TO THE REVEREND DR SWIFT,
WITH A PRESENT OF A PAPER-BOOK, FINELY BOUND, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1732. *
To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send;
Small is the present, but sincere the friend.
Think not so poor a book below thy care;
Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear?
Though tawdry now, and, like Tyrilla's face,
The specious front shines out with borrowed grace;
Though pasteboards, glittering like a tinsell'd coat,
A rasa tabula within denote:
Yet, if a venal and corrupted age,
And modern vices, should provoke thy rage;
If, warn'd once more by their impending fate,
A sinking country and an injur'd state,
Thy great assistance should again demand,
And call forth reason to defend the land;
Then shall we view these sheets with glad surprise,
Inspir'd with thought, and speaking to our eyes;
Each vacant space shall then, enrich'd, dispense
True force of eloquence, and nervous sense;
Inform the judgment, animate the heart,
And sacred rules of policy impart.
* It was occasioned by an annual custom, which I found pursued among his friends, of making him a present on his birthday.-ORRERY.
The spangled covering, bright with splendid ore,
Shall cheat the sight with empty show no more:
But lead us inward to those golden mines,
Where all thy soul in native lustre shines.
So when the eye surveys some lovely fair,
With bloom of beauty grac'd, with shape and air;
How is the rapture heighten'd, when we find
Her form excell'd by her celestial mind!
LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN OF ST PATRICK'S DESK, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.
HITHER from Mexico I came,
To serve a proud Iernian dame:
Was long submitted to her will;
At length she lost me at quadrille.
Through various shapes I often pass'd,
Still hoping to have rest at last;
And still ambitious to obtain
Admittance to the patriot Dean;
And sometimes got within his door,
But soon turn'd out to serve the
Not strolling Idleness to aid,
But honest Industry decay'd.
* Alluding to five hundred pounds lent by the Dean, without interest, to poor tradesmen.-F.
At length an artist purchas'd me,
And wrought me to the shape you see.
This done, to Hermes I apply'd :
"O Hermes! gratify my pride;
Be it my fate to serve a sage,
The greatest genius of his age;
That matchless pen let me supply,
Whose living lines will never die !"
"I grant your suit ;" the God replied,
And here he left me to reside.
OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING PRESENTS.
A PAPER BOOK is sent by Boyle,
Too neatly gilt for me to soil.
Delany sends a silver standish,
When I no more a pen can brandish.
Let both around my tomb be plac'd:
As trophies of a Muse deceas'd:
And let the friendly lines they writ,
In praise of long-departed wit,
Be grav'd on either side in columns,
More to my praise than all my volumes,
To burst with envy, spite, and rage,
The Vandals of the present age.
SENT TO THE DEAN WITH AN EAGLE QUILL,
ON HEARING OF THE PRESENTS BY THE EARL OF ORRERY AND DR DELANY.
SHALL then my kindred all my glory claim,
And boldly rob me of eternal fame?
To ev'ry art my gen'rous aid I lend,
To music, painting, poetry, a friend.
'Tis I celestial harmony inspire,
When fix'd to strike the sweetly warbling wire. †
I to the faithful canvas have consign'd
Each bright idea of the painter's mind;
Behold from Raphael's skydipt pencils rise
Such heav'nly scenes as charm the gazer's eyes.
O let me now aspire to higher praise!
Ambitious to transcribe your deathless lays:
Nor thou, immortal bard, my aid refuse,
Accept me as the servant of your Muse,
Then shall the world my wondrous worth declare,
And all mankind your matchless pen revere.
* See a letter to Mrs Pilkington, Jan. 1, 1732-3, in Vol. XII. + Quills of the harpsichord.
AN INVITATION, BY DR DELANY,
MIGHTY Thomas, † a solemn senatus I call,
To consult for Sapphira; § so come one and all;
Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your
For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare.
I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies,
As friend Virgil has it, I've aliud mercedis;
For Letty, one filbert, whereon to regale;
And a peach for pale Constance, ¶ to make a full
meal;
And for your cruel part,** who take pleasure in blood,
I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good:
Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health:
High rais'd be her worth above titles or wealth.
* See Mrs Pilkington's Memoirs, Vol. III. page 65.-N. + From their diminutive size, the Dean used to call Mr Pil. kington "Tom Thumb," and his wife "his lady fair."-N.
To correct Mrs Barber's poems; which were published at London, in 4to, by subscription.
The name by which Mrs Barber was distinguished by her friends.-N.
Mrs Constantia Grierson, a very learned young lady, who died in 1733, at the age of 27.-N.
** Mrs Van Lewen (Mrs Pilkington's mother), who used to argue with Dr Swift, about his declamation against eating blood,-N.
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