Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope would grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.
St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
"I'm sorry-but we all must die!"
Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise,
All fortitude of mind supplies:
For how can stony bowels melt
In those who never pity felt!
When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod,
Resigning to the will of God.
The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approach'd, to stand between: The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling.
My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: "The Dean is dead: (Pray what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)
Six deans, they say, must bear the pall:
(I wish I knew what king to call.)
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend.
No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight:
And he's engaged to-morrow night:
My Lady Club will take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He loved the Dean-(I lead a heart,)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come: he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place."
Why do we grieve that friends should die? No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene!
No further mention of the Dean;
Who now, alas! no more is miss'd,
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now this favourite of Apollo!
Departed-and his works must follow;
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.
Some country squire to Lintot goes,
Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose."
Says Lintot, "I have heard the name;
He died a year ago."-"The same."
He searches all the shop in vain.
"Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane ;1
I sent them with a load of books,
Last Monday to the pastry-cook's.
To fancy they could live a year!
I find you're but a stranger here.
1 A place in London, where old books are sold.-Dubl. ed.
The Dean was famous in his time,
And had a kind of knack at rhyme.
of writing now is past;
The town has got a better taste;
I keep no antiquated stuff,
But spick and span I have enough.
Pray do but give me leave to show 'em
Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck, upon the queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
Against the Craftsman and his friend;
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,1
And Mr. Henley's last oration.2
The hawkers have not got them yet;
Your honour please to buy a set?
"Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition;
'Tis read by every politician;
1 Walpole hath a set of party scribblers, who do nothing but write in his defence.-Dublin ed.
2 Henley is a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. There, at set times, he delivereth strange speeches, compiled by himself and his associates, who share the profit with him. Every hearer payeth a shilling each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reported crazy.-Dub. ed.
8 Wolston was a clergyman, but for want of bread hath, in several treatises, in the most blasphemous manner, at
The country members, when in town,
To all their boroughs send them down;
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart:
Those maids of honour who can read,
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The reverend author's good'intention
Has been rewarded with a pension.1
He does an honour to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester,
That Moses was a grand impostor;
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he has not got a mitre !"
Suppose me dead; and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose;
Where, from discourse of this and that,
grow the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,
With favour some, and some without,
One, quite indifferent in the cause,
My character impartial draws:
tempted to turn our Saviour's miracles into ridicule. He is much caressed by many great courtiers, and by all the infidels, and his books read generally by the court ladies. -Dublin ed.
1 Wolston is here confounded with Woolaston.-H.
"The Dean, if we believe report,
Was never ill-received at court.
As for his works in verse and prose,
I own myself no judge of those;
Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em :
But this I know, all people bought 'em.
As with a moral view design'd
To cure the vices of mankind: 1
His vein, ironically grave,
Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave.
To steal a hint was never known,
But what he writ was all his own.2
"He never thought an honour done him, ✔ Because a duke was proud to own him; Would rather slip aside and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes ;
Despised the fools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
The lines inserted as notes were those rejected by Swift, when he revised the piece.
1 And, if he often miss'd his aim,
The world must own it to their shame,
The praise is his, and theirs the blame.
2 "Sir, I have heard another story:
He was a most confounded Tory,
And grew, or he is much belied,
Extremely dull, before he died."
Can we the Drapier then forget?
Is not our nation in his debt?
'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!
"He should have left them for his betters;
We had a hundred abler men,
Nor need depend upon his pen.
|