swift a flight, And treads so soft, so easy, and so light, That we the wretched, creeping far behind, Can scarce th'impression of his footsteps find; Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn;[3]      Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, Salutes the weary traveller as he walks; But o'er the afflicted with a heavy pace Sweeps the broad scythe, and tramples on his face. Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows Nature's bare visage furrow'd as he mows:      See, Muse, what havoc in these looks appear, These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, Still scattering desolation where they go. To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind, Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined; To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide, That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; From thee whatever virtue takes its rise, Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice; Such were thy rules to be poetically great:      "Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit; Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid; Learn to disdain their mercenary aid; Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall, Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4]      And since unhappy distance thus denies T'expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise; Since thy few ill-presented graces seem To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem—"         Madness like this no fancy ever seized, Still to be cheated, never to be pleased; Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds Is all the poor content delusion finds.—      There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour I here renounce thy visionary power; And since thy essence on my breath depends Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends. 

      [Footnote 1: Dorothy, Sir William Temple's wife, a daughter of Sir Peter Osborne. She was in some way related to Swift's mother, which led to Temple taking Swift into his family. Dorothy died in January, 1695, at Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir William died in January, 1698, "and with him," says Swift, "all that was good and amiable among men." He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his wife.—W. E. B.]       [Footnote 2: Swift's poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.—W. E. B.]       [Footnote 3:  "—when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th'unbending corn, and skims along the main."      POPE, Essay on Criticism, 372-3.]       

 Prev. P 39/242 next