DR. PARNELL TO DR. SWIFT,
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1713.
URG'D by the warmth of friendship's sacred flame,
But more by all the glories of thy fame;
By all those offsprings of thy learned mind,
In judgment solid, as in wit refin'd,
Resolv'd I sing, though labouring up the way.
To reach my theme. O Swift! accept my lay.
Rapt by the force of thought, and rais'd above,
Through Contemplation's airy fields I rove,
Where powerful Fancy purifies my eye,
And lights the beauties of a brighter sky,
Fresh paints the meadows, bids green shades
ascend,
Clear rivers wind, and opening plains extend;
Then fills its landscape through the varied parts
With Virtues, Graces, Sciences, and' Arts;
Superior forms, of more than mortal air,
More large than mortals, more serenely fair.
Of these two Chiefs, the guardians of thy name,
Conspire to raise thee to the point of fame.
Ye future times! I heard the silver sound,
I saw the Graces form a circle round;
Each where she fix'd attentive seem'd to root,
And all but Eloquence herself was mute.
High o'er the rest I see the goddess rise,
Loose to the breeze her upper garment flies:
By turns within her eyes the passions burn,
And softer passions languish in their turn;
Upon her tongue persuasion or command,
And decent Action dwells upon her hand. [lay)
From out her breast ('twas there the treasure
She drew thy labours to the blaze of day;
Then gaz'd, and read the charms she could in-
spire,
And taught the listening audience to admire. How strong thy flight, how large thy grasp of thought,
How just thy schemes, how regularly wrought! How sure you wound when Ironies deride, Which must be seen, and feign to turn aside! 'Twas thus exploring she rejoic'd to see Her brightest features drawn so near by thee: 'Then here, (she cries) let future ages dwell, And learn to copy where they can't excel.'
She spake; applause attended on the close: Then Poesy, her sister-art, arose;
Her fairer sister, born in deeper ease,
Not made so much for business, more to please.
Upon her cheek sits Beauty, ever young;
The soul of Music warbles on her tongue;
Bright in her eyes a pleasing ardour glows,
And from her heart the sweetest temper flows;
A laurel-wreath adorns her curls of hair,
And binds their order to the dancing air:
She shakes the colours of her radiant wing,
And from the spheres she takes a pitch to sing.
'Thrice happy genius his! whose works have hit
The lucky point of business and of wit:
They seem like showers, which April months prepare,
To call their flowery glories up to air;
The drops, descending, take the painted bow, And dress with sunshine, while for good they To me retiring oft, he finds relief
In slowly-wasting care and biting grief:
From me retreating oft, he gives to view
What eases care and grief in others too.
Ye fondly grave! be wise enough to know,
'Life ne'er unbent were but a life of woe.'
Some full in stretch for greatness, some for gain,
On his own rack each puts himself to pain.
I'll gently steal you from your toils away,
Where balmy winds with scents ambrosial play;
Where on the banks, as crystal rivers flow,
They teach immortal amaranths to grow;
Then from the mild indulgence of the scene
Restore your tempers strong for toils again.'
She ceas'd; soft music trembled in the wind,
And sweet delight diffus'd through every mind:
The little Smiles, which still the goddess grace,
Sportive arose, and ran from face to face.
But chief (and in that place the Virtues bless)
A gentle band their eager joys express:
Here Friendship asks, and Love of Merit longs
To hear the goddesses renew their songs;
Here great Benevolence to man is pleas'd;
These own their Swift, and grateful hear him
prais'd.
You gentle band! you well may hear your part, You reign superior graces in his heart.
O Swift! if fame be life, (as well we know That bards and heroes have esteem'd it so) Thou canst not wholly die; thy works will bine To future times, and life in fame be thine.
MISCELLANIES.
FROM 1689 TO 1713;
WRITTEN AT moor park, June 1689.
VIRTUE, the greatest of all monarchies,
Till its first emperor, rebellious man,
Depos'd from off his seat
It fell, and broke with its own weight
Into small states and principalities,
By many a petty lord possest,
But ne'er since seated in one single breast;
"Tis you who must this land subdue,
The mighty conquest's left for you,
The conquest and discovery too:
Search out this Utopian ground;
Virtue's Terra Incognita,
Where none ever led the way,
Nor ever since but in descriptions found,
Like the philosopher's stone,
With rules to search it, yet obtain❜d by none.
We have too long been led astray;
Too long have our misguided souls been taught With rules from musty morals brought;
"Tis you must put us in the way;
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