Part 13

'Tis true--then why should I repine To see my life so fast decline? But why obscurely here alone, Where I am neither loved nor known? My state of health none care to learn; My life is here no soul's concern: And those with whom I now converse Without a tear will tend my hearse. Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid, Who knows his art, but not his trade, Preferring his regard for me Before his credit, or his fee. Some formal visits, looks, and words, What mere humanity affords, I meet perhaps from three or four, From whom I once expected more; Which those who tend the sick for pay, Can act as decently as they: But no obliging, tender friend, To help at my approaching end. My life is now a burthen grown To others, ere it be my own. Ye formal weepers for the sick, In your last offices be quick; And spare my absent friends the grief To hear, yet give me no relief; Expired to-day, entomb'd to-morrow, When known, will save a double sorrow.

[Footnote 1: Queen Anne died 1st August, 1714.]

THE FABLE OF THE BITCHES[1]

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1715, ON AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE TEST ACT

A bitch, that was full pregnant grown By all the dogs and curs in town, Finding her ripen'd time was come, Her litter teeming from her womb, Went here, and there, and everywhere, To find an easy place to lay her. At length to Music's house[2] she came, And begg'd like one both blind and lame; "My only friend, my dear," said she, "You see 'tis mere necessity Hath sent me to your house to whelp: I die if you refuse your help." With fawning whine, and rueful tone, With artful sigh, and feigned groan, With couchant cringe, and flattering tale, Smooth Bawty[3] did so far prevail, That Music gave her leave to litter; (But mark what follow'd--faith! she bit her;) Whole baskets full of bits and scraps, And broth enough to fill her paps; For well she knew, her numerous brood, For want of milk, would suck her blood. But when she thought her pains were done, And now 'twas high time to be gone, In civil terms, "My friend," said she, "My house you've had on courtesy; And now I earnestly desire, That you would with your cubs retire; For, should you stay but one week longer, I shall be starved with cold and hunger." The guest replied--"My friend, your leave I must a little longer crave; Stay till my tender cubs can find Their way--for now, you see, they're blind; But, when we've gather'd strength, I swear, We'll to our barn again repair." The time pass'd on; and Music came Her kennel once again to claim, But Bawty, lost to shame and honour, Set all her cubs at once upon her; Made her retire, and quit her right, And loudly cried--"A bite! bite!"

THE MORAL

Thus did the Grecian wooden horse Conceal a fatal armed force: No sooner brought within the walls, But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.

[Footnote 1: _See post_, "A Tale of a Nettle."]

[Footnote 2: The Church of England.]

[Footnote 3: A Scotch name for bitch, alluding to the kirk.]

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE II

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716

These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal attachment.--_Scott._ See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope's "Works," edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191.--_W. E. B._

How blest is he who for his country dies, Since death pursues the coward as he flies! The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack; With trembling knees, and Terror at his back; Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind, Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind. Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine; But shall with unattainted honour shine; Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down, Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try Some new unbeaten passage to the sky; Where Jove a seat among the gods will give To those who die, for meriting to live. Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward; Within our breast be every secret barr'd! He who betrays his friend, shall never be Under one roof, or in one ship, with me: For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just? And though the villain’scape a while, he feels Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER

Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. But we must silent be, amidst our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers. So ravishers, that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH

High Church is undone, As sure as a gun, For old Peter Patch is departed; And Eyres and Delaune, And the rest of that spawn, Are tacking about broken-hearted.

For strong Gill of Sarum, That _decoctum amarum_, Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail; Which will make them resign Their flasks of French wine, And spice up their Nottingham ale.

It purges the spleen Of dislike to the queen, And has one effect that is odder; When easement they use, They always will chuse The Conformity Bill for bumfodder.

A POEM OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, IN WHICH THE STORY OF PHAETHON IS EXPRESSED

Not asking or expecting aught, One day I went to view the court, Unbent and free from care or thought, Though thither fears and hopes resort.

A piece of tapestry took my eye, The faded colours spoke it old; But wrought with curious imagery, The figures lively seem'd and bold.

Here you might see the youth prevail, (In vain are eloquence and wit,) The boy persists, Apollo's frail; Wisdom to nature does submit.

There mounts the eager charioteer; Soon from his seat he's downward hurl'd; Here Jove in anger doth appear, There all, beneath, the flaming world.

What does this idle fiction mean? Is truth at court in such disgrace, It may not on the walls be seen, Nor e'en in picture show its face?

No, no, 'tis not a senseless tale, By sweet-tongued Ovid dress'd so fine;[1] It does important truths conceal, And here was placed by wise design.

A lesson deep with learning fraught, Worthy the cabinet of kings; Fit subject of their constant thought, In matchless verse the poet sings.

Well should he weigh, who does aspire To empire, whether truly great, His head, his heart, his hand, conspire To make him equal to that seat.

If only fond desire of sway, By avarice or ambition fed, Make him affect to guide the day, Alas! what strange confusion's bred!

If, either void of princely care, Remiss he holds the slacken'd rein; If rising heats or mad career, Unskill'd, he knows not to restrain:

Or if, perhaps, he gives a loose, In wanton pride to show his skill, How easily he can reduce And curb the people's rage at will;

In wild uproar they hurry on;-- The great, the good, the just, the wise, (Law and religion overthrown,) Are first mark'd out for sacrifice.

When, to a height their fury grown, Finding, too late, he can't retire, He proves the real Phaethon, And truly sets the world on fire.

[Footnote 1: "Metamorphoseon," lib. ii.]

A TALE OF A NETTLE[1]

A man with expense and infinite toil, By digging and dunging, ennobled his soil; There fruits of the best your taste did invite, And uniform order still courted the sight. No degenerate weeds the rich ground did produce, But all things afforded both beauty and use: Till from dunghill transplanted, while yet but a seed, A nettle rear'd up his inglorious head. The gard'ner would wisely have rooted him up, To stop the increase of a barbarous crop; But the master forbid him, and after the fashion Of foolish good nature, and blind moderation, Forbore him through pity, and chose as much rather, To ask him some questions first, how he came thither. Kind sir, quoth the nettle, a stranger I come, For conscience compell'd to relinquish my home, 'Cause I wouldn't subscribe to a mystery dark, That the prince of all trees is the Jesuit's bark,[2] An erroneous tenet I know, sir, that you, No more than myself, will allow to be true. To you, I for refuge and sanctuary sue, There's none so renown'd for compassion as you; And, though in some things I may differ from these, The rest of your fruitful and beautiful trees; Though your digging and dunging, my nature much harms, And I cannot comply with your garden in forms: Yet I and my family, after our fashion, Will peaceably stick to our own education. Be pleased to allow them a place for to rest 'em, For the rest of your trees we will never molest 'em; A kind shelter to us and protection afford, We'll do you no harm, sir, I'll give you my word. The good man was soon won by this plausible tale, So fraud on good-nature doth often prevail. He welcomes his guest, gives him free toleration In the midst of his garden to take up his station, And into his breast doth his enemy bring, He little suspected the nettle could sting. 'Till flush'd with success, and of strength to be fear'd, Around him a numerous offspring he rear'd. Then the master grew sensible what he had done, And fain he would have his new guest to be gone; But now 'twas too late to bid him turn out, A well rooted possession already was got. The old trees decay'd, and in their room grew A stubborn, pestilent, poisonous crew. The master, who first the young brood had admitted, They stung like ingrates, and left him unpitied. No help from manuring or planting was found, The ill weeds had eat out the heart of the ground. All weeds they let in, and none they refuse That would join to oppose the good man of the house. Thus one nettle uncropp'd, increased to such store, That 'twas nothing but weeds what was garden before.

[Footnote 1: These verses relate to the proposed repeal of the Test Act, and may be compared with the "Fable of the Bitches," _ante_, p.181.]

[Footnote 2: In allusion to the supremacy of Rome.--_Scott_.]

A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL[1]

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 newspapers 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 stink. Behold his funeral appears, Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' 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 died. Come hither, all ye empty things! Ye bubbles raised 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.[2]

[Footnote 1: The Duke of Marlborough died on the 16th June, 1722.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: See the "Fable of Midas," _ante_, p. 150; and The Examiner, "Prose Works," ix, 95.--_W. E. B._]

POEMS CHIEFLY RELATING TO IRISH POLITICS

PARODY ON THE SPEECH OF DR. BENJAMIN PRATT,[1] PROVOST OF TRINITY COLLEGE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES

Illustrious prince, we're come before ye, Who, more than in our founders, glory To be by you protected; Deign to descend and give us laws, For we are converts to your cause, From this day well-affected.[2]

The noble view of your high merits Has charm'd our thoughts and fix'd our spirits, With zeal so warm and hearty; That we resolved to be devoted, At least until we be promoted, By your just power and party.

Urged by a passionate desire Of being raised a little higher, From lazy cloister'd life; We cannot flatter you nor fawn, But fain would honour'd be with lawn, And settled by a wife.[3]

For this we have before resorted, Paid levees[4] punctually, and courted, Our charge at home long quitting, But now we're come just in the nick, Upon a vacant[5] bishopric, This bait can't fail of hitting.

Thus, sir, you see how much affection, Not interest, sways in this election, But sense of loyal duty. For you surpass all princes far, As glow-worms do exceed a star, In goodness, wit, and beauty.

To you our Irish Commons owe That wisdom which their actions show, Their principles from ours springs, Taught, ere the deel himself could dream on't, That of their illustrious house a stem on't, Should rise the best of kings.

The glad presages with our eyes Behold a king, chaste, vigilant, and wise, In foreign fields victorious, Who in his youth the Turks attacks, And [made] them still to turn their backs; Was ever king so glorious?

Since Ormond’s like a traitor gone, We scorn to do what some have done, For learning much more famous;[6] Fools may pursue their adverse fate, And stick to the unfortunate; We laugh while they condemn us.

For, being of that gen'rous mind, To success we are still inclined, And quit the suffering side, If on our friends cross planets frown, We join the cry, and hunt them down, And sail with wind and tide.

Hence 'twas this choice we long delay'd, Till our rash foes the rebels fled, Whilst fortune held the scale; But [since] they're driven like mist before you, Our rising sun, we now adore you, Because you now prevail.

Descend then from your lofty seat, Behold th' attending Muses wait With us to sing your praises; Calliope now strings up her lyre, And Clio[7] Phoebus does inspire, The theme their fancy raises.

If then our nursery you will nourish, We and our Muses too will flourish, Encouraged by your favour; We'll doctrines teach the times to serve, And more five thousand pounds deserve, By future good behaviour.

Now take our harp into your hand, The joyful strings, at your command, In doleful sounds no more shall mourn. We, with sincerity of heart, To all your tunes shall bear a part, Unless we see the tables turn.

If so, great sir, you will excuse us, For we and our attending Muses May live to change our strain; And turn, with merry hearts, our tune, Upon some happy tenth of June, To "the king enjoys his own again."

[Footnote 1: Dr. Pratt's speech, which is here parodied, was made when the Duke of Ormond, Swift's valued friend, was attainted, and superseded in the office of chancellor of Trinity College, which he had held from 1688-9, by the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II.

There is great reason to suppose that the satire is the work of Swift, whose attachment to Ormond was uniformly ardent. Of this it may be worth while to mention a trifling instance. The duke had presented to the cathedral of St. Patrick's a superb organ, surmounted by his own armorial bearings. It was placed facing the nave of the church. But after Ormond's attainder, Swift, as Dean of St. Patrick's, received orders from government to remove the scutcheon from the church. He obeyed, but he placed the shield in the great aisle, where he himself and Stella lie buried, and where the arms still remain. The verses have suffered much by the inaccuracy of the noble transcriber, Lord Newtoun Butler.

The original speech will be found in the London Gazette of Tuesday, April 17, 1716, and Scott's edition of Swift, vol. xii, p. 352. The Provost, it appears, was attended by the Rev. Dr. Howard, and Mr. George Berkeley, (afterwards Bishop of Cloyne,) both of them fellows of Trinity College, Dublin. The speech was praised by Addison, in the Freeholder, No. 33.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The Rev. Dr. Pratt had been formerly of the Tory party; to which circumstance the phrase, "from this day well-affected," alludes.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 3: The statutes of the university enjoin celibacy.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 4: The provost was a most constant attendant at the levees at St. James's palace.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: The see of Killaloe was then vacant, and to this bishopric the Reverend Dr. George Carr, chaplain to the Irish House of Commons, was nominated, by letters-patent.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 6: Alluding to the sullen silence of Oxford upon the accession.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 7: This is spelled Chloe, but evidently should be Clio; indeed, many errors appear in the transcription, which probably were mistakes of the transcriber.--_Scott._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET. 1720-21

To the tune of "Packington's Pound."

Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes, Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over, With forty things more: now hear what the law says, Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover. Though a printer and Dean, Seditiously mean, Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean, We'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

In England the dead in woollen are clad, The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on; To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad, Since a living dog better is than a dead lion. Our wives they grow sullen At wearing of woollen, And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in. Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

Whoever our trading with England would hinder, To inflame both the nations do plainly conspire, Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder, And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire. Therefore, I assure ye, Our noble grand jury, When they saw the Dean's book, they were in a great fury; They would buy English silks for their wives and their daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning, And before _coram nobis_ so oft has been call'd, Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen, And if swearing can do't shall be swingingly maul'd: And as for the Dean, You know whom I mean, If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come off clean. Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

[Footnote 1: This ballad alludes to the Dean's "Proposal for the use of Irish Manufactures," for which the printer was prosecuted with great violence. Lord Chief-Justice Whitshed sent the jury repeatedly out of court, until he had wearied them into a special verdict. See Swift's Letter to Pope, Jan. 1721, and "Prose Works," vii, 13.--_W. E. B._]

THE RUN UPON THE BANKERS[1]

The bold encroachers on the deep Gain by degrees huge tracts of land, Till Neptune, with one general sweep, Turns all again to barren strand.

The multitude's capricious pranks Are said to represent the seas, Breaking the bankers and the banks, Resume their own whene'er they please.

Money, the life-blood of the nation, Corrupts and stagnates in the veins, Unless a proper circulation Its motion and its heat maintains.

Because 'tis lordly not to pay, Quakers and aldermen in state, Like peers, have levees every day Of duns attending at their gate.

We want our money on the nail; The banker's ruin'd if he pays: They seem to act an ancient tale; The birds are met to strip the jays.

"Riches," the wisest monarch sings, "Make pinions for themselves to fly;"[2] They fly like bats on parchment wings, And geese their silver plumes supply.

No money left for squandering heirs! Bills turn the lenders into debtors: The wish of Nero[3] now is theirs, "That they had never known their letters."

Conceive the works of midnight hags, Tormenting fools behind their backs: Thus bankers, o'er their bills and bags, Sit squeezing images of wax.

Conceive the whole enchantment broke; The witches left in open air, With power no more than other folk, Exposed with all their magic ware.

So powerful are a banker's bills, Where creditors demand their due; They break up counters, doors, and tills, And leave the empty chests in view.

Thus when an earthquake lets in light Upon the god of gold and hell, Unable to endure the sight, He hides within his darkest cell.

As when a conjurer takes a lease From Satan for a term of years, The tenant's in a dismal case, Whene'er the bloody bond appears.

A baited banker thus desponds, From his own hand foresees his fall, They have his soul, who have his bonds; 'Tis like the writing on the wall.[4]

How will the caitiff wretch be scared, When first he finds himself awake At the last trumpet, unprepared, And all his grand account to make!

For in that universal call, Few bankers will to heaven be mounters; They'll cry, "Ye shops, upon us fall! Conceal and cover us, ye counters!"

When other hands the scales shall hold, And they, in men's and angels' sight Produced with all their bills and gold, "Weigh'd in the balance and found light!"

[Footnote 1: This poem was printed some years ago, and it should seem, by the late failure of two bankers, to be somewhat prophetic. It was therefore thought fit to be reprinted.--_Dublin Edition_, 1734.]

[Footnote 2: Solomon, Proverbs, ch. xxiii, v. 5.]

[Footnote 3: Who, in his early days of empire, having to sign the sentence of a condemned criminal, exclaimed: "Quam vellem nescire litteras!" Suetonius, 10; and Seneca, "De Clementia,", cited by Montaigne, "De l'inconstance de nos actions."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Daniel, ch. v, verses 25, 26, 27, 28.--_W. E. B._]

UPON THE HORRID PLOT DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER'S FRENCH DOG,[1] IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND A TORY