What was the message I receiv'd? Why certainly the captain rav'd!

To dine with her! and come at three! Impossible! it can 't be me.

Or may be I mistook the word;
My lady-it must be my lord,

My lord 's abroad: my lady too:

What must th' unhappy doctor do?

"Is captain Cracherode here, pray ?”—“ No,”
"Nay, then, 'tis time for me to go."
Am I awake, or do I dream?
I'm sure he call'd me by my name;
Nam'd me as plain as he could speak;
And yet there must be some mistake.
Why what a jest should I have been,
Had now my lady been within!

What could I've said? I'm mighty glad
She went abroad-she 'd thought me mad.
The hour of dining now is past:

Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast;
And since I 'scap'd being made a scoff,
I think I'm very fairly off.

My lady now returning home,

Calls, Cracherode, is the doctor come ?”
He had not heard of him-" Pray see,

'Tis now a quarter after three.”

The captain walks about, and searches

Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches; Examines all the servants round,

In vain-no doctor 's to be found.

My lady could not choose but wouder:

66

Captain, I fear you 've made some blunder:

Eut pray, to morrow go at ten,

I'll try his manners once again;
If rudeness be the effect of knowledge,
My son shall never sce a college."

The captain was a man of reading,
And much good sense as well as breeding,
Who loath to blame, or to incense,
Said little in his own defence.
Next day another message brought:
The doctor, frighten'd at his fault,

Is dress'd and stealing through the crowd,
Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd,
Panting and faultering-humm'd and ha'd,
"Her ladyship was gone abroad;
The captain too-he did not know
Whether he ought to stay or go;
Begg'd she'd forgive him." In conclusion,
My lady, pitying his confusion,
Call'd her good-nature to relieve him :

Told him, she thought she might believe him;
And would not only grant his suit,

But visit him, and eat some fruit;

Provided, at a proper time,
He told the real truth in rhyme.
'Twas to no purpose to oppose,
She'd hear of no excuse in prose.
The doctor stood not to debate,
Glad to compound at any rate:
So bowing, seemingly comply'd ;
Though, if he durst, he had deny'd.
But first, resolv'd to show his taste,
Was too refin'd to give a feast :
He'd treat with nothing that was rare
But winding walks and purer air;
Would entertain without expense,
Or pride, or vain magnificence:

For well he knew, to such a guest
The plainest meals must be the best.
To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare
Simplicity alone is rare ;

Whilst high, and nice, and curious meats,
Are really but vulgar treats.
Instead of spoils of Persian looms,
The costly boasts of regal rooms,
Thought it more courtly and discreet
To scatter roses at her feet;
Roses of richest dye, that shone
With native lustre, like her own:
Beauty that needs no aid of art
Through every sense to reach the heart,
The gracious dame, though well she knew
All this was much beneath her due,
Lik'd every thing-at least thought fit
To praise it par maniere d' acquit.
Yet she, though seeming pleas'd, can't bear
The scorching Sun, or chilling air;
Disturb'd alike at both extremes,
Whether he shows or hides the beams:
Though seeming pleas'd at all she sees,
Starts at the rufiling of the trees;
And scarce can speak for want of breath,
In half a walk fatigu'd to death.
The doctor takes his hint from hence,
T' apologize his late offence:
"Madam, the mighty power of use
Now strangely pleads in my excuse:
If you unus'd have scarcely strength
To gain this walk's untoward length;
If, frighten'd at a scene so rude,
Through long disuse of solitude;
If, long confin'd to fires and screens,
You dread the waving of these greens;
If you, who long have breath'd the fumes
Of city-fogs and crowded rooms,

Do now solicitously shun

The cooler air and dazzling Sun;
If his majestic eye you flee,
Learn hence t' excuse and pity me.
Consider what it is to bear
The powder'd courtier's witty sneer;
To see th' important man of dress
Scoffing my college-awkwardness;
To be the strutting cornet's sport,
to run the gauntlet of the court,
Winning my way by slow approaches,
Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches,
From the first fierce cockaded centry,

Quite through the tribe of waiting-gentry;

To pass so many crowded stages,
And stand the staring of your pages;
And, after all, to crown my spleen,
Be told-You are not to be seen:
Or, if you are, be forced to bear
The awe of your majestic air.
And can I then be faulty found,
In dreading this vexatious round?
Can it be strange, if I eschew
A scene so glorious and so new;
Or is he criminal that flies
The living lustre of your eyes?"

RIPE 'sparagrass,
Fit for lad or lass,

To make their water pass :
Oh, 'tis pretty picking
With a tender chicken!

ONIONS.

COME, follow me by the smell, Here are delicate onions to sell; I promise to use you well. They make the blood warmer; You'll feed like a farmer: For this is every cook's opinion, No savoury dish without an onion ; But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd, Your onions must be throughly boil'd: Or else you may spare Your mistress a share,

The secret will never be known;

She cannot discover

The breath of her lover,
But think it as sweet as her own.

OYSTERS.

CHARMING Oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy.
So plump and so fresh,
So sweet is their flesh,

ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL.

INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER 2.

;

HAPPIEST of the spaniel-race,
Painter, with thy colours grace:
Draw his forehead large and high,
Draw lus blue and humid eye;
Draw his neck so smooth and round,
Little neck with ribbands bound;
And the muscly swelling breast
Where the loves and graces rest
And the spreading even back,
Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;
And the tail that gently twines,
Like the tendrils of the vines;
And the silky twisted hair,
Shadowing thick the velvet ear;
Velvet ears, which, hanging low,
O'er the veiny temples flow.

With a proper light and shade
Let the winding hoop be laid;
And within that arching bower
(Secret circle, mystic power)
In a downy slumber place
Happiest of the spaniel-race;

1 Near Dublin.

2 In ridicule of Philips's poem on Miss Carteret, and written, it has been said, "to affront the lady of archbishop Boulter." N.

While the soft perspiring dame,
Glowing with the softest flame,
On the ravish'd favourite pours
Balmy dews, ambrosial showers!

With thy utmost skill express
Nature in her richest dress;
Limpid rivers smoothly flowing,
Orchards by those rivers blowing;
Curling wood-bine, myrtle shade,
And the gay enamel'd mead;
Where the linnets sit and sing,
Little sportlings of the spring;
Where the breathing field and grove
Sooth the heart, and kindle love:
Here for me, and for the Muse,
Colours of resemblance chuse ;
Make of lineaments divine,
Daply female spaniels shine,
Pretty fondlings of the fair,
Gentle damsels, gentle care;
But to one alone impart
All the flattery of thy art.

Crowd each feature, crowd cach grace,
Which complete the desperate face;
Let the spotted wanton dame
Feel a new resistless flame;
Let the happiest of his race
Win the fair to his embrace.
But in shade the rest conceal,
Nor to sight their joys reveal,
Lest the pencil and the Muse
Loose desires and thoughts infuse.

Ar Dublin's high feast sate primate and dean,
Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean.
Quoth Hugh of Armagh 1, "The mob is grown bold."

[split,

Ay, ay," quoth the dean, "the cause is old gold." "No, no," quoth the primate, "if causes we sift, This mischief arises from witty dean Swift." The smart-one replied, "There's no wit in the case; And nothing of that ever troubled your grace. Though with your state-sieve your own notions you A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit. It is matter of weight, and a mere money-jobb; But the lower the coin, the higher the mob. Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk, That sinking the coin is a dangerous joke. The Irish dear-joys have enough common sense, To treat gold reduced like Wood's copper pence. It is pity a prelate should die without law; But if I say the word-take care of Armagh !"

DR. SWIFT'S ANSWER
TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION.

THE furniture that best doth please
St. Patrick's dean, good sir, are these:
The knife and fork with which I eat;
And, next, the pot that boils the meat;

1 Dr. Hugh Buulter.

The next to be preferr'd, I think,

Is the glass in which I drink;

The shelves on which my books I keep;
And the bed on which I sleep;
An antique elbow-chair between,
Big enough to hold the dean;
And the store that gives delight
In the cold bleak wintery night;
To these we add a thing below,
More for use reserv'd than show:
These are what the dean do please;
All superfluous are but these.

APOLLO'S EDICT1.

IRELAND is now our royal care,
We lately fix'd our viceroy there,
How near was she to be undone,
Tili pious love inspir'd her son!
What cannot our vicegerent do,
As poet and as patriot too?
Let his success our subjects sway,
Our inspirations to obey,

And follow where he leads the way:
Then study to correct your taste;
Nor beaten paths be longer trac'd.
No simile shall be begun,
With rising or with setting Sun;
And let the secret head of Nile
Be ever banish'd from your isle.

When wretched lovers live on air,
I beg you'll the camelion spare;
And, when you'd make a hero grander,
Forget he 's like a salamander.

No son of mine shall dare to say,
Aurora usher'd-in the day,
Or ever name the milky-way.

Elijah's mantle is worn out.

You all agree, I make no doubt,

The bird of Jove shall toil no more
To teach the humble wren to soar.
Your tragic heroes shall not rant,
Nor shepherds use poetic cant.
The manners of the rural race.
Simplicity alone can grace
Theocritus and Philips be
Your guides to true simplicity.

When Damon's soul shall take its flight,
Though Poets have the second-sight,
They shall not see a trail of light.
Nor shall the vapours upward rise,
Nor a new star adorn the skies:
For who can hope to place one there,
As glorious as Belinda's hair?
Yet, if his name you 'd eternize,
And must exalt him to the skies;
Without a star, this may be done :
So Tickell mourn'd his Addison.

If Anna's happy reign you praise, Pray, not a word of halcyon-days ; Nor let my votaries show their skill In aping lines from Cooper's-Hill;

1 This poem was originally written in 1720; the latter part of it was re-published in 1743, on the death of the countess of Donegal. N.

For know, I cannot bear to hear
The mimicry of deep, yet clear.

Whene'er my viceroy is address'd,
Against the phenix I protest.
When poets soar in youthful strains,
No Phaeton to hold the reins.

When you describe a lovely girl,
No lips of coral, teeth of pearl.
Cupid shall ne'er mistake another,
However beauteous, for his mother:
Nor shall his darts at random fly
From magazine in Cælia's eye.
With women-compounds 1 am cloy'd,
Which only pleas'd in Biddy Floyd.
For foreign aid, what need they roam,
Whom Fate has amply blest at home?

Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand,
Has form'd a model for your land,
Whom Jove endow'd with every grace;
The glory of the Granard race;
Now destin'd by the powers divine
The blessing of another line.

Then, would you paint a matchless dame,
Whom you'd consign to endless fame?
Invoke not Cytherea's aid,

Nor borrow from the blue-ey'd maid;
Nor need you on the Graces call;-
Take qualities from Donegal.

EPIGRAMA.

BEHOLD! a proof of Irish sense!

Here Irish wit is seen!

When nothing 's left, that 's worth defence, We build a magazine.

EPIGRAMS,

OCCASIONED BY DR. SWIFT'S INTENDED HOSPITAL FOR

IDEOTS AND LUNATICKS.

THE dean must die-our ideots to maintain. Perish, ye ideots! and long live the dean!

O GENIUS of Hibernia's state,

Sublimely good, severely great!
How doth this latest act excel

All you have done or wrote so wel!!

Satire may be the child of spite,

And Fame might bid the Drapier write:

1 The dean, in his lunacy, had some intervals of sense; at which time his guardians, or physicians, took him out for the air On one of these days, when they came to the park, Swift remarked a new building, which he had never seen, and asked what it was designed for. To which Dr. Kingsbury answered, That, Mr. Dean, is the magazine for arms "Oh! and powder, for the security of the city." oh!" says the dean, pulling out his pocket-book, "let me take an item of that. This is worth re

marking: my tablets, as Hamlet says, my tablets-memory, put down that !"-Which produced the above lines, said to be the last he ever wrote. N.

But to relieve, and to endow,
Creatures that know not whence or how,
Argues a soul both good and wise,
Resembling Him who rules the skies.
He to the thoughtful mind displays
Immortal skill ten thousand ways;
And, to complete his glorious task,
Gives what we have not sense to ask!

Lo! Swift to ideots bequeaths his store: Be wise, ye rich!-consider thus the poor,?

ON THE

DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S BIRTH-DAY1,
NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW'S-DAY.

BETWEEN the hours of twelve and one
When half the world to rest were gone,
Entranc'd in softest sleep I lay,
Forgetful of an anxious day;
From every care and labour free,
My soul as calm as it could be.

The queen of dreams, well pleas'd to find
An undisturb'd and vacant mind,
With magic pencil trac'd my brain,
And there she drew St. Patrick's dean.
I straight beheld on either hand

Two saints, like guardian angels, stand,
And either claim'd him for their son;
And thus the high dispute begun.

St. Andrew first, with reason strong,
Maintain'd to him he did belong :
"Swift is my own, by right divine,
All boru upon this day are mine."

St. Patrick said, "I own this true,
"So far he does belong to you:
But in my church he 's born again,
My son adopted, and my dean.
When first the Christian-truth I spread,
The poor within this isle I fed,
And darkest errours banish'd hence,
Made knowledge in their place commence
Nay more, at my divine command,
All noxious creatures fled the land.
I made both peace and plenty smile.
Hibernia was my favourite isle;
Now his for he succeeds to me,
Two angels cannot more agree.

"His joy is, to relieve the poor;
Behold them weekly at his door!
His knowledge too, in brightest rays,
He like the Sun to all conveys;
Shows wisdom in a single page,
And in one hour instructs an age.
When ruin lately stood around
Th' enclosures of my sacred ground,
He gloriously did interpose,
And sav'd it from invading foes;
For this I claim immortal Swift,
As my own son, and Heaven's best gift.
The Caledonian saint, enrag'd,
Now closer in dispute engag'd,

1 See, in Parnell's Poems, an elegant compliment on the same occasion. N.

TO ROBERT NUGENT, ESQ.

WITH A PICTURE OF DEAN SWIFT.

BY DR. DUNKIN 1.

To gratify thy long desire

(So Love and Piety require),
From Bindon's 2 colours you may trace
The patriot's venerable face,
The last, O Nugent! which his art
Shall ever to the world impart ;
For know, the prime of mortal men,
That matchless monarch of the pen
(Whose labours, like the genial Sun,
Shall through revolving ages run,
Yet never, like the Sun, decline,
But in their full meridian shine),
That ever honour'd, envied sage,
So long the wonder of his age,
Who charm'd us with his golden strain,
Is not the shadow of the dean:
He only breathes Boeotian air-
"Oh! what a falling-off was there!"

Hibernia's Helicon is dry,
Invention, Wit, and Humour die,
And what remains against the storm
Of Malice, but an empty form?
The nodding ruins of a pile,
That stood the bulwark of this isle;
In which the sisterhood was fix'd
Of candid Honour, Truth unmix'd,
Impartial Reason, Thought profound,
And Charity, ditïusing round,

1 This elegant tribute of gratitude, as it was written at a period when all suspicion of flattery must vanish, reficets the highest honour on the ingenious writer, and cannot but be agreeable to the admirers of Dr. Swift. N.

2 Samuel Bindon, esq. a celebrated painter. N.

In cheerful rivulets, the flow

Of Fortune to the sons of woe?

Such one, my Nugent, was thy Swift,
Endued with each exalted gift.
But, lo! the pure æthereal flame
Is darken'd by a misty steam:
The balm exhausted breathes no smell,
The rose is wither'd ere it fell.
That godlike supplement of law,
Which held the wicked world in awe,
And could the tide of faction stem,
Is but a shell without the gem.

Ye sons of genius, who would aim
To build an everlasting fame,
And, in the field of letter'd arts,
Display the trophies of your parts,
To yonder mansion turn aside,
And mortify your growing pride.
Behold the brightest of the race,
And Nature's honour, in disgrace:
With humble resignation own,
That all your talents are a loan;
By Providence advanc'd for use,
Which you should study to produce.
Reflect, the mental stock, alas!
However current now it pass,
May haply be recall'd from you
Before the grave demands his due.
Then, while your morning-star proceeds,
Direct your course to worthy deeds,
In fuller day discharge your debts;
For, when your sun of reason sets,
The night succeeds; and all your schemes
Of glory vanish with your dreams.

Ah! where is now the supple train
That danc'd attendance on the dean?
Say, where are those facetious folks,
Who shook with laughter at his jokes,
And with attentive rapture hung
On wisdom dropping from his tongue;
Who look'd with high disdainful pride
On all the busy world beside,
And rated his productions more
Than treasures of Peruvian ore?

Good Christians! they with bended knees
Ingulph'd the wine, but loath the lees,
Averting (so the text commands),
With ardent eyes and up-cast hands,
The cup of sorrow from their lips,
And fly, like rats from sinking ships.
While some, who by his friendship rose
To wealth, in concert with his foes,
Run counter to their former track,
Like old Acteon's horrid pack
Of yelling mungrels, in requitals
To riot on their master's vitals;

And, where they cannot blast his laurels,
Attempt to stigmatize his morals;
Through Scandal's magnifying-glass
His foibles view, but virtues pass,

Aud on the ruins of his fame
Erect an ignominious name.
So vermin foul, of vile extraction,
The sounder members traverse o'er,
The spawn of dirt and putrefaction,
But fix and fatten on a sore.
Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile
His wit, his humour, and his style;