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From all the dry devoirs of blood and line,
From ties maternal, moral, and divine,

Discharg'd my grasping soul; push'd me from shore,

And launch'd me into life without an oar.

What had I lost, if conjugally kind,
By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd,
Untaught the matrimonial bounds to slight,
And coldly conscious of the husband's right,
You had faint-drawn me with a form alone,
A lawful lump of life by force your own!
Then, while your backward will retrench'd desire,
And unconcurring spirits lent no fire,

I had been born your dull, domestic heir,
Load of your life, and motive of your care;
Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great,
The slave of pomp, a cipher in the state,
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And slumbering in a seat, by chance my own.
'Far nobler blessings wait the Bastard's lot;
Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot!
Strong as necessity, he starts away,

Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.'
Thus unprophetic, lately misinspir'd,

I sung: gay fluttering hope my fancy fir'd;
Inly secure, through conscious scorn of ill,
Nor taught by wisdom, how to balance will,
Rashly deceiv'd, I saw no pits to shun,
But thought to purpose, and to act, were one;
Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way,
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray;
But now expos'd, and shrinking from distress,
I fly to shelter, while the tempests press;
My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone,
The raptures languish, and the numbers groan.
O memory! thou soul of joy and pain!
Thou actor of our passions o'er again!
Why dost thou aggravate the wretch's, woe?
Why add continuous smart to every blow?

Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot!
On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not:
While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall;
Yet thou repeat'st, and multiply'st 'em all!

Is chance a guilt? that my disastrous heart,
For mischief never meant, must ever smart?
Can self-defence be sin?-Ah, plead no more!
What though no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er?
Had Heav'n befriended thy unhappy side,
Thou hadst not been provok'd-or thou hadst died.
Far be the guilt of home-shed blood, from all
On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall!
Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me,
To me through Pity's eye condemn'd to see.
Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate;
Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late;
Young and unthoughtful then, who knows one day
What ripening virtues might have made their way!
He might have liv'd, til folly died in shame,
Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame:

He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd;
Both happy, generous, candid, and belov'd:
He might have sav'd some worth, now doom'd to
fall;

And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.

O fate of late repentance! always vain:
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.

Where shall my hope find rest?-no Mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with pray'r:
No Father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm,
First to advance, then skreen from future harm?
I am return'd from death, to live in pain!
Or would Imperial Pity save in vain ?
Distrust it not-What blame can Mercy find,
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?
Mother, miscall'd, farewell-of soul severe,
This sad reflection yet may force one tear:

All I was wretched by, to you I ow'd,
Alone from strangers every comfort flow'd!
Lost to the life you gave, your Son no more,
And now adopted, who was doom'd before,
New-born, I may a nobler Mother claim,
But dare not whisper her immortal name;
Supremely lovely, and serenely great!
Majestic Mother of a kneeling State!
Queen of a People's heart, who ne'er before
Agreed-yet now with one consent adore!
One contest yet remains in this desire,

Who most shall give applause, where all admire.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

O N

POETRY:

A Rhapsody. 1733.

ALL human race would fain be wits,

And millions miss for one that hits:

Young's universal passion, pride,
Was never known to spread so wide.
Say, Britain! could you ever boast
Three poets in an age at most?
Our chilling climate hardly bears
A sprig of bays in fifty years,
While every fool his claim alleges,
As if it grew in common hedges.
What reason can there be assign'd
For this perverseness in the mind?
Brutes find out where their talents lie:
A bear will not attempt to fly;
A founder'd horse will oft debate
Before he tries a five-barr'd gate;
A dog by instinct turns aside,
Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;
But man we find the only creature
Who, led by folly, combats Nature;
Who, when she loudly cries Forbear,'
With obstinacy fixes there,

And where his genius least inclines,
Absurdly bends his whole designs.
Not empire to the rising sun
By valour, conduct, fortune, won;
Not highest wisdom in debates
For framing laws to govern states;
Not skill in sciences profound,
So large to grasp the circle round,
Such heavenly influence require
As how to strike the Muse's lyre.

Not beggar's brat on bulk begot;
Not bastard of a pedlar Scot;
Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes,
The spawn of Bridewell or the stews;
Not infants dropt, the spurious pledges
Of gipsies littering under hedges,
Are so disqualified by fate

To rise in church, or law, or state,
As he whom Phœbus in his ire
Hath blasted with poetic fire.

What hope of custom in the fair,
While not a soul demands your ware?
Where you have nothing to produce
For private life or public use?
Court, city, country, want you not;
You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.
For poets law makes no provision;
The wealthy have you in derision :
Of state-affairs you cannot smatter;
Are awkward when you try to flatter:
Your portion, taking Britain round,
Was just one annual hundred pound;
Now nor so much as in remainder
Since Cibber brought in an attainder;
For ever fix'd by right divine

(A monarch's right) on Grub-street line.
Poor starveling bard! how small thy gains!

How unproportion'd to thy pains!

And here a simile comes pat in;

Though chickens take a month to fatten,

The guests in less than half an hour
Will more than half a score devour.
So after toiling twenty days

To earn a stock of pence and praise,
Thy labours, grown the critic's prey,
Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea;

Gone, to be never heard of more,
Gone, where the chickens went before.

Paid to the Poet-laureat, which place was given to Mr. Colley Cibber, a player.

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