The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 2 | Page 9

what is a rebus??A thing never known to the Muses or Phoebus.?The corruption of verse; for, when all is done,?It is but a paraphrase made on a pun.?But a genius like hers no subject can stifle,?It shows and discovers itself through a trifle.?By reading this trifle, I quickly began?To find her a great wit, but the dean a small man.?Rich ladies will furnish their garrets with stuff,?Which others for mantuas would think fine enough:?So the wit that is lavishly thrown away here,?Might furnish a second-rate poet a year.?Thus much for the verse, we proceed to the next,?Where the nymph has entirely forsaken her text:?Her fine panegyrics are quite out of season:?And what she describes to be merit, is treason:?The changes which faction has made in the state,?Have put the dean's politics quite out of date:?Now no one regards what he utters with freedom,?And, should he write pamphlets, no great man would read 'em; And, should want or desert stand in need of his aid,?This racer would prove but a dull founder'd jade.
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY MARCH 13, 1718-19
Stella this day is thirty-four,?(We shan't dispute a year or more:)?However, Stella, be not troubled,?Although thy size and years are doubled?Since first I saw thee at sixteen,?The brightest virgin on the green;?So little is thy form declined;?Made up so largely in thy mind.?O, would it please the gods to split?Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit!?No age could furnish out a pair?Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;?With half the lustre of your eyes,?With half your wit, your years, and size.?And then, before it grew too late,?How should I beg of gentle fate,?(That either nymph might have her swain,)?To split my worship too in twain.
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY.[1] 1719-20
WRITTEN A.D. 1720-21.--Stella.
All travellers at first incline?Where'er they see the fairest sign?And if they find the chambers neat,?And like the liquor and the meat,?Will call again, and recommend?The Angel Inn to every friend.?And though the painting grows decay'd,?The house will never lose its trade:?Nay, though the treach'rous tapster,[2] Thomas,?Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,?As fine as daubers' hands can make it,?In hopes that strangers may mistake it,?We[3] think it both a shame and sin?To quit the true old Angel Inn.?Now this is Stella's case in fact,?An angel's face a little crack'd.?(Could poets or could painters fix?How angels look at thirty-six:)?This drew us in at first to find?In such a form an angel's mind;?And every virtue now supplies?The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.?See, at her levee crowding swains,?Whom Stella freely entertains?With breeding, humour, wit, and sense,?And puts them to so small expense;?Their minds so plentifully fills,?And makes such reasonable bills,?So little gets for what she gives,?We really wonder how she lives!?And had her stock been less, no doubt?She must have long ago run out.?Then, who can think we'll quit the place,?When Doll hangs out a newer face??Nail'd to her window full in sight?All Christian people to invite.?Or stop and light at Chloe's head,?With scraps and leavings to be fed??Then, Chloe, still go on to prate?Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;?Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,?Your hints that Stella is no chicken;?Your innuendoes, when you tell us,?That Stella loves to talk with fellows:?But let me warn you to believe?A truth, for which your soul should grieve;?That should you live to see the day,?When Stella's locks must all be gray,?When age must print a furrow'd trace?On every feature of her face;?Though you, and all your senseless tribe,?Could Art, or Time, or Nature bribe,?To make you look like Beauty's Queen,?And hold for ever at fifteen;?No bloom of youth can ever blind?The cracks and wrinkles of your mind:?All men of sense will pass your door,?And crowd to Stella's at four-score.
[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's own copy transcribed in her volume.--Forster.]
[Footnote 2: Rascal.--Stella.]
[Footnote 3: They.--Stella.]
TO STELLA, WHO COLLECTED AND TRANSCRIBED HIS POEMS?1720
As, when a lofty pile is raised,?We never hear the workmen praised,?Who bring the lime, or place the stones.?But all admire Inigo Jones:?So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes?Should be approved in aftertimes;?If it both pleases and endures,?The merit and the praise are yours.?Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,?When first for thee my harp was strung,?Without one word of Cupid's darts,?Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts;?With friendship and esteem possest,?I ne'er admitted Love a guest.?In all the habitudes of life,?The friend, the mistress, and the wife,?Variety we still pursue,?In pleasure seek for something new;?Or else, comparing with the rest,?Take comfort that our own is best;?The best we value by the worst,?As tradesmen show their trash at first;?But his pursuits are at an end,?Whom Stella chooses for a friend.?A poet starving in a garret,?Conning all topics like a parrot,?Invokes his mistress and his Muse,?And stays at home for want of shoes:?Should but his Muse descending drop?A slice of bread and mutton-chop;?Or kindly, when his credit's out,?Surprise him with a pint of stout;?Or patch his broken stocking