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Satire may be the child of spite,
And fame might bid the Drapier write:
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 idiots bequeaths his store:
Be wise, ye rich!-consider thus the poor!
ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S
BEING ON 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 arixious 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 magick 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 born 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
When first the Christian truth I spread,
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.
Essays to prove,' by transmigration,
The Dean is of the Scottish nation;
And, to confirm the truth, he chose
The loyal soul of great Montrose;
“ Montrose and he are both the same,
They only differ in the name :
346 ON THE DEAN'S BIRTH DAY.
Both heroes in a righteous cause,
Assert their liberties and laws;
He's now the same, Montrose was then,
But that the sword is turn'd a pen,
A pen of so great power, each word
Defends beyond the hero's sword."
Now words grew high-we can't suppose
Immortals ever come to blows.
But least unruly passion should
Degrade them into flesh and blood,
An angel quick from Heaven descends,
And he at once the contest ends:
“ Ye reverend pair from discord cease,
Ye both mistake the present case;
One kingdom cannot have pretence
To so much virtue! so much sense!
Search Heaven's record; and there you'll find,
That he was born for all mankind."
AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT NOGENT, Esa. *
WITH A PICTURE OF DR. SWIFT.
BY WILLIAM DUNKIN, D.D. t.
To gratify thy long desire
(So Love and Piety require),
From Bindon's $ colours you may trace
The patriot's venerable face.
* Created baron Nugent and viscount Clare, Dec. 20. 1766. N.
+ This elegant tribute of gratitude, as it was written at that dismal period of the Dean's life when all suspicion of flattery must vanish, reflects the highest honour on the ingenious writer, and cannot but be agrceable to the admirers of Dr. Swift. N.
| Samuel Bindon, esq., one of the greatest painters and architects of his time. On account of his age, and some little failure
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 wondes of his age,
Who charm'd us with his golden strain,
Is not the shadow of the Dean :
He only breathes Bæotian air-
“O! 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,
And Charity, diffusing round
In cheerful rivulets to 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,
in his sight, he threw aside his pencil soon after the year 1750 ; and afterward lived to a good old age, greatly beloved and respected by all who had the happiness either of his friendship or acquaintançe. He died June 2, 1765. N.
ÉPISTLE TO ROBERT NUGENT, ESQ.
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 advance for use,
should study to produce.
Reflect, the mental stock, alas!
However current now it pass,
May haply be recall'd from
Before the grave demands his due.
Then, while your morning star proceeds,
Directs 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
Ingulf'd the wine, but loath the lees,
Averting (so the text commands),
With ardent eyes and upcast hands,