Occasioned by reading the following MAXIM in ROCHEFOUCAULT, " Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, qui ne nous déplaît pas."
"In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something that does not displease us."
As Rochefoucault his maxims drew
From nature, I believe them true :
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
*The Verses on his own Death, and the Rhapsody on Poetry, are the best of Swift's poetical productions, though they cannot be called true poetry.-Dr WARTON.
These verses have undergone, perhaps, a stranger revolu tion than any other part of the Dean's writings. A manifestly spurious copy, containing 201 lines, under the title of "The Life and Character of Dr SWIFT," appeared at London, in April 1733; of which the Dean complained heavily, in a letter to Mr Pope, dated May 1st; and, notwithstanding Swift acknowledged in that letter he had written "a poem of near 500 lines upon the same maxim of Rochefoucault, and was a long time about it," many readers have supposed (not attending to the circumstance of there being two poems on the subject) that the Dean disclaim. ed the Verses on his own Death. The genuine verses having
This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast:
"In all distresses of our friends,
We first consult our private ends;
While Nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.'
If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.
We all behold with envious eyes
Our equals rais'd above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you:
But why should he obstruct my view!
Then let me have the higher post:
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopp'd,
Would you not wish his laurels cropp'd?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without :
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad, the case is not your own!
been committed to the care of the celebrated author of "The Toast," an edition was printed, in 1738-9, in which more than 100 lines were omitted. Dr King assigned many judicious reason. (though some of them were merely temporary and prudential) for the mutilations: but they were so far from satisfying Dr Swift, that a complete edition was immediately printed by Faulkner, with the Dean's express permission. The poem, as it now stands in this collection, is agreeable to Mr Faulkner's copy.-NICOL.
What poet would not grieve to see His brother write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel, ib Haq Would wish his rivals all in Hell?)
Her end when Emulation misses,
She turns to Envy, stings and hisses :
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side. !,
Vain human kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
'Tis all on me a usurpation.
I have no title to aspire;
Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine;
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six
It gives me such a jealous fit,
cry, "Pox take him and his wit!"
I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own humorous biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refin'd it first, and shew'd its use.
St John, as well as Pultney, knows
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortified my pride,
And made me throw my pen
If with such talents Heaven has bless'd 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em?
To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thy gifts; but never to my friend:
I tamely can endure the first;
But this with envy makes me burst.
Thus much may serve by way of proem;
Proceed we therefore to our poem.
The time is not remote, when I
Must by the course of nature die;
When, I foresee, my special friends
Will try to find their private ends :
And, though 'tis hardly understood
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak:
"See, how the Dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman, he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him till he's dead.
Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind:
Forgets the place where last he din'd;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter:
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.
"For poetry he's past his prime:
He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen ;-
But there's no talking to some men!"
And then their tenderness appears,
By adding largely to my years;
"He's older than he would be reckon'd,
And well remembers Charles the Second.
He hardly drinks a pint of wine;
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.
His stomach too begins to fail :
Last year we thought him strong and hale;
But now he's quite another thing:
I wish he may hold out till spring!"
They hug themselves, and reason thus:
"It is not yet so bad with us!"
In such a case, they talk in tropes,
And by their fears express their hopes.
Some great misfortune to portend,
enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,
The merit of a lucky guess
(When daily howd'ye's come of course,
And servants answer, " Worse and worse!")
Would please them better, than to tell,
That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well."
Then he, who prophesied the best,
Approves his foresight to the rest:
"You know I always fear'd the worst,
And often told you so at first."
He'd rather choose that I should die,'
Than his prediction prove a lie.
Not one foretells 1 shall recover;
But all agree to give me over.
Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain
Just in the parts where I complain;
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