Volume I Part 4 (2/2)
Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant; In how ill season her resentments rule, What's that to her if mankind be a fool?
Happy beyond a private Muse's fate, In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5]
Where though her elder sisters crowding throng, She still is welcome with her innocent song; Whom were my Congreve blest to see and know, What poor regards would merit all below!
How proudly would he haste the joy to meet, And drop his laurel at Apollo's feet!
Here by a mountain's side, a reverend cave Gives murmuring pa.s.sage to a lasting wave: 'Tis the world's watery hour-gla.s.s streaming fast, Time is no more when th'utmost drop is past; Here, on a better day, some druid dwelt, And the young Muse's early favour felt; Druid, a name she does with pride repeat, Confessing Albion once her darling seat; Far in this primitive cell might we pursue Our predecessors' footsteps still in view; Here would we sing--But, ah! you think I dream, And the bad world may well believe the same; Yes: you are all malicious slanders by, While two fond lovers prate, the Muse and I.
Since thus I wander from my first intent, Nor am that grave adviser which I meant, Take this short lesson from the G.o.d of bays, And let my friend apply it as he please: Beat not the dirty paths where vulgar feet have trod, But give the vigorous fancy room.
For when, like stupid alchymists, you try To fix this nimble G.o.d, This volatile mercury, The subtile spirit all flies up in fume; Nor shall the bubbled virtuoso find More than _fade_ insipid mixture left behind.[6]
While thus I write, vast shoals of critics come, And on my verse p.r.o.nounce their saucy doom; The Muse like some bright country virgin shows Fallen by mishap among a knot of beaux; They, in their lewd and fas.h.i.+onable prate, Rally her dress, her language, and her gait; Spend their base coin before the bashful maid, Current like copper, and as often paid: She, who on shady banks has joy'd to sleep Near better animals, her father's sheep, Shamed and amazed, beholds the chattering throng, To think what cattle she is got among; But with the odious smell and sight annoy'd, In haste she does th'offensive herd avoid.
'Tis time to bid my friend a long farewell, The muse retreats far in yon crystal cell; Faint inspiration sickens as she flies, Like distant echo spent, the spirit dies.
In this descending sheet you'll haply find Some short refreshment for your weary mind, Nought it contains is common or unclean, And once drawn up, is ne'er let down again.[7]
[Footnote 1: Where Swift lived with Sir William Temple, who had bought an estate near Farnham, called Compton Hall, which he afterwards named Moor Park. See ”Prose Works,” vol. xi, 378.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Dryden. See ”The Rehearsal,” and _post_, p. 43.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: Will's coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, where the wits of that time used to a.s.semble. See ”The Tatler,” No. I, and notes, edit. 1786.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: To this resolution Swift always adhered; for of the infinite mult.i.tude of libellers who personally attacked him, there is not the name mentioned of any one of them throughout his works; and thus, together with their writings, have they been consigned to eternal oblivion.--_S._]
[Footnote 5: This alludes to Sir William Temple, to whom he presently gives the name of Apollo.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 6: Out of an Ode I writ, inscribed ”The Poet.” The rest of it is lost.--_Swift_.]
[Footnote 7: For an account of Congreve, see Leigh Hunt's edition of ”Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar.”--_W. E. B._]
OCCASIONED BY SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S LATE ILLNESS AND RECOVERY
WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1693
Strange to conceive, how the same objects strike At distant hours the mind with forms so like!
Whether in time, Deduction's broken chain Meets, and salutes her sister link again; Or haunted Fancy, by a circling flight, Comes back with joy to its own seat at night; Or whether dead Imagination's ghost Oft hovers where alive it haunted most; Or if Thought's rolling globe, her circle run, Turns up old objects to the soul her sun; Or loves the Muse to walk with conscious pride O'er the glad scene whence first she rose a bride: Be what it will; late near yon whispering stream, Where her own Temple was her darling theme; There first the visionary sound was heard, When to poetic view the Muse appear'd.
Such seem'd her eyes, as when an evening ray Gives glad farewell to a tempestuous day; Weak is the beam to dry up Nature's tears, Still every tree the pendent sorrow wears; Such are the smiles where drops of crystal show Approaching joy at strife with parting woe.
As when, to scare th'ungrateful or the proud, Tempests long frown, and thunder threatens loud, Till the blest sun, to give kind dawn of grace, Darts weeping beams across Heaven's watery face; When soon the peaceful bow unstring'd is shown, A sign G.o.d's dart is shot, and wrath o'erblown: Such to unhallow'd sight the Muse divine Might seem, when first she raised her eyes to mine.
What mortal change does in thy face appear, Lost youth, she cried, since first I met thee here!
With how undecent clouds are overcast Thy looks, when every cause of grief is past!
Unworthy the glad tidings which I bring, Listen while the Muse thus teaches thee to sing: As parent earth, burst by imprison'd winds, Scatters strange agues o'er men's sickly minds, And shakes the atheist's knees; such ghastly fear Late I beheld on every face appear; Mild Dorothea,[1] peaceful, wise, and great, Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate; Mild Dorothea, whom we both have long Not dared to injure with our lowly song; Sprung from a better world, and chosen then The best companion for the best of men: As some fair pile, yet spared by zeal and rage, Lives pious witness of a better age; So men may see what once was womankind, In the fair shrine of Dorothea's mind.
You that would grief describe, come here and trace Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's[2] face: Grief from Dorinda's face does ne'er depart Farther than its own palace in her heart: Ah, since our fears are fled, this insolent expel, At least confine the tyrant to his cell.
And if so black the cloud that Heaven's bright queen Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen?
Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook, And grief flung sables on each menial look; The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.-- Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; And to mistaken man these truths rehea.r.s.e, Who dare revile the integrity of verse: Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!-- But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not; Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect Thy just submission for this bold neglect.
Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use At the divine appearance of the Muse, Which to divulge might shake profane belief, And tell the irreligion of my grief; Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, And shaped my pa.s.sion in such words as these!
Malignant G.o.ddess! bane to my repose, Thou universal cause of all my woes; Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late A poor amus.e.m.e.nt for my scorn and hate; The malice thou inspirest I never fail On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort: Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth, Deals out to man the planet of his birth: But sees thy meteor blaze about me s.h.i.+ne, And pa.s.sing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine: Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown, That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own, But a wild form dependent on the brain, Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein; Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight, Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light; Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies, Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes: In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name, A walking vapour, like thy sister fame.
But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate, A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create; Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay, So highly courted by the brisk and gay?
Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook; Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, a.s.sign'd for life to unremitting grief; For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days, If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays.
Time o'er the happy takes so swift a flight, And treads so soft, so easy, and so light, That we the wretched, creeping far behind, Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find; Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3]
Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, Salutes the weary traveller as he walks; But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face.
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