Volume I Part 40 (2/2)
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-Street wits are all employ'd; With elegies the town is cloy'd: Some paragraph in ev'ry paper To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5]
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 these twenty years; For, when we open'd him, we found, That all his vital parts were sound.”
From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court,[6] ”the Dean is dead.”
Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the queen.
The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, ”Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd.
He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot.
I promised him, I own; but when?
I only was a princess then; But now, as consort of a king, You know, 'tis quite a different thing.”
Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: ”Why, is he dead without his shoes,”
Cries Bob,[10] ”I'm sorry for the news: O, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will![11]
Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!”
Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!
And then, to make them pa.s.s the glibber, Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14]
He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15]
Revive the libels born to die; Which Pope must bear, as well as I.
Here s.h.i.+ft 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 fort.i.tude of mind supplies: For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt!
When _we_ are lash'd, _they_ kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of G.o.d.
The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approach'd, to stand between: The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling.
My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: ”The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16]
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: My Lady Club wou'd take it ill, If he shou'd fail her at quadrille.
He loved 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.”
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! no more is miss'd, Than if he never did exist.
Where's now this 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[17] 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;[18]
I sent them with a load of books, Last Monday to the pastry-cook'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 birth-day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen, By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen.
<script>