I know, too, you have many
foes;

That owning you, is sharing those;
That every knave in every station,
Of high and low denomination,

For what you speak, and what you write,
Dread you at once,
and bear you spite.1
Such freedoms in your works are shown,
They can't enjoy what's not their own.
All dunces, too, in church and state,
In frothy nonsense show their hate;
With all the petty scribbling crew,
(And those pert sots are not a few,)
'Gainst you and Pope, their envy spurt :
The booksellers alone are hurt.

2

Good gods! by what a powerful race
(For blockheads may have power and place)
Are scandals raised, and libels writ,
To prove your honesty and wit!
Think with yourself: those worthy men,
You know, have suffer'd by your pen:
From them you've nothing but your due.
From hence, 'tis plain, your friends are few,
Except myself, I know of none,
Besides the wise and good alone.
To set the case in fairer light,

My Fable shall the rest recite,

(1) Censure is the tax which excellence pays for being eminent. How eager, also, envy is to make every hole, in one's coat, a rent, Swift knew well; but some of his foibles courted, as they merited, abhorrence.

(2) And servile dulness, gets on with the great, especially in the Church, far better than upright merit. Thin-skinned dunces, too, in power, hate satire, to use Sidney Smith's simile, for the same reason as "fleas detest tooth-combs," because they cannot escape it.

Which (though unlike our present state)
I, for the moral's sake, relate.

A Bee of cunning, not of parts,
Luxurious, negligent of arts,
Rapacious, arrogant, and vain,
Greedy of power, but more of gain,—
Corruption sow'd throughout the hive:
By petty rogues, the great ones thrive.
As power and wealth his views supplied,
"Twas seen in overbearing pride.
With him, loud impudence had merit;
The Bee of conscience wanted spirit;
And those who follow'd honour's rules,
Were laugh'd to scorn, for squeamish fools.
Wealth claim'd distinction, favour, grace,
And poverty alone, was base.

He treated industry with slight,
Unless he found his profit by't.

Rights, laws, and liberties, gave way,
To bring his selfish schemes in play.
The swarm forgot the common toil,
To share the gleanings of his spoil.
"While vulgar souls, of narrow parts,
Waste life in low mechanic arts;
Let us," says he, "to genius born,
The drudgery of our fathers, scorn.
The Wasp and Drone, you must agree,
Live with more elegance, than we.
Like gentlemen, they sport and play;
No business interrupts the day:
Their hours to luxury, they give,
And nobly on their neighbours live."

A stubborn Bee, among the swarm,
With honest indignation warm,

Thus from his cell with zeal replied:

"I slight thy frowns, and hate thy pride.
The laws our native rights protect;
Offending thee, I those respect.
Shall luxury corrupt the hive,
And none against the torrent strive?
Exert the honour of your race;
He builds his rise on your disgrace.
'Tis industry our state maintains;
"Twas honest toil and honest gains
That raised our sires to power and fame—
Be virtuous; save yourselves from shame.
Know that in selfish ends pursuing,

You scramble for the public ruin."

He spoke; and, from his cell dismiss'd,

Was insolently scoff'd and hiss'd:

With him a friend or two resign'd,

Disdaining the degenerate kind.

"These Drones," says he, "these insects vile,
(I treat 'em in their proper style,)

May, for a time, oppress the state:
They own our virtue by their hate.
By that, our merits they reveal,
And recommend our public zeal;
Disgraced by this corrupted crew,

We're honour'd by the virtuous few.”1

(1) A galaxy of glorious intellect, not only surrounded Swift with the radiance of talent, but warmed him with the glow of friendship. Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, Sheridan, appear to have loved him in spite of his moroseness, and almost for his very weaknesses, whilst a whole country honoured "The Drapier" for his inflexible courage, and exposure of court injustice. Swift's letters are redolent of the very

essence of friendship, and, as humanity must have an outlet for its affections, so, in contrast to the "empoisoned venom of his blood," kindly association with a few congenial spirits, appears to have been

or it had assuredly "dried up."

As to suffering for his boldness, this was not only Swift's case, but will ever be the fate of poor but proud intellects, who will not truckle to injustice, and cupidity, in high places. Merit has ever been a martyr, whether the penalty has been the sword or the fire-the oppressor, a corporation or an individual-the sufferer, a "Whiston" or a "Sir Thomas More." It is true that after many years are passed, and the sufferer buried, he will be called a hero, but his friends will leave him to fight the "battle of life" alone, except he be wealthy-then he will be considered a worthy man. "Quantum habet nummi in arcâ, tantum habet fidei."

BEGIN, my Lord, in early youth,
To suffer, nay, encourage truth;
And blame me not for disrespect,
If I the flatterer's style reject;1
With that, by menial tongues supplied,
You're daily cocker'd up in pride.

(1) It is not because a person abjures the practice of flattery that he is therefore more sincere: there are those in the world who declare they "cannot cog," they "cannot bend," and are all the while the veriest hypocrites of the pack.