the fairest mark
To poison'd arrows from the dark,
Yet, in yourself when smooth and round,
They glance aside without a wound.
'Tis said, the gods try'd all their art,
How pain they might from pleasure part;
But little could their strength avail;
Both still are fasten'd by the tail.
Thus fame and censure with a tether
By fate are always link'd together.
Why will you aim to be preferr'd
In wit before the common herd;
And yet grow mortify'd and vex'd
To pay the penalty annexed?
'Tis eminence makes envy rise;
As fairest fruits attract the flies.
Should stupid libels grieve your mind,
You soon a remedy may find;
Lie down obscure like other folks
Below the lash of snarlers' jokes.
Their faction is five hundred odds:
For every coxcomb lends them rods,
And sneers as learnedly as they,
Like females o'er their morning tea.
You say, the Muse will not contain,
And write you must, or break a vein.
Then, if you find the terms too hard,
No longer my advice regard :
But raise your fancy on the wing;
The Irish senate's praises sing:
How jealous of the nation's freedom,
And for corruptions how they weed 'em ;
How each the public good pursues,
How far their hearts from private views:
Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys,
Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;
Thus grown a member of the club,
No longer dread the rage of Grub.
How oft am I for rhyme to seek!
To dress a thought, may toil a week:
And then how thankful to the town,
If all my pains will earn a crown!
Whilst every critic can devour
My work and me in half an hour.
Would men of genius cease to write,
The rogues must die for want and spite;
Must die for want of food and rainent,
If scandal did not find them payment.
How cheerfully the hawkers cry
A satire, and the gentry buy!
While my hard-labour'd poem pines
Unsold upon the printer's lines.
A genius in the reverend gown Must ever keep its owner down; 'Tis an unnatural conjunction,
And spoils the credit of the function.
Round all your brethren cast your eyes;
Point out the surest men to rise:
That club of candidates in black,
The least deserving of the pack,
Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud,
With grace and learning unendow'd,
Can turn their hands to every job,
The fittest tools to work for Bob;
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