Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb: "Mortal, I would not change my doom, To live in such a restless state, To be unfortunately great; To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves, To shine amidst a race of slaves; To learn from wise men to complain And only rise to fall again: No! let my dusty relics rest, Until I rise among the blest."
[Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel"s tomb lies within view of the window.]
THE UPSTART
The following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are by Mr. Wilson, the editor, ascribed to Swift.--_Scott._
"---- The rascal! that"s too mild a name; Does he forget from whence he came?
Has he forgot from whence he sprung?
A mushroom in a bed of dung; A maggot in a cake of fat, The offspring of a beggar"s brat; As eels delight to creep in mud, To eels we may compare his blood; His blood delights in mud to run, Witness his lazy, lousy son!
Puff"d up with pride and insolence, Without a grain of common sense.
See with what consequence he stalks!
With what pomposity he talks!
See how the gaping crowd admire The stupid blockhead and the liar!
How long shall vice triumphant reign?
How long shall mortals bend to gain?
How long shall virtue hide her face, And leave her votaries in disgrace?
--Let indignation fire my strains, Another villain yet remains-- Let purse-proud C----n next approach; With what an air he mounts his coach!
A cart would best become the knave, A dirty parasite and slave!
His heart in poison deeply dipt, His tongue with oily accents tipt, A smile still ready at command, The pliant bow, the forehead bland--"
ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF WATERFORD[1]
--URBS INTACTA MANET--semper intacta manebit, Tangere crabrones quis bene sa.n.u.s amat?
[Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he said, of the ladies.--_Scott._]
TRANSLATION
A thistle is the Scottish arms, Which to the toucher threatens harms, What are the arms of Waterford, That no man touches--but a ----?
VERSES ON BLENHEIM[1]
Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas!
MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.
See, here"s the grand approach, That way is for his grace"s coach; There lies the bridge, and there the clock, Observe the lion and the c.o.c.k;[2]
The s.p.a.cious court, the colonnade, And mind how wide the hall is made; The chimneys are so well design"d, They never smoke in any wind: The galleries contrived for walking, The windows to retire and talk in; The council-chamber to debate, And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, "tis very fine, But where d"ye sleep, or where d"ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling, That "tis a house, but not a dwelling.
[Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See vol. i, p. 74.--W.E..B_]
[Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little c.o.c.k was placed over two of the portals of Blenheim House; "for the better understanding of which device," says Addison, "I must acquaint my English reader that a c.o.c.k has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation,"
and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The "Spectator," No.
59.--_W. E. B._]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY
Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year, Yet in one hour he lost it, "tis known far and near; To whom did he lose it?--A judge or a peer.[2]
Which n.o.body can deny.
This very same conscience was sold in a closet, Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset, But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
Which n.o.body can deny.
O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense, For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since, But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
Which n.o.body can deny.
So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed, Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead, Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
Which n.o.body can deny.
But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue, Since selling de contre be now all de vogue, You be but von fool after seventeen rogue.
Which n.o.body can deny.
Some sell it for profit, "tis very well known, And some but for sitting in sight of the throne, And other some sell what is none of their own.
Which n.o.body can deny.
But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze, And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise, With six other worthies as glorious as these.
Which n.o.body can deny.
There"s Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood, And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good, All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood.
Which n.o.body can deny.
But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on"t in time, Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme, We"ll paint "em in colours as black as their crime.
Which n.o.body can deny.
But P----r and copper L----h we"ll excuse, The commands of your betters you dare not refuse, Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes.
Which n.o.body can deny.
[Footnote 1: This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written by Swift.--_Scott._]