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On the Death of Dr. Swift.

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My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd 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 engag'd to-morrow night:
My Lady Club will take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He lov'd the Dean (I lead a heart:)
But dearest friends, they say, must part,
His time was come; he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place.”

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 humurous 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And, till they drove me out of date,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 !
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revis'd 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.

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. And while they toss my name about, With favour some, and some without; One, quite indifferent in the cause, My character impartial draws.

"Perhaps I may allow the Dean
Had too much satire in his vein,
And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim;
He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name.
No individual could resent,
Where thousands equally were meant:
His satire points at no defect,
But what all mortals may correct;
For he abhorr'd the senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they gibe:
He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
True genuine dulness mov'd his pity,

Unless it offer'd to be witty.
Those who their ignorance confest,
He ne'er offended with a jest;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace learn'd by rote.
Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd,

Must be or ridicul'd or lash'd.
If you resent it, who's to blame?
He neither knows you, nor your name.
Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,
Because its owner is a duke?
His friendships, still to few confin'd,
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 wither'd flower;
He would have deem'd it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.

To merit well of human-kind;
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labour'd many a fruitless hour,
To reconcile his friends in power;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursued each other's ruin;
But finding vain was all his care,
He left the court in mere despair.”

An Elegy on the Death of Demar.

"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;
And scorn the fools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station,
Nor persons held in admiration;
Of no man's greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no man's aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs,
He gave himself no haughty airs :
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends;
And only chose the wise and good;
No flatterers; no allies in blood :
But succour'd virtue in distress,
And seldom fail'd of good success;
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who, but for him, had been unknown.

“He kept with princes due decorum;
Yet never stood in awe before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just;
In princes never put his trust:
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in power.
The Irish senate if you nam'd,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair Liberty was all his cry;
For her he stood prepar'd to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head;
But not a traitor could be found,
To sell him for six hundred pound.

"Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
He might have rose like other men:
But power was never in his thought,
And wealth he valued not a groat;
Ingratitude he often found,
And pitied those who meant the wound;
But kept the tenour of his mind,

Know all men by these presents, Death the

tamer, By mortgage, hath scour'd the corpse of Demar: Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound Redeem him from his prison under ground. His heirs might well, of all his wealth possess'd, Bestow to bury him one iron chest. Plutus the god of wealth will joy to know His faithful steward in the shades below, He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare

cloak; He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk: And by his looks, had he held out his palms, He might be thought an object fit for alms. So, to the poor, if he refus'd his pelf, He us'd them full as kindly as himself.

Where'er he went, he never saw his betters; Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble

debtors;
And under hand and seal the Irish nation
Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.
He that could once have half a kingdom

bought,
In half a minute is not worth a groat.
His coffers from the coffin could not save,
Nor all his interest keep him from the grave;
A golden monument would not be right,
Because we wish the earth upon him light.

Oh London tavern! thou hast lost a friend, Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend; He touch'd the pence,

when others touch'd the

pot; The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot.

Old as he was, no vulgar known disease On him could ever boast a power to seize; But, as he weigh’d his gold, grim Death in

spight Cast in his dart, which made three moidores

light;

And, as he saw his darling money fail,

The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow; Blew his last breath, to sink the lighter scale. Alas, the sexton is thy banker now! He who so long was current, 'twould be strange A dismal banker must that banker be, If he should now be cried down since his change. Who gives no bills but of mortality.

Addison

Joseph Addison, der Sohn eines Pfarrers, ward am 1. Mai 1672 zu Milston in Wiltshire geboren, studirte zu Oxford und machte dann, schon früh durch seine Fähigkeiten ausgezeichnet, mit königlicher Unterstützung eine Reise durch Frankreich und Italien. Bei seiner Rückkehr trat er in den Staatsdienst, begleitete den Grafen von Halifax nach Hannover und wurde nach der Thronbesteigung Georg's I. Unterstaatssecretair, nachdem er sich ein Jahr vorher, 1716 mit der verwittweten Gräfin von Warwick vermählt hatte. Reich und angesehen, starb er am 17. Juni 1719.

Addison war besonders ausgezeichnet als eleganter Prosaist und Sittenmaler und die von ihm theils in Verbindung mit Steele (mit dem er nachher auf unwürdige Weise brach), theils allein herausgegebenen Wochenschriften, the Tatler, the Spectator, the Freeholder u. s. w. haben ihm in dieser Hinsicht den wohlverdienten Ruf eines englischen Klassikers erworben. Als Dichter ist er dagegen kalt und nüchtern, obwohl correct und elegant, und selbst sein Trauerspiel "Cato", das einst so hoch gefeierte, das ganz nach den strengsten Regeln des Aristoteles und der französischen Schule gedichtet war, zeigt, obwohl reich an edeln Gedanken und schönen Schilderungen, dass Addison nur mit dem Verstande dichtete. Addison's Werke sind wiederholt aufgelegt worden; die beste Ausgabe ist die mit Anmerkungen von R. Hard, London 1811, 6 Bde in 8.

Paraphrase on Psalm XXIII.

Thy bounty shall my wants beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.

An Ode.

The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye:
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering step he leads,
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread.
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame
Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes to every land,
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wonderous tale;
And nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;

Whilst all the stars that round her burn, Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
And all the planets, in their turn,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. Confirm the tidings as they roll,

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? And spread the truth from pole to pole. This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? What though in solemn silence, all

Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with care, Move round the dark terrestrial ball; Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her, What though no real voice, nor sound, That my awaken'd soul may take her flight, Amidst their radiant orbs be found:

Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life, In reason's ear they all rejoice,

An off'ring fit for heav'n. Let guilt or fear And utter forth a glorious voice;

Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them, For ever singing as they shine,

Indiff'rent in his choice to sleep or die.
The hand that made us is divine.

Enter Portius.
But, ha! who's this? my son! Why this intru-

sion ?
Were nit my orders that I would be private?
Why am I disobey'd ?

Portius.
Cato.

Alas, 'my father!
Act V. Scene I. A Chamber. What means this sword, this instrument of death?
Cato solus, sitting in a thoughtful Posture; in his Let me convey it hence.
Hand, Plato's Book on the Immortality of the Soul.

Cato.
A drawn Sword on the Tabte, by him.
Cato.

Rash youth, forbear! It must be so Plato thou reason'st well

Portius. Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, Oh, let the pray’rs, th' entreaties of your friends, This longing after immortality?

Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from Or whence this secret dread and inward horror,

you! Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul

Cato. Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;

Wouldst thou betray me? Wouldst thou give 'Tis heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,

me up And intimates eternity to man.

A slave, a captive, into Caesar's hands ? Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Retire, and learn obedience to a father, Through what variety of untried being,

Or know, young man Through what new scenes and changes must we

Portius.

Look not thus sternly on me; The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me: But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. You know, I'd rather die than disobey you. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us

Cato. (And that there is, all nature cries aloud

'Tis well! again I'm master of myself. Through all her works), he must delight in virtue; Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates, And that which he delights in must be happy.

And bar each avenue; thy gath’ring fleets But when, or where? this world was made O'erspread the sea, and stop up ev'ry port;

for Caesar:

Cato shall open to himself a passage, I'm weary of conjectures

this must end them. And mock thy hopes.

(Laying his Hand on his Sword.) Thus am I doubly arm’d: my death and life,

Portius (Kinecling.) My bane and antidote, are both before me.

Oh, sir! forgive your son, This in a moment brings me to an end;

Whose grief hangs heavy on him. Oh, my father! But this informs me I shall never die."

How am I sure it is not the last time The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles

I e'er shall call you so? Be not displeas'd, At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.

Oh, be not angry with me whilst I weep, The stars shall fade away, the sun himself And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,

To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul! But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,

(Embracing him.)

pass?

Cato.

Marcia. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.

Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome, Weep not, my son, all will be well again; He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild; The righteous gods, whom I have sought to Compassionate and gentle to his friends ;

please,

Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best, Will succour Cato, and preserve his children. The kindest father; I have ever found him

Easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes. Portius.

Lucia. Your words give comfort to my drooping heart.

'Tis his consent alone can make us blest. Cato.

But who knows Cato's thoughts? Portius, thou may'st rely upon my conduct:

Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius, Thy father will not act what misbecomes him.

Or how he has determin'd of thyself? But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting

Marcia. Among thy father's friends, see them embark'd,

Let him but live, commit the rest to heav'n. And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. My soul is quite weigh'd down with care, and asks

Enter Lucius.
The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.

Lucius.
Portius.

Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man!

Oh, Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father; My thoughts are more at ease, my heart revives

[Exit Cato.

Some power invisible supports his soul,

And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.
Enter Marcia.

A kind, refreshing sleep is fall’n upon him: Oh, Marcia! Oh, my sister, still there's hope I saw him stretch'd at ease; his fancy lost Our father will not cast away a life

In pleasing dreams; as I drew near his couch, So needful to us all, and to his country.

He smil'd, and cried, Caesar, thou canst not

hurt me. He is retir'd to rest, and seems to cherish Thoughts full of peace. He has dispatch'd me

Marcia. hence

His mind still labours with some dreadful thouglt. With orders that bespeak a mind compos'd, And studious for the safety of his friends.

Enter Juba. Marcia, take care that none disturb his slumbers.

Juba. [Exit.

Lucius, the horsemen are return'd from viewing Marcia.

The number, strength, and posture of our foes, Oh, ye immortal powers, that guard the just,

Who now encamp within a short hour's march; Watch round his couch and soften his repose,

On the high point of yon bright western tower Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul We ken them from afar; the settling sun With easy dreams; remember all his virtues,

Plays on their shining arms and burnish'd helmets, And show mankind that goodness is your care! And covers all the field with gleams of fire. Enter Lucia.

Lucius.
Lucia.

Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father.

Caesar is still dispos'd to give us terms, Where is your father, Marcia, where is Cato?

And waits at distance till he hears from Cato. Marcia.

Enter Portius. Lucia, speak low, he is retir’d to rest.

Portius; thy looks speak somewhat of importance. Lucia, I feel a gentle dawning hope

What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see Rise in my soul · We shall be happy still. Unusual gladness sparkle in thy eyes. Lucia.

Portius. Alas, I tremble when I think on Cato!

As I was hasting to the port, where now In every view, in every thought I tremble! My father's friends, impatient for a passage, Cato is stern and awful as a god;

Accuse the ling’ring winds, a sail arriv'd He knows not how to wink at human frailty, From Pompey's son, who, through the realms Or pardon weakness, that he never felt.

of Spain,

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