Part 7

While thus Cadenus entertains Vanessa in exalted strains, The nymph in sober words intreats A truce with all sublime conceits. For why such raptures, flights, and fancies, To her who durst not read romances; In lofty style to make replies, Which he had taught her to despise? But when her tutor will affect Devotion, duty, and respect, He fairly abdicates his throne, The government is now her own; He has a forfeiture incurred, She vows to take him at his word, And hopes he will not take it strange If both should now their stations change The nymph will have her turn, to be The tutor; and the pupil he: Though she already can discern Her scholar is not apt to learn; Or wants capacity to reach The science she designs to teach; Wherein his genius was below The skill of every common beau; Who, though he cannot spell, is wise Enough to read a lady's eyes? And will each accidental glance Interpret for a kind advance.

But what success Vanessa met Is to the world a secret yet; Whether the nymph, to please her swain, Talks in a high romantic strain; Or whether he at last descends To like with less seraphic ends; Or to compound the bus'ness, whether They temper love and books together; Must never to mankind be told, Nor shall the conscious muse unfold.

Meantime the mournful queen of love Led but a weary life above. She ventures now to leave the skies, Grown by Vanessa's conduct wise. For though by one perverse event Pallas had crossed her first intent, Though her design was not obtained, Yet had she much experience gained; And, by the project vainly tried, Could better now the cause decide. She gave due notice that both parties, _Coram Regina prox' die Martis_, Should at their peril without fail Come and appear, and save their bail. All met, and silence thrice proclaimed, One lawyer to each side was named. The judge discovered in her face Resentments for her late disgrace; And, full of anger, shame, and grief, Directed them to mind their brief; Nor spend their time to show their reading, She'd have a summary proceeding. She gathered under every head, The sum of what each lawyer said; Gave her own reasons last; and then Decreed the cause against the men.

But, in a weighty case like this, To show she did not judge amiss, Which evil tongues might else report, She made a speech in open court; Wherein she grievously complains, "How she was cheated by the swains." On whose petition (humbly showing That women were not worth the wooing, And that unless the sex would mend, The race of lovers soon must end); "She was at Lord knows what expense, To form a nymph of wit and sense; A model for her sex designed, Who never could one lover find, She saw her favour was misplaced; The follows had a wretched taste; She needs must tell them to their face, They were a senseless, stupid race; And were she to begin again, She'd study to reform the men; Or add some grains of folly more To women than they had before. To put them on an equal foot; And this, or nothing else, would do't. This might their mutual fancy strike, Since every being loves its like.

But now, repenting what was done, She left all business to her son; She puts the world in his possession, And let him use it at discretion."

The crier was ordered to dismiss The court, so made his last O yes! The goddess would no longer wait, But rising from her chair of state, Left all below at six and seven, Harnessed her doves, and flew to Heaven.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1718.

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.

Oh, 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 lack her swain), To split my worship too in twain.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720.

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 What though the painting grows decayed, The house will never lose its trade: Nay, though the treach'rous tapster 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 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 cracked (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 but to small expense; Their mind 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; Or stop and light at Cloe's Head, With scraps and leavings to be fed.

Then Cloe, 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; And 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 grey, When age must print a furrowed 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 fourscore.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY.

_A great bottle of wine, long buried, being that day dug up_. _1722_.

Resolved my annual verse to pay, By duty bound, on Stella's day; Furnished with paper, pens, and ink, I gravely sat me down to think: I bit my nails, and scratched my head, But found my wit and fancy fled; Or, if with more than usual pain, A thought came slowly from my brain, It cost me Lord knows how much time To shape it into sense and rhyme; And, what was yet a greater curse, Long-thinking made my fancy worse

Forsaken by th' inspiring nine, I waited at Apollo's shrine; I told him what the world would sa If Stella were unsung to-day; How I should hide my head for shame, When both the Jacks and Robin came; How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer, How Sh---r the rogue would sneer, And swear it does not always follow, That _Semel'n anno ridet_ Apollo. I have assured them twenty times, That Phoebus helped me in my rhymes, Phoebus inspired me from above, And he and I were hand and glove. But finding me so dull and dry since, They'll call it all poetic licence. And when I brag of aid divine, Think Eusden's right as good as mine.

Nor do I ask for Stella's sake; 'Tis my own credit lies at stake. And Stella will be sung, while I Can only be a stander by.

Apollo having thought a little, Returned this answer to a tittle.

Tho' you should live like old Methusalem, I furnish hints, and you should use all 'em, You yearly sing as she grows old, You'd leave her virtues half untold. But to say truth, such dulness reigns Through the whole set of Irish Deans; I'm daily stunned with such a medley, Dean W---, Dean D---l, and Dean S---; That let what Dean soever come, My orders are, I'm not at home; And if your voice had not been loud, You must have passed among the crowd.

But, now your danger to prevent, You must apply to Mrs. Brent, {2} For she, as priestess, knows the rites Wherein the God of Earth delights. First, nine ways looking, let her stand With an old poker in her hand; Let her describe a circle round In Saunder's {3} cellar on the ground A spade let prudent Archy {4} hold, And with discretion dig the mould; Let Stella look with watchful eye, Rebecea, Ford, and Grattons by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies With neck elated tow'rds the skies! The god of winds, and god of fire, Did to its wondrous birth conspire; And Bacchus for the poet's use Poured in a strong inspiring juice: See! as you raise it from its tomb, It drags behind a spacious womb, And in the spacious womb contains A sovereign med'cine for the brains.

You'll find it soon, if fate consents; If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents, Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades, May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse, And boldly then invoke the muse (But first let Robert on his knees With caution drain it from the lees); The muse will at your call appear, With Stella's praise to crown the year.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1724.

As when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she's past her dancing days; So poets lose their feet by time, And can no longer dance in rhyme. Your annual bard had rather chose To celebrate your birth in prose; Yet merry folks who want by chance A pair to make a country dance, Call the old housekeeper, and get her To fill a place, for want of better; While Sheridan is off the hooks, And friend Delany at his books, That Stella may avoid disgrace, Once more the Dean supplies their place.

Beauty and wit, too sad a truth, Have always been confined to youth; The god of wit, and beauty's queen, He twenty-one, and she fifteen; No poet ever sweetly sung. Unless he were like Phoebus, young; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, Unless like Venus in her prime. At fifty-six, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you; Or at the age of forty-three, Are you a subject fit for me? Adieu bright wit, and radiant eyes; You must be grave, and I be wise. Our fate in vain we would oppose, But I'll be still your friend in prose; Esteem and friendship to express, Will not require poetic dress; And if the muse deny her aid To have them sung, they may be said.

But, Stella say, what evil tongue Reports you are no longer young? That Time sits with his scythe to mow Where erst sat Cupid with his bow; That half your locks are turned to grey; I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 'Tis true, but let it not be known, My eyes are somewhat dimish grown; For nature, always in the right, To your decays adapts my sight, And wrinkles undistinguished pass, For I'm ashamed to use a glass; And till I see them with these eyes, Whoever says you have them, lies.

No length of time can make you quit Honour and virtue, sense and wit, Thus you may still be young to me, While I can better hear than see: Oh, ne'er may fortune show her spite, To make me deaf, and mend my sight.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, MARCH 13, 1726.

This day, whate'er the Fates decree, Shall still be kept with joy by me; This day, then, let us not be told That you are sick, and I grown old, Nor think on our approaching ills, And talk of spectacles and pills; To-morrow will be time enough To hear such mortifying stuff. Yet, since from reason may be brought A better and more pleasing thought, Which can, in spite of all decays, Support a few remaining days: From not the gravest of divines Accept for once some serious lines.

Although we now can form no more Long schemes of life, as heretofore; Yet you, while time is running fast, Can look with joy on what is past.

Were future happiness and pain A mere contrivance of the brain, As Atheists argue, to entice, And fit their proselytes for vice (The only comfort they propose, To have companions in their woes). Grant this the case, yet sure 'tis hard That virtue, styled its own reward, And by all sages understood To be the chief of human good, Should acting, die, or leave behind Some lasting pleasure in the mind. Which by remembrance will assuage Grief, sickness, poverty, and age; And strongly shoot a radiant dart, To shine through life's declining part.

Say, Stella, feel you no content, Reflecting on a life well spent; Your skilful hand employed to save Despairing wretches from the grave; And then supporting with your store, Those whom you dragged from death before? So Providence on mortals waits, Preserving what it first creates, You generous boldness to defend An innocent and absent friend; That courage which can make you just, To merit humbled in the dust; The detestation you express For vice in all its glittering dress: That patience under to torturing pain, Where stubborn stoics would complain.

Must these like empty shadows pass, Or forms reflected from a glass? Or mere chimaeras in the mind, That fly, and leave no marks behind? Does not the body thrive and grow By food of twenty years ago? And, had it not been still supplied, It must a thousand times have died. Then, who with reason can maintain That no effects of food remain? And, is not virtue in mankind The nutriment that feeds the mind? Upheld by each good action past, And still continued by the last: Then, who with reason can pretend That all effects of virtue end?

Believe me, Stella, when you show That true contempt for things below, Nor prize your life for other ends Than merely to oblige your friends, Your former actions claim their part, And join to fortify your heart. For virtue in her daily race, Like Janus, bears a double face. Look back with joy where she has gone, And therefore goes with courage on. She at your sickly couch will wait, And guide you to a better state.

O then, whatever heav'n intends, Take pity on your pitying friends; Nor let your ills affect your mind, To fancy they can be unkind; Me, surely me, you ought to spare, Who gladly would your sufferings share; Or give my scrap of life to you, And think it far beneath your due; You to whose care so oft I owe That I'm alive to tell you so.

TO STELLA,

_Visiting me in my sickness_, _October_, 1727.

Pallas, observing Stella's wit Was more than for her sex was fit; And that her beauty, soon or late, Might breed confusion in the state; In high concern for human kind, Fixed honour in her infant mind.

But (not in wranglings to engage With such a stupid vicious age), If honour I would here define, It answers faith in things divine. As natural life the body warms, And, scholars teach, the soul informs; So honour animates the whole, And is the spirit of the soul.

Those numerous virtues which the tribe Of tedious moralists describe, And by such various titles call, True honour comprehends them all. Let melancholy rule supreme, Choler preside, or blood, or phlegm. It makes no difference in the case. Nor is complexion honour's place.

But, lest we should for honour take The drunken quarrels of a rake, Or think it seated in a scar, Or on a proud triumphal car, Or in the payment of a debt, We lose with sharpers at piquet; Or, when a whore in her vocation, Keeps punctual to an assignation; Or that on which his lordship swears, When vulgar knaves would lose their ears: Let Stella's fair example preach A lesson she alone can teach.

In points of honour to be tried, All passions must be laid aside; Ask no advice, but think alone, Suppose the question not your own; How shall I act? is not the case, But how would Brutus in my place; In such a cause would Cato bleed; And how would Socrates proceed?

Drive all objections from your mind, Else you relapse to human kind; Ambition, avarice, and lust, And factious rage, and breach of trust, And flattery tipped with nauseous fleer, And guilt and shame, and servile fear, Envy, and cruelty, and pride, Will in your tainted heart preside.

Heroes and heroines of old, By honour only were enrolled Among their brethren in the skies, To which (though late) shall Stella rise. Ten thousand oaths upon record Are not so sacred as her word; The world shall in its atoms end Ere Stella can deceive a friend. By honour seated in her breast, She still determines what is best; What indignation in her mind, Against enslavers of mankind! Base kings and ministers of state, Eternal objects of her hate.

She thinks that Nature ne'er designed, Courage to man alone confined; Can cowardice her sex adorn, Which most exposes ours to scorn; She wonders where the charm appears In Florimel's affected fears; For Stella never learned the art At proper times to scream and start; Nor calls up all the house at night, And swears she saw a thing in white. Doll never flies to cut her lace, Or throw cold water in her face, Because she heard a sudden drum, Or found an earwig in a plum.

Her hearers are amazed from whence Proceeds that fund of wit and sense; Which, though her modesty would shroud, Breaks like the sun behind a cloud, While gracefulness its art conceals, And yet through every motion steals.

Say, Stella, was Prometheus blind, And forming you, mistook your kind? No; 'twas for you alone he stole The fire that forms a manly soul; Then, to complete it every way, He moulded it with female clay, To that you owe the nobler flame, To this, the beauty of your frame.

How would ingratitude delight? And how would censure glut her spite? If I should Stella's kindness hide In silence, or forget with pride, When on my sickly couch I lay, Impatient both of night and day, Lamenting in unmanly strains, Called every power to ease my pains, Then Stella ran to my relief With cheerful face and inward grief; And though by Heaven's severe decree She suffers hourly more than me, No cruel master could require, From slaves employed for daily hire, What Stella by her friendship warmed, With vigour and delight performed. My sinking spirits now supplies With cordials in her hands and eyes, Now with a soft and silent tread, Unheard she moves about my bed. I see her taste each nauseous draught, And so obligingly am caught: I bless the hand from whence they came, Nor dare distort my face for shame.

Best pattern of true friends beware, You pay too dearly for your care; If while your tenderness secures My life, it must endanger yours. For such a fool was never found, Who pulled a palace to the ground, Only to have the ruins made Materials for a house decayed.

_While Dr. Swift was at Sir William Temple's_, _after he left the University of Dublin_, _he contracted a friendship with two of Sir William's relations_, _Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley_, _which continued to their deaths_. _The former of these was the amiable Stella_, _so much celebrated in his works_. _In the year 1727_, _being in England_, _he received the melancholy news of her last sickness_, _Mrs. Dingley having been dead before_. _He hastened into Ireland_, _where he visited her_, _not only as a friend_, _but a clergyman_. _No set form of prayer could express the sense of his heart on that occasion_. _He drew up the following_, _here printed from his own handwriting_. _She died Jan. 28_, _1727_.

THE FIRST HE WROTE OCT. 17, 1727.

Most merciful Father, accept our humblest prayers in behalf of this Thy languishing servant; forgive the sins, the frailties, and infirmities of her life past. Accept the good deeds she hath done in such a manner that, at whatever time Thou shalt please to call her, she may be received into everlasting habitations. Give her grace to continue sincerely thankful to Thee for the many favours Thou hast bestowed upon her, the ability and inclination and practice to do good, and those virtues which have procured the esteem and love of her friends, and a most unspotted name in the world. O God, Thou dispensest Thy blessings and Thy punishments, as it becometh infinite justice and mercy; and since it was Thy pleasure to afflict her with a long, constant, weakly state of health, make her truly sensible that it was for very wise ends, and was largely made up to her in other blessings, more valuable and less common. Continue to her, O Lord, that firmness and constancy of mind wherewith Thou hast most graciously endowed her, together with that contempt of worldly things and vanities that she hath shown in the whole conduct of her life. O All-powerful Being, the least motion of whose Will can create or destroy a world, pity us, the mournful friends of Thy distressed servant, who sink under the weight of her present condition, and the fear of losing the most valuable of our friends; restore her to us, O Lord, if it be Thy gracious Will, or inspire us with constancy and resignation to support ourselves under so heavy an affliction. Restore her, O Lord, for the sake of those poor, who by losing her will be desolate, and those sick, who will not only want her bounty, but her care and tending; or else, in Thy mercy, raise up some other in her place with equal disposition and better abilities. Lessen, O Lord, we beseech thee, her bodily pains, or give her a double strength of mind to support them. And if Thou wilt soon take her to Thyself, turn our thoughts rather upon that felicity which we hope she shall enjoy, than upon that unspeakable loss we shall endure. Let her memory be ever dear unto us, and the example of her many virtues, as far as human infirmity will admit, our constant imitation. Accept, O Lord, these prayers poured from the very bottom of our hearts, in Thy mercy, and for the merits of our blessed Saviour. _Amen_.

THE SECOND PRAYER WAS WRITTEN NOV. 6, 1727.