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On the Death of Dr. Swift. Select Passages.

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And, till they drove me out of date,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.

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!"

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."

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.

"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,

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. 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,

Blew his last breath, to sink the lighter scale.

The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow;
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.

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,

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 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,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice, nor sound,
Amidst their radiant orbs be found:
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine,
The hand that made us is divine.

Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An off'ring fit for heav'n. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them,
Indiff'rent in his choice to sleep or die.

Enter Portius.

But, ha! who's this? my son! Why this intru

sion?

Were not my orders that I would be private?
Why am I disobey'd?

Cato.

Act V. Scene I. A Chamber.
Cato solus, sitting in a thoughtful Posture; in his
Hand, Plato's Book on the Immortality of the Soul.
A drawn Sword on the Tabte, by him.
Cato.

It must be so Plato thou reason'st well
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we

pass?

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Cato.

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me: You know, I'd rather die than disobey you.
Look not thus sternly on me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud
Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when, or where?

I'm weary of conjectures

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this world was made
for Caesar:

this must end them.
(Laying his Hand on his Sword.)
Thus am I doubly arm'd: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die."
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,

'Tis well! again I'm master of myself.
Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates,
And bar each avenue; thy gath'ring fleets
O'erspread the sea, and stop up ev'ry port;
Cato shall open to himself a passage,
And mock thy hopes.

Portius (Kneeling.)

Oh, sir! forgive your son,
Whose grief hangs heavy on him. Oh, my father!
How am I sure it is not the last time

I e'er shall call you so? Be not displeas'd,
Oh, be not angry with me whilst I weep,
And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you
To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul!
(Embracing him.)

Cato.

Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.

Weep not, my son, all will be well again;

Marcia.

Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome,
He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild;

The righteous gods, whom I have sought to Compassionate and gentle to his friends;

please,

Will succour Cato, and preserve his children.

Portius.

Your words give comfort to my drooping heart.

Cato.

Portius, thou may'st rely upon my conduct:
Thy father will not act what misbecomes him.
But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting

Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best,
The kindest father; I have ever found him
Easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes.
Lucia.

'Tis his consent alone can make us blest.
But who knows Cato's thoughts?
Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius,
Or how he has determin'd of thyself?

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
The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.

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Enter Lucius.
Lucius.

Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man!
Oh, Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father;
Some power invisible supports his soul,
And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.
A kind, refreshing sleep is fall'n upon him:
I saw him stretch'd at ease; his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams; as I drew near his couch,
He smil'd, and cried, Caesar, thou canst not
hurt me.

Marcia.

His mind still labours with some dreadful thought.
Enter Juba.

Juba.

Lucius, the horsemen are return'd from viewing
The number, strength, and posture of our foes,
Who now encamp within a short hour's march;
On the high point of yon bright western tower
We ken them from afar; the settling sun
Plays on their shining arms and burnish'd helmets,
And covers all the field with gleams of fire.

Lucius.

Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father.
Caesar is still dispos'd to give us terms,
And waits at distance till he hears from Cato.

Enter Portius.

Portius; thy looks speak somewhat of importance.
What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see
Unusual gladness sparkle in thy eyes.

Portius.

As I was hasting to the port, where now
My father's friends, impatient for a passage,
Accuse the ling'ring winds, a sail arriv'd
From Pompey's son, who, through the realms
of Spain,

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