« AnteriorContinuar »
The sorrow from their lips,
And Ay, 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 mungrils, 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,
And on the ruins of his fame
Erect an ignominious name.
So vermin foul, of vile extraction,
The spawn of dirt and putrefaction,
The sounder members traverse o'er,
But fix and fatten on a sore.
Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile
His wit, his humour, and his style;
Since all the inonsters which he drew
Were only meant to copy you;
And, if the colours be not fainter,
Arraign yourselves, and not the painter.
But, O! that He, who gaye him breath,
Dread arbiter of life and death;
That He, the moving soul of all,
The sleeping spirit would recall,
And crown him with triumphant meeds,
For all his past heroick deeds,
In mansions of unbroken rest,
The bright republick of the bless'd!
Irradiate his benighted mind
With living light of light refin'd;
And these the blank of thought employ
With objects of immortal joy!
Yet, while he drags the sad remains Of life, slow-creeping through his veins, VOL. XI.
EPISTLE TO ROBERT NUGENT, ESQ.
Above the views of private ends,
The tributary Muse attends,
his feeble steps, or shed
The pious tear around his bed.
So pilgrims, with devout complaints,
Frequent the graves of martyr'd saints,
Inscribe their worth in artless lines,
And, in their stead, embrace their shrines,
UNDONE by fools at home, abroad by knaves,
The isle of saints became the land of slaves,
Trembling beneath her proud oppressor's band;
But, when thy reason thunder'd through the laod,
Then all the publick spirit breath'd in thee,
And all, except the sons of guilt, were free.
· Blest isle, blest patriot, ever glorious strife!
her freedom, as she gave you life! Thus Cato fought, whom Brutus copied well, And with those rights, for which you stand, he fell.
* See the translation of Carberiæ Rupes, in vol X. In the Select Poetical Works of Dr. Dunkin, pubiished at Dublin in 1770, are four well-chosen compliments to the Dean on his birthday, and a very humorous poetical advertisement for a copy of Virgil Travestie, which, at the Dean's request, Dr. Dunkin had much corrected, and afterward lost. After offering a small reward to whoever will restore it, he adds,
" Or if, when this book shall be offer'd to sale,
Any printer will stop it, the bard will not fail
To make over the issues and profits accruing
From thence to the printer, for his care in so doing;
Provided he first to the poet will send it,
That where it is wrong, he may alter and mend it," Several instances of Dr. Swift's regard for this ingenious writer may be seen in the present collection. Sce vol. XIX, p. 151, N.
EPITAPH, PROPOSED FOR DR. SWIFT. 1745:
HIC JACET DEMOCRITVS ILLE NEOTERICVS, RABELAESIVS NOSTER, IONATHAN SWIFT, s. T.P. HVIVS CATHEDRALIS NUPER DECANVS; MOMI, MVSARVM, MINERVAE, ALVMNVS PERQVAM DILECTVS ; INSVL'SIS, HYPOCRITIS, THEOMACHIS, IVXTA EXOSVS ;
QVOS TRIBVTIM SVMMO CVM LEPORE
DERISIT, DENVDAVIT, DEBELLAVIT.
PATRIAE INFELICIS PATRONVS IMPIGER, ET PROPUGNATOR
PRIMORES ARRIPVIT, POPVLVMQVE INTERRITVS,
VNI SCILICET ALQVVS VIRTVTI.
SI QUIS ADES, NEC PENITVS EXCORS VIDETVR,
DEBITA SPARGES LACRYMA.
EPIGRAM ON TWO GREAT MEN. 1745.
Two geniuses one age and nation grace:
Pride of our isles, and boast of human race!
Great sage! great bard I supreme in knowledge born!
The world to mend, enlighten, and adorn!
Truth on Cimmerian darkness pours the day!
Wit drives in smiles the gloom of minds away!
Ye kindred suns on high, ye glorious spheres,
Whom have ye seen, in twice three thousand years,
Whom have ye seen, like these, of mortal birth;
Though Archimede and Horace blest the earth?
Barbarians, from th’Equator to the Poles,
Hark! reason calls! wisdom awakes
souls! Ye regions, ignorant of Walpole's name; Ye climes, where kings shall ne'er extend their fame;
352 EPIGRAM ON TWO GREAT MEN.
Where men, miscalld, God's image have defac'd,
Their form belied, and human shape disgrac'd !
Ye two-legg'd wolves ! slaves! superstitious sons!
Lords! soldiers! holy Vandals! modern Huns!
Boors, mufties, monks; in Russia, Turkey, Spain!
Who does not know Sir Is AAC, and The Dean?
TO THE MEMORY OF DOCTOR SWIFT.
When wasteful death has clos'd the Poet's eyes,
And low in earth his mortal essence lies;
When the bright flame, that once his breast inspir'd,
Has to its first, its noblest seat retir'd;
All worthy minds, whom love of merit sways,
Should shade from slander his respected bays;
And bid that fame, his useful labours won,
Pure and untainted through all ages run,
Envy's a fiend all excellence pursues,
But mostly poets favour'd by the Muse:
Who wins the laurel, sacred verse bestows,
Makes all, who fail in like attempts, his foes :
No puny wit of malice can complain,
The thorn is theirs, who most applauses gain.
Whatever gifts or graces Heaven design'd
To raise man's genius, or enrich his mind,
Were Swift's to boast-alike his merits claim,
The statesman's knowledge, and the poet's flame;
The patriot's honour, zealous to defend
His country's rights—and faithful to the end;
The sound divine, whose charities display'd
He more by virtue than by forms was sway'd ;
Temperate at board, and frugal of his store,
Which he but spar'd, to make his bounties more;
Îhe generous friend, whose heart alike caress’d,
The friend triumphant, or the friend distress'd;
Who could unpain’d another's merit spy,
Nor view a rival's fame with jaundic'd eye;
Humane to all, his love was unconfin'd,
And in its scope embrac'd all humankind;
Sharp, not malicious, was his charming wit,
And less to anger than reform he writ;.
Whatever rancour his productions show'd,
From scorn of vice and folly only flow'd;
He thought that fools were an invidious race,
And held no measures with the vain or base.
Virtue so clear! who labours to destroy,
Shall find the charge can but himself annoy:
The slanderous theft to his own breast recoils,
Who seeks renown from injur'd merit's spoils;
All hearts unite, and Heaven with man conspires
To guard those virtues, she herself admires.
O sacred bard !-once ours !but now no more, Whose loss, for ever, Ireland must deplore. No earthly laurels needs thy happy brow, Above the poet's are thy honours now: Above the patriot's (though a greater name No temporal monarch for his crown can claim). From noble breasts if envy might ensue, Thy death is all the brave can envy you, You died, when merit (to its fate resign'd). Saw scarce one friend to genius left behind. When shining parts did jealous hatred breed, And 'twas a crime in science to succeed, When ignorance spread her hateful mist around, And dunces only an acceptance found, What could such scenes in noble minds beget, But life with pain and talents with regret? Add, that thy spirit from the world retird, Ere hidden foes its farther grief conspir'd; No treacherous friend did stories yet contrive, To blast the Muse he flatter'd when alive,