But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes, Faith, he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter; In half the time he talks them round, There must another set be found.

"For poetry he's past his prime; He takes an hour to find a rhyme; His fire is out, his wit decayed, His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his penBut there's no talking to some men.'

And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years: "He's older than he would be reckoned, And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach, too, begins to fail: Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thingI wish he may hold out till spring." They hug themselves, and reason thus: "It is not yet so bad with us."

In such a case they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend No enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how-d'-ye's come of course, And servants answer, "Worse and worse!") Would please them better, than to tell That, God be praised! the Dean is well. Then he, who prophesied the best, Approves his foresight to the rest: "You know I always feared the worst, And often told you so at first." He'd rather chose that I should die Than his prediction prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over.

Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain, How many a message would he send? What hearty prayers that I should mend? Inquire what regimen I kept; What gave me ease, and how I slept? And more lament when I was dead, Than all the sniv'llers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear; For though you may mistake a year,

Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive! "How is the Dean ?" "He's just alive." Now the departing prayer is read; He hardly breathes-the Dean is dead.

"

Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town has run. "Oh! may we all for death prepare! What has he left? and who 's his heir?" "I know no more than what the news is; 'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.' "To public uses! there's a whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride; He gave it all-but first he died. And had the Dean, in all the nation No worthy friend, no poor relation? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood?"

Now Grub Streets wits are all employed; With elegies the town is cloyed; Some paragraph in every paper To curse the Dean or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame : "We must confess his case was nice, But he would never take advice. Had he been ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived those twenty years; For, when we opened him, we found That all his vital parts were sound." 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 Queen. The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, "Is he gone? 'tis time he should."

Oh, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will, *
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Bolingbroke was dead!"

Now Curl+ his shop from rubbish drains:
Three genuine tomes of Swift's Remains!
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me, as he does my betters,
Publish my will, my life, my letters;
Revive the libels born to die;
Which Pope must bear as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
"I'm sorry-but we all must die !"

Indifference clad in wisdom's guise All fortitude of mind supplies; For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt? When we were lashed, they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God.

The fools my juniors by a year Are tortured with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approached, to stand between ; The screen removed, their hearts are trembling;

They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learned to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: "The Dean is dead (pray, what is trumps?) Then, "Lord have mercy on his soul ! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole). Six deans, they say, must bear the pall (I wish I knew what king to call). Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend?" "No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; And he's engaged to-morrow night;

*William Pulteney, Earl of Bath.

t An infamous bookseller, who published things in the Dean's name, which he never

wrote.

For some of these practices he was brought before the House of Lords.

My Lady Club will take it ill

If he should fail her at quadrille.
He loved the Dean-(I lead a heart);
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time is come; he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place."

Why do we grieve that friends should die?

No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene!
No further mention of the Dean,
Who now, alas! is no more missed,
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now the fav'rite of Apollo?
Departed, and his works must follow,
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.

"

"

Some country squire to Lintot § goes, Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; He died a year ago." "The same.' He searches all the shop in vain. "Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane;|| I sent them, with a load of books, Last Monday to the pastrycook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you 're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past: The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff, But spick-and-span I have enough. Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. This ode you never yet have seen By Stephen Duck upon the Queen. Then here's a letter finely penned Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, And Mr. Henley's¶ last oration. The hawkers have not got them yet: Your honour please to have a set?"

Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose, Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat.

§ Bernard Lintot, a bookseller. See Pope's "Dunciad" and letters.

A place were old books were sold.

Commonly called Orator Henley, whose rhapsodies burlesqued religion and disgraced his country.

Perhaps I may allow, the Dean
Had too much satire in his vein,
And seemed determined not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Vice, if it e'er can be abashed,
Must be or ridiculed or lashed.
If you resent it, who's to blame?

He neither knew you, nor your name:
Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,
Because its owner is a duke?
His friendships, still to few confined,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank or mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed,
Where titles give no right or power,
And peerage is a withered flower.
He would have deemed it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.
He never thought an honour done him
Because a peer was proud to own him;
Would rather slip aside, and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes,

His zeal was not to lash our crimes,
But discontent against the times;
For, had we made him timely offers
To raise his post or fill his coffers,
Perhaps he might have truckled down,
Like other brethren of his gown.
For party he would scarce have bled:
I say no more,-because he's dead.-
"What writings has he left behind?—
I hear they're of a different kind:
A few in verse, but most in prose;
Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose,-
All scribbled in the worst of times,
To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes,
To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend
her,

As never fav'ring the Pretender ;-
Or libels yet concealed from sight,
Against the court to show his spite ;-
Perhaps his Travels, Part the Third;
A lie at ev'ry second word-
Offensive to a loyal ear,--

But not one sermon, you may swear.

"

As for his works in verse or prose, I own myself no judge of those. Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em; But this I know, all people bought 'em, As with a moral view designed, To please and to reform mankind; And if he often missed his aim, The world must own it, to their shame, The praise is his, and theirs the blame. He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad; To show, by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much. And, since you dread no further lashes, Methinks you may forgive his ashes.

SWIFT AND POPE.

IMITATION OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

I'VE often wished that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land set out to plant a wood.

Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store;

"But here a grievance seems to lie,All this is mine but till I die;

I can't but think 'twould sound more clever,

To me and to my heirs for ever.
If I ne'er got or lost a groat,
By any trick, or any fault;
And if I pray by reason's rules,
And not like forty other fools;

As thus, 'Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
To grant me this and t'other acre;
Or, if it be Thy will and pleasure,
Direct my plough to find a treasure!'
But only what my station fits,
And to be kept in my right wits,
Preserve, Almighty Providence!
Just what you gave me, competence !
And let me in these shades compose
Something in verse as true as prose;
Removed from all the ambitious scene,
Nor puffed by pride, nor sunk by spleen."

In short, I'm perfectly content,
Let me but live on this side Trent;
Nor cross the channel twice a year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.

"

I must by all means come to town,
'Tis for the service of the Crown.
"Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up, take no excuse."
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or let it cost five hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found,
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne'er considered yet.

"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, Let my lord know you're come to town.'

I hurry me in haste away, Not thinking it is levée day;

There flies about a strange report Of some express arrived at court! I'm stopped by all the fools I meet, And catechised in every street.

"You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great; Inform us, will the Emperor treat? Or do the prints and papers lie?" "Faith, sir, you know as much as I."

"Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest! 'Tis now no secret."-"I protest 'Tis one to me."-"Then tell us, pray,

When are the troops to have their pay?" And though I solemnly declare

I know no more than my lord mayor, They stand amazed, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known.

Thus in a sea of folly tost,
My choicest hours of life are lost,
Yet always wishing to retreat.
Oh, could I see my country seat!
There leaning near a gentle brook,
Sleep, or peruse some ancient book!
And there in sweet oblivion drown
Those cares that haunt the court and town.
O charming noons and nights divine!
Or when I sup or when I dine,
My friends above, my folks below,
Chatting and laughing all a-row,
The beans and bacon set before 'em,
The grace-cup served with all decorum :
Each willing to be pleased and please,
And even the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian sings,

A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's,
Or what's in either of the Houses;
But something much more our concern,
And quite a scandal not to learn:
Which is the happier or the wiser,
A man of merit or a miser?
Whether we ought to choose our friends
For their own worth or our own ends?
What good or better we may call,
And what the very best of all?

Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) A tale extremely à propos :

"

Name a town life, and in a trice He had a story of Two Mice. Once on a time (so runs the fable) A country mouse right hospitable, Received a town mouse at his board, Just as a farmer might a lord. A frugal mouse upon the whole, Yet loved his friend, and had a soul, Knew what was handsome, and would do't, On just occasion "coûte qui coûte.' He brought him bacon (nothing lean), Pudding that might have pleased a dean; Cheese such as men in Suffolk make, But wished it Stilton for his sake; Yet, to his guest though no way sparing, He ate himself the rind and paring. Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, But showed his breeding and his wit; He did his best to seem to eat, And cried, "I vow you're mighty neat, But lord! my friend, this savage scene! For God's sake, come, and live with men. Consider, mice, like men, must die! Both small and great, both you and I; Then spend your life in joy and sport, (This doctrine, friend, I learnt at court.") The veriest hermit in the nation

May yield, God knows, to strong temptation."

Away they came, through thick and thin,
To a tall house near Lincoln's Inn:
('Twas on the night of a debate,
When all their lordships had sat late.)

Behold the place, where, if a poet
Shined in description, he might show it;
Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls,
And tips with silver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors;
But let it (in a word) be said,
The moon was up, and men abed,
The napkins white, the carpet red;
The guests withdrawn, had left the treat,
And down the mice sat, tête-à-tête.