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

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 was ambassador to the States of Holland, and had a principal share in the negotiations which preceded the treaty of Nimeguen, 1679.]
ODE TO KING WILLIAM
ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND
To purchase kingdoms and to buy renown,?Are arts peculiar to dissembling France;?You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown,?And solid virtue does your name advance.
Your matchless courage with your prudence joins,?The glorious structure of your fame to raise;?With its own light your dazzling glory shines,?And into adoration turns our praise.
Had you by dull succession gain'd your crown,?(Cowards are monarchs by that title made,)?Part of your merit Chance would call her own,?And half your virtues had been lost in shade.
But now your worth its just reward shall have:?What trophies and what triumphs are your due!?Who could so well a dying nation save,?At once deserve a crown, and gain it too.
You saw how near we were to ruin brought,?You saw th'impetuous torrent rolling on;?And timely on the