The Works of Jonathan Swift ...

See where those mangled corpses lie,
Condemn'd by female hauds to die;
A comely dame, once clad in white,
Lies there consign'd to endless night;
By cruel hands her blood was spilt,
And yet her wealth was all her guilt.
And here six virgins in a tomb,
All-beauteous offspring of one womb,
Oft in the train of Venus seen,
As fair and lovely as their queen;
In royal garments each was dress'd,
Each with a gold and purple vest;
I saw them of their garments stripp'd,
Their throats were cut, their bellies ripp'd;
Twice were they buried, twice were born,
Twice from their sepulchres were torn;
But now dismember'd here are cast,
And find a resting-place at last.

Here oft the curious traveller finds
The combat of opposing winds;
And seeks to learn the secret cause,
Which alien seems from nature's laws;
Why at this cave's tremendous mouth
He feels at once both north and south;
Whether the winds, in caverns pent,
Through clefts oppugnant force a vent;
Or whether, opening all his stores,
Fierce olus in tempest roars.

Yet, from this mingled mass of things,
In time a new creation springs.
These crude materials once shall rise
To fill the earth, and air, and skies;
In various forms appear again,
Of vegetables, brutes, and men.
So Jove pronounced among the gods,
Olympus trembling as he nods.

LOUISA TO STREPHON. 1724. ·
AH! Strephon, how can you despise
Her who without thy pity dies!
To Strephon I have still been true,
And of as noble blood as you;
Fair issue of the genial bed,
A virgin in thy bosom bred;
Embraced thee closer than a wife:
When thee I leave, I leave my life.
Why should my shepherd take amiss
That oft I wake theo with a kiss?

Yet you of every kits complain;
Abl is not love a pleasing pain?
A pala wiley every happy Birt
You erre with ease and with delight;
With pleasure as the post singe,
Too great for mortals less than kings.
Cole, when on thy breast I Ee,
Observes me with revengeful exe:
If Chloe d'er thy beart prevails,
She'll tear me with her desperate nails;
And with relentless hands destroy
The tender pledges of our joy.
Nor have I bred a spurious race;
They all were born from thy embrace.
Consider, Strephon, what you do;
For, should I die for love of you,
I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghost;
And all my kin (a numerous host,
Who down direct our lineage bring
From victors o'er the Memphian king;
Renown'd in sieges and campaigns,
Who never fled the bloody plains;
Who in tempestuous seas can sport,
And scorn the pleasures of a court;
From whom great Sylla found his doom,

Who scourged to death that scourge of Rome)
Shall on thee take a vengeance dire;

Thou like Alcides shalt expire,

When his envenom'd shirt he wore,
And skin and flesh in pieces tore.
Nor less that shirt, my rival's gift,

Cut from the piece that made her shift,
Shall in thy dearest blood be dyed,

And make thee tear thy tainted hide.

A MAYPOLE. 1725.

DEPRIVED of root and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
And such is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour:
Yet standers-by may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round,
And yet I firmly stand my ground:
All over naked I am seen,

And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land

E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand.
I join'd them fairly with a ring;

And though no marriage words are spoke,
They part not till the ring is broke:
Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,

I'm but an idol raised on high;

And once a weaver in our town,

A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years,

And then the jovial cavaliers

To their old post restored all three

I mean the church, the king, and me.

ON THE MOON.

I WITH borrow'd silver shine;
What you see is none of mine.
First I show you but a quarter,
Like the bow that guards the Tartar;
Then the half, and then the whole,
Ever dancing round the pole.

And what will raise your admiration,
I am not one of God's creation,

But sprung, (and I this truth maintain,)
Like Pallas, from my father's brain.
And after all, I chiefly owe

My beauty to the shades below.

Most wondrous forms you see me wear,

A man, a woman, lion, bear,

A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field,

All figures heaven or earth can yield;
Like Daphne sometimes in a tree;
Yet am not one of all you see.

ON A CIRCLE.

I'm up and down and round about,
Yet all the world can't find me out;

Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure,

They never yet could find my measure.

I'm found almost in every garden,

Nay, in the compass of a farthing.

There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,

Can move an inch except I will.

ON INK.

I AM jet black, as you may see,
The son of pitch and gloomy night:
Yet all that know me will agree
I'm dead except I live in light.

;

Yet you of every kiss complain;
Ah! is not love a pleasing pain?
A pain which every happy night
You cure with ease and with delight;
With pleasure as the poet sings,
Too great for mortals less than kings.
Chloe, when on thy breast I lie,
Observes me with revengeful eye:
If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails,
She'll tear me with her desperate nails
And with relentless hands destroy
The tender pledges of our joy.
Nor have I bred a spurious race;
They all were born from thy embrace.
Consider, Strephon, what you do;
For, should I die for love of you,
I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghost;
And all my kin (a numerous host,
Who down direct our lineage bring
From victors o'er the Memphian king;
Renown'd in sieges and campaigns,
Who never fled the bloody plains;
Who in tempestuous seas can sport,
And scorn the pleasures of a court;
From whom great Sylla found his doom,