Bat now your worth its juft reward fhall have : What trophies and what triumphs are your due; Who could fo well a dying nation fave,

At once deferve a crown, and gain it too!

You faw how near we were to ruin brought,
You faw th' impetuous torrent rolling on;
And timely on the coming danger thought,
Which we could neither obviate nor fhun.
Britannia ftripp'd from her fole guard the laws,
Ready to fall Rome's bloody facrifice;
You ftraight ftepp'd in, and from the monster's jaws
Did bravely fnatch the lovely helpless prize.
Nor this is all; as glorious is the care

To preferve conquefts, as at firft to gain:
In this your virtue claims a double share,

Which, what it bravely won, does all maintain. Your arm has now your rightful title fhow'd, An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend, To which they look as to fome guardian god, That must their doubtful liberty defend. Amaz'd, thy action at the Boyne we fee!

When Schomberg ftarted at the vast design: The boundless glory all redounds to thee, [thine. Th' impulfe, the fight, th' event, were wholly The brave attempt does all our foes disarm;

You need but now give orders and command,
Your name fhall the remaining work perform,
And fpare the labour of your conquering hand.
France does in vain her feeble arts apply,
To interrupt the fortune of your courfe:
Your influence does the vain attacks defy
Of keret malice, or of
open force.

Baldly we hence the brave commencement date
Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ:
William's the pledge and earnest given by fate
Of England's glory, and her lasting joy.

ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY.

Moor-Park, Feb. 14. 1691.

As when the deluge first began to fall That mighty ebb never to flow again (When this huge body's moisture was fo great, It quite o'ercame the vital heat); That mountain which was higheft, first of all Appear'd above the univerfal main, To bfs the primitive failor's weary fight! And 'twas perhaps Parnaffus, if in height It be as great as 'tis in fame,

And nigh to heaven as is its name:

So after th' inundation of a war,

When learning's little household did embark

3

When the bright fun of peace began to thine, And for a while in heavenly contemplation fat On the high top of peaceful Ararat ; And pluck'd a laurel branch (for laurel was the first that grew,

The firft of plants after the thunder, storm, and rain); And thence, with joyful nimble wing,

Flew dutifully back again,

And made an humble chaplet for the king'
And the dove-mufe is fled once more

(Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd at the war); And now difcovers from afar

With her world's fruitful fyftem in her facred ark, At the first ebb of noife and fears, Philofophy's exalted head appears; And the dove-mufe will now no longer stay, But plumes her filver wings and flies away; And now a laurel wreath fhe brings from far, To crown the happy conqueror, To fhow the flood begins to ccafe, And brings the dear reward of victory and peace. The eager mufe took wing upon the waves' decline, When war her cloudy afpect juft withdrew,

A peaceful and a flourishing fhore:*
No fooner did the land

On the delightful frand,

Than ftraight the fees the country all around,
Where fatal Neptune rul'd erewhile,

Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens
And many a pleasant wood!

As if the univerfal Nile

[crown'd,

Had rather water'd it than drown'd:
It feems fome floating piece of paradife,
Preferv'd by wonder from the flood,
Long wandering through the deep, as we are told
Fam'd Delos did of old,

And the tranfported mufe imagin'd it
To be a fitter birth-place for the god of wit,
Or the much talk'd oracular grove;
When with amazing joy fhe hears

An unknown mufic all around

Charming her greedy ears

With many a heavenly fong

Of nature and of art, of deep philofophy and love, Whilft angels tune the voice, and God inspires the

tongue.

In vain fhe catches at the empty found,
In vain pursues the mufic with her longing eye,
And courts the wanton echoes as they fly.

Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men,
The wild excurfions of a youthful pen;
Forgive a young, and (almost) virgin-mufe,
Whom blind and eager curiofity

(Yet curiofity, they fay,

Is in her fex a crime needs no excufe)

Has forc'd to grope her uncouth way After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye. No wonder then the quits the narrow path of fenfe For a dear ramble through impertinence; Impertinence! the fcurvy of mankind. And all we fools, who are the greater part of it, Though we be of two different factions ftill, Both the good natur'd and the ill, Yet wherefce'er you look, you'll always find We join, like flies and wafps, in buzzing about wit In me, who at of the first fect of thefe, All merit, that tranfcends the humble rules Of my own dazzled fcanty fenie, Begets a kinder foily and impertinence Of admiration and of praife. And our good brethren of the furly fert

Muft e'en all herd us with their kindred fools: For though, poffefs d of prefent vogue, they've Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade; [made Yet the fame want of brains produces each eff. &. And you, whom Pluto's helm does wifely broud From us the blind and thoughtless crowd, Like the fam'd hero in his mother's cloud,

* The ode I writ to the King in Ireland.

Who both our follies and impertinences fee,
Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me.

But cenfure's to be understood
Th' authentic mark of the elect,
The public ftamp heav'n fets on all that's great
and good,

Our fhallow fearch and judgment to direct.
The war methinks has made

Our wit and learning narrow as our trade;
Inftead of boldly failing far, to buy
A ftock of wisdom and philofophy,

We fondly ftay at hoine, in fear
Of every cenfuring privateer;

Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the fale,
And felling bafely by retail.

The wits, I mean the atheists of the age, Who fain would rule the pulpit as they do the Wondrous refiners of philofophy, [stage;

Of morals and divinity,

By the new modifh fyftem of reducing all to fenfe,
Against all logic and concluding laws,
Do own th' effects of Providence,
And yet deny the caufe.

This hopeful fect, now it begins to fee
How little, very little, do prevail

Their first and chiefeft force
To cenfure, to cry down, and rail,
Not knowing what, or where, or who you be,
Will quickly take another courfe:

And, by their never-failing ways
Of folving all appearances they pleafe,
We foon faall fee them to their ancient methods fall,
And ftraight deny you to be men, or any thing at

all.

I laugh at the grave anfwer they will make, Which they have always ready, general, and cheap: 'Tis but to fay, that what we daily meet,

And by a fond mistake

Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit,
And think, alas! to be by mortals writ,
As but a crowd of atoms juftling in a heap,
Which from eternal feeds begun,

Justling fome thoufard years till ripen'd by the fun;
They're now, juft now, as naturally born,
As from the womb of earth a field of corn.

But as for poor contented me,

Who must my weaknefs and my ignorance confefs, That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to fee; Methinks I'm fatisfy'd to gue's

That this new, noble, and delightful fcene Is wonderfully mov'd by fome exalted men, Who have well ftudied in the world's difcafe (That epidemic error and depravity,

Or in our judgment or cur eye), That what furprifes us can only pleafe. We often fearch contentedly the whole world round, To make fome great difcovery;

And fcorn it when 'tis found.

Ju fo the mighty Nile has fuifer'd in its fame, Becaufe 'tis faid (and perhaps only faid) We've found a little inconfiderable head,

That feeds the huge unequal ftream. Conâder human folly, and you'll quickly own, That all the praifes it can give,

By which fome fondly beat they hall for ever live, Won't pay th' impertinence of being known : Elfe why should the fam'd Lydian king

(Whom all the charms of an ufurped wife and ftate, With all that power unfelt courts mankind to be great,

Did with new unexperienc'd glories wait)
Still wear,
ftill doat, on his inviiible ring?

Were I to form a regular thought of fame,
Which is perhaps as hard t' imagine right

As to paint echo to the fight;

I would not draw th' idea from an empty name; Becaufe alas! when we all die,

Careless and ignorant pofterity,

Although they praife the learning and the wit, And though the title feems to show The name and man by whom the book was writ, Yet how fhal! they be brought to know, Whether that very name was he, or you, or I? Lefs fhould I daub it o'er with tranfitory praife, And water-colours of these days: Thefe days! where e'en th' extravagance of poetry Is at a lofs for figures to exprefs

Men's folly, whimfies and inconftancy,

And by a faint defeription makes them lefs. Then tell us what is fame, where fhall we search Look where exalted virtue and religion fit [for it? Enthron'd with heavenly wit!

Look where you fee

The greateft fcorn of learned vanity! And then how much a nothing is mankind! Whofe reafon is weigh'd down by popular air, Who, by that, vainly talks of bathing death; And hopes to lengthen life by a transfufion of breath,

Which yet whoe'er examines right will find To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind! And when you find out thefe, believe true fame is there,

Far above all reward, yet to which all is due; And this, ye great unknown? is only known in

you.

The juggling fea-god, when by chance trepan'd
By fome inftructed querift fleeping on the fand,
Impatient of all aufwers, ftrait became
A ftealing brook, and strove to creep away
Into his native fea,

Vext at their follies, murmur'd in his ftream;
But, difappointed of his fond defire,
Would vanish in a pyramid of fire.
This furly flippery god, when he defign'd
To furnish his cfcapes,

Ne'er borrow'd more variety of fhapes
Then you to pleafe and fatisfy mankind,
And seem (almoft) transform'd to water, flame,

and air,

So well you anfwer all phenomena there: Though madmen and the wits, philofophers and

foots,

With all that factious or enthufiaftic dotards dream, And all the incoherent jargon of the fchools;

Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and

fame, [doubt; Contrive to fhock your minds with me ny a fenfeless Doubts where the Delphic god wouli grope in igrorance and night,

The god of karting and of light
Would want a god himself to help him out.

Philofophy, as it before us lies,

Seems to have borrow'd fome ungrateful tafte

Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties,

From every age through which it pa&'d, But always with a stronger relifh of the last. This beauteous queen, by Heaven defign'd To be the great original

For man to drefs and polish his uncourtly mind, In what mock habits have they put her fince the fall!

[fages,

More oft' in fools' and madmen's hands than
She feems a medley of all ages,

With a huge fardingale to fwell her fustian stuff,
A new commode, a top-knot, and a ruff,
Her face patch'd o'er with modern pedantry,
With a long fweeping train

Of comments and difputes, ridiculous and vain,
All of old cut with a new dye :

How foon have you reftor'd her charms,
And rid her of her lumber and her books,
Dreft her again genteel and neat,
And rather tight than great!

How fond we are to court her to our arms!

How much of heaven is in her naked looks!

Thus the deluding Mufe oft' blinds me to her ways,
And ev'n my very thoughts transfers

And changes all to beauty, and the praise
Of that proud tyrant fex of hers.
The rebel Mufe, alas! take part
But with my own rebellious heart,

And you with fatal and immortal wit confpire
To fan th' unhappy fire.

Cruel unknown! what is it you intend?

Ah! could you, could you hope a poct for your friend!

Rather forgive what my first tranfport faid: May all the blood, which fhall by woman's fcorn be fhed,

Lie upon you and on your childrens head! For you (ah! did I think I e'er fhould live to fee The fatal time when that could be!) Have ev'n increas'd their pride and cruelty. Woman feems now above all vanity grown, Still boafting of her great unknown Platonic champions, gain'd without one female Or the vaft charges of a smile;

[wile,

Which 'tis a fhame to fee how much of late You've taught the covetous wretches to o'er

rate,

And which they've now the confciences to weigh

In the fame balance with our tears,
And with fuch fcanty wages pay
The bondage and the flavery of years.

So quickly and fo wonderfully carry'd on,
May fall at laft to intereft, folly, and abuse.
There is a noon-tide in our lives,

Which ftill the fooner it arrives,
Although we boaft our winter-fun looks bright,
And foolishly are glad to fee it at its height,
Yet fo much fooner comes the long and gloomy
night.

No conqueft ever yet begun,

And by one mighty hero carried to its height,
E'er flourish'd under a fucceffor or a fon;

It loft fome mighty pieces through all hands it paft,
And vanish'd to an empty title in the last.
For, when the animating mind is fled
(Which nature never can retain,
Nor e'er call back again),

The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead.
And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare
With what unhappy men fhall dare
To be fucceffors to their great unknown,
On Learning's high established throne.
Cenfure, and pedantry, and pride,
Numberlefs nations, ftretching far and wide,
Shall (I foresee it) foon with Gothic fwarms come
From ignorance's univerfal north.
And with blind rage break all this peaceful go-

vernment:

[forth

Yet fhall these traces of your wit remain,
Like a juft map, to tell the vaft extent
Of conqueft in your fhort and happy reign;
And to all future mankind fhow

How ftrange a parodox is true,

That men who liv'd and dy'd without a name Are the chief heroes in the facred lift of fame.

WRITTEN IN

A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1699.

[us,

And, had they common generosity, They would not ufe us thus. Well-though you've rais'd her to this high Ourfelves are rais'd as well as the; [degree, And, fpite of all that they or you can do, 'Tis pride and happiness enough to me Still to be of the fame exalted fex with you.

Alas, how fleeting and how vain Is ev'n the nobler man, our learning and our wit!

I figh whene'er I think of it: As at the clofing of an unhappy fcene Of fome great king and conqueror's death, When the fad melancholy mufe Stays but to catch his utmoft breath.

I grieve, this nobler work moft happily begun,

Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux ;
On t'other fide, " Laid out for fhoes"-
"Madam, I die without your grace"-
Who that had wit would place it here,
"Item, for half a yard of lace."
For every peeping fop to jeer;
In power of fpittle and a clout,
Whene'er he pleafe, to blot it out;
And then, to heighten the difgrace,

Clap his own nonfenfe in the place?
Whoe'er expects to hold his part
In fuch a book, and fuch a heart,
If he be wealthy, and a fool,
Is in all points the fittest tool;
Of whom it may be jufly faid,
He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead

MRS. HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699. To their Excellencies the Lords Juftices of Ireland,the humble petition of Frances Harris, Who must starve, and die a maid, if it mifcarries;

Humbly fheweth,

That I went to warm myfelf in Lady Betty's + chamber, because I was cold;

And I had in a purfe feven pounds, four fhillings, and fixpence, befides farthings, in money and gold;

So, because I had been buying things for my Lady last night,

I was refolv'd to tell my money, to fee if it was right. Now, you must know, becaufe my trunk has a very bad lock,

Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock,

I keep in my pocket, ty'd about my middle, next to my imock.

So when I went to put up my purfe, as God would have it, my finock was unript,

And, instead of putting it into my pocket, down it flipt;

'Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my Lady to bed;

And, God knows, I thought my money was as fafe as my maidenhead.

So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light:

But when I fearch'd, and mifs'd my purfe, Lord! I thought I should have funk outright. Lord! Madam, fays Mary, how d' ye do? Indeed, fays I, never worse:

But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purfe?

Lord help me! faid Mary, I never ftirr'd out of this place;

Nay, faid I, I had it in Lady Betty's chamber,

that's a plain cafe.

So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: However, the stole away my garters, that I might

do myself no harm.

So I tumbled and tofs'd all night, as you may very well think,

[wink. But hardly ever fet my eyes together, or flept a So I was adream'd, methought that we went and fearch'd the folks round,

And in a corner of Mrs. Dukes's ‡ box, ty'd in a rag, the money was found.

So next morning we told Whittle §, and he fell a-fwearing;

Then my dame Wadgar came; and fhe, you know, is thick of hearing.

Dame, faid I, as loud as I could bawl, do you know what a lofs I have had?

Nay, faid fhe, my Lord Colway's folks are all very fad; fout fail. For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday withPugh! faid I, but that's not the bufinefs that I'ail.

**

Says Cary, fays he, I have been a fervant this five and twenty years come fpring,

And in all the places I liv'd I never heard of fuch a thing.

Yes, fays the fteward, t, I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's,

Such a thing as this happen'd just about the time of goofeberries.

So I went to the party fufpected, and I found her full of grief,

(Now, you must know, of all things in the world, I hate a thief.) [about: However, I am refolv'd to bring the difcourfe flily Mrs. Dukes, faid 1, here's an ugly accident has happen'd out; [louse ; 'Tis not that I value the money three kips of a But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the houfe.

'Tis true, feven pounds, four fhillings, and fixpence, makes a great hole in my wages Befides, as they fay, fervice is no inheritance in thefe ages.

Now,

Mrs. Dukes, you know, and every body understands,

That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands.

The devil take me! faid fhe (bleffing herself) if ever I faw't!

So fhe roar'd like a bedlam, as though I had call'd her all to naught.

So

you know, what could I fay to her any more? I e'en left her, and came away as wife as I was before.

Well; but then they would had me gone to the

cunning man!

[here anon. No, faid I, 'tis the fame thing, the chaplain will be So the chaplain § came in. Now the fervants say he is my fwee heart,

Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part.

So as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,

Parfon, faid I, can you caft a nativity, when a bo

dy's plunder'd!

(Now, you must know, he hates to be call'd parfan like the devil!)

Truly, fays he, Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil;

If your money begone, as a learned divine says, d'ye fee, [from me; You are no text for my handling; fo take that I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have yon to know.

Lord! faid I, don't be angry, I am fure I never thought you fo;

You know I honour the cloth; I defign to be a parfon's wife; [my life; I never took one in your coat for a sonjurer in all With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,

Now you may go hang yourfelf for me, and fo

went away.

Well I thought I would have fwoon'd. Lord! faid I, what fhall I do! [too!

I have loft my money, and shall lofe my true love

*Cerk of the kitchen. An ufual faying of hers.

+ Ferris. § Dr. Swift