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Should take upon him all my worldly care,
Whilst I did for a better state prepare.
Then I'd not be with any trouble vex'd,
Nor have the evening of my days perplex'd;
But by a silent and a peaceful death,
Without a sigh, resign my aged breath.
And, when committed to the dust, I'd have
Few tears, but friendly, dropt into my grave;
Then would my exit so propitious be,

All men would wish to live and die like me.

TO HIS FRIEND INCLINED TO MARRY.

I WOULD not have you, Strephon, choose a mate,
From too exalted, or too mean a state;
For in both these we may expect to find
A creeping spirit, or a haughty mind.
Who moves within the middle region, shares
The least disquiets, and the smallest cares.
Let her extraction with true lustre shine;
If something brighter, not too bright for thine:
Her education liberal, not great;

Neither inferior nor above her state.
Let her have wit; but let that wit be free
From affectation, pride, or pedantry:
For the effect of woman's wit is such,
Too little is as dangerous as too much.
But chiefly let her humour close with thine,
Unless where your's does to a fault incline;
The least disparity in this destroys,

Like sulphurous blasts, the very buds of joys.
Her person amiable, straight, and free
From natural, or chance deformity.
Let not her years exceed, if equal thine;
For women past their vigour, soon decline:
Her fortune competent; and, if thy sight
Can reach so far, take care 'tis gather'd right.
If thine's enough, then her's may be the less:
Do not aspire to riches in excess.

For that which makes our lives delightful prove,
Is a genteel sufficiency and love.

JONATHAN SWIFT, a kinsman of John Dryden, was born on the 30th of November, 1667. He was of an English family. The place of his birth has not been correctly ascertained, but he was educated in Ireland. He passed his youth in poverty and dependance, under the care of a rich relation. This is a hard school, and of the many bitter lessons which are taught in it, Jonathan Swift was fated by temperament to learn one more deeply than the rest,-the habit of severe indignation. This should be the commentary to his history. Up to the period when he had passed his fortieth year, Swift, in the possession of extraordinary talents, saw himself at every turn thrust down beneath the most ordinary men. His life was simply the alternation of patient and impatient suffering. Wearied with playing the humble companion to his relative, Sir William Temple, he entered the church, where hard-won patronage procured him an Irish living of a hundred a year. Soon wearied equally with this, he returned to England, to wait again upon the infirmities of Temple, on the faith of his offered influence for a better living in England. Temple died, and Swift was left, in 1699, after many years of galling expectation, with the worthless legacy of a king's promise. The disappointments which now crowded upon him would form a long and painful catalogue. He found himself, at last, settled as a poor and hardworking parson, in the county of Meath. His melancholy and his spleen had vented themselves before this in various witty and severe verses, but nothing was yet published in his name. His literary life, however, now began. He published a work on Athens and Rome, which was instantly attributed to Bishop Burnet. Exertion made him still more conscious of his ill-rewarded strength, and in a fit of restless impatience he went to London. He returned to his poor parishioners precisely as he had left them.

It was not until nine years after this,-years which had given some immortal writings to the world, (the Tale of a Tub, the Battle of the Books, the Essays of Isaac Bickerstaff, among them,) but which had seen the best portion of their author's life wear away in poverty, in mortified ambition, and disappointed hopes,-years which had irredeemably soured his temper, and during which a painful and lasting sickness had fixed itself upon him; it was not until their lapse that an entrusted mission from the Irish Lord Primate to the celebrated Harley, opened to Dr. Jonathan Swift the avenues to distinction and public fame. He speedily mastered them, and his extraordinary talents became the subject of conversation and curiosity wherever he went. Beyond this we cannot follow the details of his life. From the honourable exile of his deanery, where the remainder of it was chiefly spent, most formidable thunderbolts continued to be cast at the Whigs; the immortal Travels of Gulliver, and his best poems appeared; and the publication of the Drapier's Letters won for him the adoration of an entire people;-while these public glories were darkened by strange private afflictions. Ultimately, the still surviving restlessness of his life was vexed by impatient fits of anger, till it rose to madness. In this miserable state the great Dean Swift died, in October 1744, "a driveller and a show!"

The poems of Swift form only the smallest item in the account of his wonderful genius. They are remarkable, however, in a high degree, for their power of versification. Their ease and vivacity have never been excelled. We think them also, in conversational humour, in homely but powerful satire, and in a witty accuracy and exactness of description, unquestionably first rate. Nor are they wanting, as the poems to Stella and Vanessa prove, in tender and graceful poetical fancies. It is impossible to pass, however, without the strongest terms of reprobation and shame, certain descriptions, which frequently and shockingly disfigure these poems of Swift. It is but a poor excuse to say, that they were not written with a view to publication. We may suggest, with perhaps as slight an available ground of defence, that they were the product of his moments of spleen and indignation, when he desired to exhibit humanity at a level below itself, correspondent with that to which, from the higher aspirations of his genius, its treatment had reduced him. One thing, at least, is certain and consolatory: Swift could not degrade, as he assisted, humanity. As, while he was doing wonderful services to Ireland, he protested he did not love her; so upon that human nature which he would have us believe he loved as little, he was heaping services not to be abated by time.

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In a glad hour Lucina's aid Produc'd on Earth a wondrous maid, On whom the queen of love was bent

To try a new experiment.

She threw her law-books on the shelf,

And thus debated with herself:

"Since men allege, they ne'er can find Those beauties in a female mind,

Which raise a flame that will endure

For ever uncorrupt and pure;
If 'tis with reason they complain,
This infant shall restore my reign.

C

I'll search where every virtue dwells,
From courts inclusive down to cells:
What preachers talk, or sages write;
These I will gather and unite,
And represent them to mankind
Collected in that infant's mind."

This said, she plucks in Heaven's high bowers A sprig of amaranthine flowers,

In nectar thrice infuses bays,

Three times refin'd in Titan's rays;
Then calls the Graces to her aid,

And sprinkles thrice the new-born maid:
From whence the tender skin assumes
A sweetness above all perfumes:
From whence a cleanliness remains
Incapable of outward stains:

From whence that decency of mind,
So lovely in the female kind,

Where not one careless thought intrudes,
Less modest than the speech of prudes.

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The Graces next would act their part,
And show'd but little of their art;
Their work was half already done,
The child with native beauty shone;
The outward form no help requir'd:
Each, breathing on her thrice, inspir'd
That gentle, soft, engaging air,
Which in old times adorn'd the fair:
And said, " Vanessa be the name

By which thou shalt be known to fame;
Vanessa, by the gods inroll'd:

Her name on Earth shall not be told."

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ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.

VAIN human-kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our heart divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
'Tis all to me an usurpation.

I have no title to aspire;

Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine:
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six.
I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own humorous biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refin'd at first, and show'd its use.
St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortified my pride,
And made me throw my pen aside;

If with such talents heaven hath bless'd 'em,
Have I not reason to detest 'em?

*

From Dublin soon to London spread,
'Tis told at court, "the Dean is dead;"
And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen,
Runs laughing up to tell the queen.
The queen so gracious, mild, and good,
Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he should.
He's dead, you say; then let him rot:
I'm glad the medals were forgot.
I promis'd him, I own; but when?
I only was the princess then:
But now, as consort of the king,
You know, 'tis quite another thing."

Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:
"Why, if he died without his shoes,"
Cries Bob, "I'm sorry for the news:
Oh, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,

Provided Bolingbroke were dead!"

Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!

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