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THE POEMS • II
By your works, it appears you have much of my spirit.
I esteem you so well, that, to tell you the truth,
The greatest objection against you’s your youth;
Then be not concern’d you are now laid aside;
If you live you shall certainly one day preside.”
Another, low bending, Apollo thus greets,
“’Twas I taught your subjects to walk through the streets.”
You taught them to walk! why, they knew it before;
But give me the bard that can teach them to soar.
Whenever he claims, ‘tis his right, I’ll confess,
Who lately attempted my style with success;
Who writes like Apollo has most of his spirit,
And therefore ‘tis just I distinguish his merit:
Who makes it appear, by all he has writ,
His judgment alone can set bounds to his wit;
Like Virgil correct, with his own native ease,
But excels even Virgil in elegant praise:
Who admires the ancients, and knows ‘tis their due
Yet writes in a manner entirely new;
Though none with more ease their depths can explore,
Yet whatever he wants he takes from my store;
Though I’m fond of his virtues, his pride I can see,
In scorning to borrow from any but me:
It is owing to this, that, like Cynthia, his lays
Enlighten the world by refl ecting my rays.
This said, the whole audience soon found out his drift:
The convention was summon’d in favour of SWIFT.
131
JONATHAN SWIFT
APOLLO’S EDICT OCCASIONED
BY “NEWS FROM PARNASSUS”
Ireland is now our royal care,
We lately fi x’d our viceroy there.
How near was she to be undone,
Till pious love inspired her son!
What cannot our vicegerent do,
As poet and as patriot too?
Let his success our subjects sway,
Our inspirations to obey,
And follow where he leads the way:
Then study to correct your taste;
Nor beaten paths be longer traced.
No simile shall be begun,
With rising or with setting sun;
And let the secret head of Nile
Be ever banish’d from your isle.
When wretched lovers live on air,
I beg you’ll the chameleon spare;
And when you’d make a hero grander,
Forget he’s like a salamander.
No son of mine shall dare to say,
Aurora usher’d in the day,
Or ever name the milky-way.
You all agree, I make no doubt,
Elijah’s mantle is worn out.
The bird of Jove shall toil no more
To teach the humble wren to soar.
Your tragic heroes shall not rant,
132
THE POEMS • II
Nor shepherds use poetic cant.
Simplicity alone can grace
The manners of the rural race.
Theocritus and Philips be
Your guides to true simplicity.
When Damon’s soul shall take its fl ight,
Though poets have the second-sight,
They shall not see a trail of light.
Nor shall the vapours upwards rise,
Nor a new star adorn the skies:
For who can hope to place one there,
As glorious as Belinda’s hair?
Yet, if his name you’d eternize,
And must exalt him to the skies;
Without a star this may be done:
So Tickell mourn’d his Addison.
If Anna’s happy reign you praise,
Pray, not a word of halcyon days:
Nor let my votaries show their skill
In aping lines from Cooper’s Hill;
For know I cannot bear to hear
The mimicry of “deep, yet clear.”
Whene’er my viceroy is address’d,
Against the phoenix I protest.
When poets soar in youthful strains,
No Phaethon to hold the reins.
When you describe a lovely girl,
No lips of coral, teeth of pearl.
Cupid shall ne’er mistake another,
However beauteous, for his mother;
133
JONATHAN SWIFT
Nor shall his darts at random fl y
From magazine in Celia’s eye.
With woman compounds I am cloy’d,
Which only pleased in Biddy Floyd.
For foreign aid what need they roam,
Whom fate has amply blest at home?
Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand,
Has form’d a model for your land,
Whom Jove endued with every grace;
The glory of the Granard race;
Now destined by the powers divine
The blessing of another line.
Then, would you paint a matchless dame,
Whom you’d consign to endless fame?
Invoke not Cytherea’s aid,
Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid;
Nor need you on the Graces call;
Take qualities from Donegal.
THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST
O’ROURKE’S noble fare
Will ne’er be forgot,
By those who were there,
Or those who were not.
His revels to keep,
We sup and we dine
On seven score sheep,
Fat bullocks, and swine.
134
Usquebaugh to our feast
In pails was brought up,
A hundred at least,
And a madder our cup.
O there is the sport!
We rise with the light
In disorderly sort,
From snoring all night.
O how was I trick’d!
My pipe it was broke,
My pocket was pick’d,
I lost my new cloak.
I’m rifl ed, quoth Nell,
Of mantle and kercher,
Why then fare them well,
The de’el take the searcher.
Come, harper, strike up;
But, fi rst, by your favour,
Boy, give us a cup:
Ah! this hath some savour.
O’Rourke’s jolly boys
Ne’er dreamt of the matter,
Till, roused by the noise,
And musical clatter,
They bounce from their nest,
No longer will tarry,
They rise ready drest,
Without one Ave-Mary.
They dance in a round,
Cutting capers and ramping;
THE POEMS • II
135
JONATHAN SWIFT
A mercy the ground
Did not burst with their stamping.
The fl oor is all wet
With leaps and with jumps,
While the water and sweat
Splish-splash in their pumps.
Bless you late and early,
Laughlin O’Enagin!
But, my hand, you dance rarely.
Margery Grinagin.
Bring straw for our bed,
Shake it down to the feet,
Then over us spread
The winnowing sheet.
To show I don’t fl inch,
Fill the bowl up again:
Then give us a pinch
Of your sneezing, a Yean.
Good lord! what a sight,
After all their good cheer,
For people to fi ght
In the midst of their beer!
They rise from their feast,
And hot are their brains,
A cubit at least
The length of their skeans.
What stabs and what cuts,
What clattering of sticks;
What strokes on the guts,
What bastings and kicks!
With cudgels of oak,
Well harden’d in fl ame,
136
A hundred heads broke,
A hundred struck lame.
You churl, I’ll maintain
My father built Lusk,
The castle of Slane,
And Carrick Drumrusk:
The Earl of Kildare,
And Moynalta his brother,
As great as they are,
I was nurst by their mother.
Ask that of old madam:
She’ll tell you who’s who,
As far up as Adam,
She knows it is true.
Come down with that beam,
If cudgels are scarce,
A blow on the weam,
Or a kick on the a — se.
THE POEMS • II
THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY
When fi rst Diana leaves her bed,
Vapours and steams her looks disgrace,
A frowzy dirty-colour’d red
Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face:
But by degrees, when mounted high,
Her artifi cial face appears
Down from her window in the sky,
Her spots are gone, her visage clears.
137
JONATHAN SWIFT
‘Twixt earthly females and the moon,
All parallels exactly run;
If Celia should appear too soon,
Alas, the nymph would be undone!
To see her from her pillow rise,
All reeking in a cloudy steam,
Crack’d lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes,
Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme!
The soot or powder which was wont
To make her hair look black as jet,
Falls from her tresses on her front,
A mingled mass of dirt and sweat.
Three colours, black, and red, and white
So graceful in their proper place,
Remove them to a different light,
They form a frightful hideous face:
For instance, when the lily slips
Into the precincts of the rose,
And takes possession of the lips,
Leaving the purple to the nose:
So Celia went entire to bed,
All her complexion safe and sound;
But, when she rose, the black and red,
Though still in sight, had changed their ground.
The black, which would not be confi ned,
A more inferior station seeks,
Leaving the fi ery red behind,
And mingles in her muddy cheeks.
The paint by perspiration cracks,
And falls in rivulets of sweat,
138
THE POEMS • II
On either side you see the tracks
While at her chin the confl u’nts meet.
A skilful housewife thus her thumb,
With spittle while she spins anoints;
And thus the brown meanders come
In trickling streams betwixt her joints.
But Celia can with ease reduce,
By help of pencil, paint, and brush,
Each colour to its place and use,
And teach her cheeks again to blush.
She knows her early self no more,
But fi ll’d with admiration stands;
As other painters oft adore
The workmanship of their own hands.
Thus, after four important hours,
Celia’s the wonder of her sex;
Say, which among the heavenly powers
Could cause such wonderful effects?
Venus, indulgent to her kind,
Gave women all their hearts could wish,
When fi rst she taught them where to fi nd
White lead, and Lusitanian dish.
Love with white lead cements his wings;
White lead was sent us to repair
Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things,
A lady’s face, and China-ware.
She ventures now to lift the sash;
The window is her proper sphere;
Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash,
Nor let the beaux approach too near.
139
JONATHAN SWIFT
Take pattern by your sister star;
Delude at once and bless our sight;
When you are seen, be seen from far,
And chiefl y choose to shine by night.
In the Pall Mall when passing by,
Keep up the glasses of your chair,
Then each transported fop will cry,
“G — d d — n me, Jack, she’s wondrous fair!”
But art no longer can prevail,
When the materials all are gone;
The best mechanic hand must fail,
Where nothing’s left to work upon.
Matter, as wise logicians say,
Cannot without a form subsist;
And form, say I, as well as they,
Must fail if matter brings no grist.
And this is fair Diana’s case;
For, all astrologers maintain,
Each night a bit drops off her face,
When mortals say she’s in her wane:
While Partridge wisely shows the cause
Effi cient of the moon’s decay,
That Cancer with his pois’nous claws
Attacks her in the milky way:
But Gadbury, in art profound,
From her pale cheeks pretends to show
That swain Endymion is not sound,
Or else that Mercury’s her foe.
But let the cause be what it will,
In half a month she looks so thin,
140
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