The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 1 | Page 8

'twill last,
Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor
orphans' cries.
About the head crown'd with these bays,
Like lambent fire, the
lightning plays;
Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace,
Makes up its solemn train with death;
It melts the sword of war, yet
keeps it in the sheath.
VII
The wily shafts of state, those jugglers' tricks,
Which we call deep
designs and politics,
(As in a theatre the ignorant fry,
Because the cords escape their eye,
Wonder to see the motions fly,)

Methinks, when you expose the scene,
Down the ill-organ'd engines
fall;
Off fly the vizards, and discover all:
How plain I see through the deceit!
How shallow, and how gross, the
cheat!
Look where the pulley's tied above!
Great God! (said I) what
have I seen!

On what poor engines move
The thoughts of monarchs and designs of
states!
What petty motives rule their fates!
How the mouse makes
the mighty mountains shake!
The mighty mountain labours with its
birth,
Away the frighten'd peasants fly,
Scared at the unheard-of
prodigy,
Expect some great gigantic son of earth;
Lo! it appears!
See how they tremble! how they quake!
Out starts
the little beast, and mocks their idle fears.
VIII
Then tell, dear favourite Muse!
What serpent's that which still resorts,

Still lurks in palaces and courts?
Take thy unwonted flight,
And
on the terrace light.
See where she lies!
See how she rears her head,

And rolls about her dreadful eyes,
To drive all virtue out, or look it
dead!
'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence,
And though as
some ('tis said) for their defence
Have worn a casement o'er their skin,
So wore he his within,
Made
up of virtue and transparent innocence;
And though he oft renew'd the fight,
And almost got priority of sight,
He ne'er could overcome her quite,
In pieces cut, the viper still did
reunite;
Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease,
Resolved to give himself,
as well as country, peace.
IX
Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat,
And in some untouch'd
virgin strain,
Show the delights thy sister Nature yields;
Sing of thy
vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields;
Go, publish o'er the plain
How mighty a proselyte you gain!
How

noble a reprisal on the great!
How is the Muse luxuriant grown!
Whene'er she takes this flight,

She soars clear out of sight.
These are the paradises of her own:
Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse,
Though ne'er so gently led,
To
the loved pastures where he used to feed,
Runs violent o'er his usual
course.
Wake from thy wanton dreams,
Come from thy dear-loved streams,

The crooked paths of wandering Thames.
Fain the fair nymph would stay,
Oft she looks back in vain,
Oft
'gainst her fountain does complain,
And softly steals in many
windings down,
As loth to see the hated court and town;
And
murmurs as she glides away.
X
In this new happy scene
Are nobler subjects for your learned pen;

Here we expect from you
More than your predecessor Adam knew;

Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport,
Whatever serves for
innocent emblems of the court;
How that which we a kernel see,
(Whose well-compacted forms
escape the light,
Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,)
Shall ere
long grow into a tree;
Whence takes it its increase, and whence its
birth,
Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth,
Where all the fruitful atoms lie;
How some go downward to the root,

Some more ambitious upwards fly,
And form the leaves, the
branches, and the fruit.
You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain,

Your garden's better worth your nobler pain,
Here mankind fell,
and hence must rise again.
XI

Shall I believe a spirit so divine
Was cast in the same mould with mine?
Why then does Nature so
unjustly share
Among her elder sons the whole estate,
And all her jewels and her plate?
Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not
worth her care,
Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a
fare:
Some she binds 'prentice to the spade,
Some to the drudgery of a
trade:
Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw,
Bids us make
bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw:
Some she condemns for life to try
To dig the leaden mines of deep
philosophy:
Me she has to the Muse's galleys tied:
In vain I strive to
cross the spacious main,
In vain I tug and pull the oar;
And when I almost reach the shore,

Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again:
And yet, to feed my pride,
Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining
breath,
With promise of a mad reversion after death.
XII
Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse,
The tribute of an humble Muse,

'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars;
Nature the hidden spark did
at my birth infuse,
And kindled first with indolence and ease;
And since too oft debauch'd by praise,
'Tis now grown an incurable
disease:
In vain to quench this foolish fire I try
In wisdom and philosophy:
In vain all wholesome herbs I sow,

Where nought but weeds will grow
Whate'er I plant (like corn on
barren earth)

By an equivocal birth,
Seeds, and runs up to poetry.
[Footnote 1: Sir William Temple