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Behold him in the evening-tide of life,
A life well-spent, whose early care it was
His riper years should not upbraid his green:
By unperceiv'd degrees he wears away;
Yet like the sun, seems larger at his setting!
(High in his faith and hopes), look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird
That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away!
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the fast-coming harvest.-Then, oh then!
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears,
Shrunk to a thing of nought.-Oh! how he longs
To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd!
'Tis done! and now he's happy!-The glad soul
Has not a wish uncrown'd.-Ev'n the lag flesh
Rests too in hope of meeting once again
Its better half, never to sunder more.
Nor shall it.hope in vain :-the time draws on
When not a single spot of burial earth,
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long-committed dust
Inviolate: and faithfully shall these
Make up the full account; not the least atom
Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale.
Each soul shall have a body ready-furnish'd;

And each shall have his own.-Hence, ye profane!
Ask not how this can be?-Sure the same pow'r
That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down,
Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts,
And put them as they were.—Almighty God
Has done much more; nor is his arm impair'd
Through length of days: and what he can, he will
His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb’ring dust,
Not unattentive to the call, shall wake:
And ev'ry joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form, unknown
To its first state.-Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake its partner, but amidst the crowd
Singling its other half, into its arms

Shall rush with all th' impatience of a man [sent,
That's new come home, who having long been ab-
With haste runs over ev'ry different room,
In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting!
Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more.

'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.

Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day; Then claps his well-fledg'd wings, and bears away.


SWIFT-A. D. 1667-1745.


TABLE-BOOK, 1699. Peruse my leaves through every part, And think thou seest my owner's heart, Scrawlid o'er with trifles thus, and quite As hard, as senseless, and as light; Expos'd to every coxcomb's eyes, But hid with caution from the wise. Here you may read, “ Dear charming saint!" Beneath, " A new receipt for paint;" Here, in beau-spelling, “ Tru tel deth;" There, in her own, “ For an el breth ;" Here, “ Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!" There, “ A safe way to use perfume:" Here, a page fill'd with billet-doux; On t'other side, “ Laid out for shoes"“ Madam, I die without your grace"“ Item, for half a yard of lace.” Who that had wit would place it here, For every peeping fop to jeer ; In power of spittle and a clout, Whene'er he please, to blot it out; And then, to heighten the disgrace, Clap his own nonser.se in the place? Whoe'er expects to hold his part In such a book, and such a heart, If he be wealthy, and a fool, Is in all points the fittest tool; Of whom it may be justly said, He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead.

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

my smock. So when I went to put up my purse, as God would

have it, my smock was unript, And, instead of putting it into my pocket, down it

slipt; Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my

Lady to bed; And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as

my maidenhead. So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel

very light: But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I

thought I should have sunk outright. Lord! Madam, says Mary, how d'ye do? Indeed,

says I, never worse: But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with

my purse? Lord help me! said Mary, I never stirrid out of

this place; Nay, said I, I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's

a plain case. So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm: However, she stole away my garters, that I might

do myself no harm, So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very

well think, But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. So I was adream'd, methought that we went and

search'd the folks round, And in a corner of Mrs. Duke's box, ty’d in a rag,

the money was found. So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a

swearing; Then my dame Wadgar came; and she, you know,

is thick of hearing. Dame, said I, as loud as I could bawl, do


know what a loss I have had ? Nay, said she, my Lord Conway's folks are all very

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MRS. HARRIS'S PETITION, 1699, To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,

the humble petition of Frances Harris, Who must starve, and die a maid, if it miscarries;



Humbly sheweth, That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's cham

ber, because I was cold; And I bad in a purse seven pounds, four shillings,

and sixpence, besides farthings, in money and

gold; So, because I had been buying things for my Lady

last night, I was resolv'd to telt my money, to see if it was right. Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very

bad lock, Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows,

is a very small stock,

For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without

fail. Pugh! said I, but that's not the business that I ail. Says Cary, says he, I have been a servant this five

and twenty years come spring, And in all the places I liv'd I never heard of such

a thing. Yes, says the steward, I remember, when I was at

my Lady Shrewsbury's, Such a thing as this happen'd just about the time

of gooseberries.

So I went to the party suspected, and I found her For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies) I full of grief,

must petition you. (Now, you must know, of all things in the world, I The premises tenderly considerod, I desire your hate a thief.) [about: Excellencies' protection,

[lection; However, I am resolv’d to bring the discourse slily And that I may have a share in next Sunday's col. Mrs. Dukes, said I, here's an ugly accident has And, over and above, that I may have your Ercelhappen'd out:

lencies' letter, 'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse; With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. of him, a better; 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, makes a great hole in my wages:

Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in

shall ever pray.

these ages.




Mordanto fills the trump of fame,
The Christian world his deeds proclaim,
And prints are crowded with his name.

In journies he outrides the post,
Sits up till midnight with his host,
Talks politics, and gives the toast;

Knows every prince in Europe's face,
Flies like a squib from place to place,
And travels not, but runs a race.

Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and every body un

derstands, That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go

without hands. The devil take me! said she (blessing herself) if

ever I saw't !
So she roar'd like a bedlam, as though I had callid

her all to naught.
So you know, what could I say to her any more?
I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.
Well; but then they would had me gone to the

cunning man!
No, said I, 'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be

here anon. So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he

is my sweetheart, 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, Parson, said I, can you cast a nativity, when a

body's plunder'd! (Now, you must know, he hates to be call'd parson

like the devil!) Truly, says he, Mrs. Nab, it might become you to

be more civil; If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see,

(me; You are no text for my handling; so take that from I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have

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you to know.

His body active as his mind,
Returning sound in limb and wind,
Except some leather lost behind.

Lord! said I, don't be angry, I am sure I never

thought you so; You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a

parson's wife; I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all

my life; With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,

[away. Now you may go lang yourself for me, and so went Well: I thought I would have swoon'd. Lord !

said I, what shall I do! I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too! Then my Lord callid me: Harry, said my Lord,

A skeleton in outward figure,
His rneagre corpse. Though full of vigour,
Would halt behind him, were it bigger.

So wonderful his expedition,
When you have not the least suspicion,
He's with you like an apparition :

Shines in all climates like a star;
In senates bold, and fierce in war;
A land commander, and a tar:

don't cry;

I'll give you something towards thy loss; and, s

, says my Lady, so will I. Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the chaplain

won't come to ?

Heroic actions early bred in,
Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading,
But by his name-sake Charles of Sweden.


And (like a wag set down to write) BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL, 1706. Would whisper to himself, a bite; In times of old, when time was young,

Then, from this motley, mingled style, And poets their own verses sung,

Proceeded to erect his pile. A verse would draw a stone or beam,

So men of old, to gain renown, did That now would overload a team;

Build Babel with their tongues confounded. Lead them a dance of many a mile,

Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best Then rear them to a goodly pile.

To turn the matter to a jest : Each number had its different power:

Down from Olympus too he slides, Heroic strains could build a tower;

Laughing as if he'd burst his sides : Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris,

Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks? Might raise a house about two stories;

Why then old plays deserve old bricks; A lyric ode would slate ; a catch

And, since you're sparing of your stuff, Would tile ; an epigram would thatch.

Your building shall be small enough. But, to their own or landlord's cost,

He spake, and grudging, lent his aid; Now poets feel this art is lost.

Th' experienc'd bricks, that knew their trade, Not one of all our tuneful throng

(As being bricks at second-hand), Can raise a lodging for a song:

Now move, and now in order stand. For Jove consider'd well the case,

The building, as the poet writ, Observ'd they grew a numerous race ;

Rose in proportion to his wit: And, should they build as fast as write,

And first the prologue built a wall "Twould ruin undertakers quite.

So wide as to encompass all. This evil therefore to prevent,

The scene a wood produc'd, no more He wisely chang'd their element:

Than a few scrubby trees before. On earth the god of wealth was made

The plot as yet lay deep; and so Sole patron of the building trade;

A cellar next was dug below: Leaving the wits the spacious air,

But this a work so hard was found, With licence to build castles there:

Two acts it cost him under ground: And, 'tis conceiv'd, their old pretence

Two other acts, we may presume, To lodge in garrets comes from thence.

Were spent in building each a room. Premising thus, in modern way,

Thus far advanc'd, he made a shift The better half we have to say:

To raise a roof with act the fifth. Sing, Muse, the house of poet Van

The epilogue behind did frame In higher strains than we began.

A place not decent here to name. Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it)

Now poets from all quarters ran Is both a herald and a poet ;

To see the house of brother Van; No wonder then if nicely skilled

Look'd high and low, walk'd often round; In both capacities to build.

But no such house was to be found. As herald, he can in a day

One asks the waterman hard-by, Repair a house gone to decay;

“ Where may the poets palace lie ?". Or, by achievement, arms, device,

Another of the Thames inquires, Erect a new one in a trice;

If he has seen its gilded spires ? And, as a poet, he has skill

At length they in the rubbish spy To build in speculation still.

A thing resembling a goose-pye. Great Jove! he cry'd, the art restore

Thither in haste the poets throng, To build by verse as heretofore,

And gaze in silent wonder long, And make my Muse the architect;

Till one in rapture thus began What palaces shall we erect !

To praise the pile and builder Van: No longer shall forsaken Thames

Thrice happy poet! who mayșt trail Lament his old Whitehall in fames ;

Thy house about thee like a snail ; A pile shall from its ashes rise,

Or, harness'd to a nag, at ease Fit to invade or prop the skies.

Take journeys in it like a chaise ; Jove smil'd, and, like a gentle god,

Or in a boat, whene'er thou wilt, Consenting with the usual nod,

Canst make it serve thee for a tilt! Told Van, he knew his talent best,

Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all And left the choice to his own breast.

Thou’rt well contriv'd, though thou art small : So Van resolv'd to write a farce;

For every wit in Britain's isle But, well perceiving wit was scarce,

May lodge within thy spacious pile. With cunning that defect supplies;

Like Bacchus thou, as poets feign, Takes a French play as lawful prize;

Thy mother burnt, are born again, Steals hence his plot and every joke,

Born like a phenix from the flame; Not once suspecting Jove would smoke;

But neither bulk nor shape the same:






As animals of largest size

Good folks, you need not be afraid, Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies;

We are but saints, the hermits said ; A type of modern wit and style,

No hurt shall come to you or yours: The rubbish of an ancient pile.

But for that pack of churlish boors, So chemists boast they have a power

Not fit to live on Christian ground, From the dead ashes of a flower

They and their houses shall be drown'd; Some faint resemblance to produce,

Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, But not the virtue, taste, or juice:

And grow a church before your eyes. So modern rhymers wisely blast

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft The poetry of ages past ;

The roof began to mount aloft; Which after they have overthrown,

Aloft rose every beam and rafter; They from its ruins build their own.

The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,

And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show

Its inclination for below:

In vain ; for a superior force,
Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.

Apply'd at bottom, stops its course :
In ancient times, as story tells,

Doom'd ever in suspence to dwell, The saints would often leave their cells,

'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. And stroll about, but hide their quality,

A wooden jack, which had almost To try good people's hospitality.

Lost by disuse the art to roast, It happen'd on a winter's night,

A sudden alteration feels, As authors of the legend write,

Increas'd by new intestine wheels; Two brother-hermits, saints by trade,

And, what exalts the wonder more, Taking their tour in masquerade,

The number made the motion slower: Disguis’d in tatter'd habits, went

The flier, though 't had leaden feet, To a small village down in Kent;

Turu'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't ; Where, in the strollers' canting strain,

But, slacken'd by some secret power, They begg'd from door to door in vain,

Now hardly moves an inch an hour. Tried every tone might pity win;

The jack and chimney, near ally'd, But not a soul would let them in.

Had never left each other's side: Our wandering saints, in woful state,

The chimney to the steeple grown, Treated at this ungodly rate,

The jack would not be left alone; Having through all the village past,

But, up against the steeple rear’d, To a small cottage came at last !

Became a clock, and still adher'd; Where dwelt a good old honest ye’man,

And still its love to household cares, Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon ;

By a shrill voice at noon, declares, Who kindly did these saints invite

Warning the cook-maid not to burn In his poor hut to pass the night;

That roast-meat which it cannot turn. And then the hospitable sire

The groaning-chair began to crawl, Bid goody Baucis mend the fire ;

Like a huge snail, along the wall; While he from out the chimney took

There stuck aloft in public view, A flitch of bacon off the hook,

And, with sinall change, a pulpit grew. And freely from the fattest side

The porringers, that in a row Cut out large slices to be fry'd;

Hung high, and made a glittering show, Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,

To a less noble substance chang'd, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,

Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. And saw it fairly twice go round;

The ballads, pasted on the wall, Yet (what is wonderful !) they found,

Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 'Twas still replenish'd to the top,

Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.

The Little Children in the Wood, The good old couple were amaz’d,

Now seem'd to look abundance better, And often on each other gaz'd;

Improv'd in picture, size, and letter; For both were frighten’d to the heart,

And, high in order plac'd, describe And just began to cry,–What ar't!

The heraldry of every tribe. Then softly turn'd aside to view

A bedstead of the antique mode, Whether the lights were burning blue.

Compact of timber many a load, The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,

Such as our ancestors did use, Told them their calling, and their errand.

Was metamorphos'd into pews;


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