Will barely do; but if your grace
Could make them hundreds-charming place!
Thou then wouldst show another face.
Clogher! far north, my lord, it lies,
'Midst snowy hills, inclement skies
One shivers with the arctic wind,
One hears the polar axis grind.
Good John indeed, with beef and claret, Makes the place warm that one may bear it. He has a purse to keep a table,
And eke a soul as hospitable.
My heart is good; but assets fail,
To fight with storms of snow and hail.
Besides, the country's thin of people,
Who seldom meet but at the steeple:
The strapping dean, that's gone to Down,
Ne'er nam'd the thing without a frown,
When, much fatigu'd with sermon study,
He felt his brain grow dull and muddy;
No fit companion could be found,
To push the lazy bottle round:
Sure then, for want of better folks
To pledge, his clerk was orthodox,
Ah! how unlike to Gerard street,
Where beaux and belles in parties meet;
Where gilded chairs and coaches throng,
And jostle as they troll along;
Where tea and coffee hourly flow,
And gapeseed does in plenty grow;
And Griz (no clock more certain) cries,
Exact at seven, "Hot mutton-pies !"
There lady Luna in her sphere
Once shone, when Paunceforth was not near;
But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said,
Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed.
There-but 'tis endless to write down
All the amusements of the town;
And spouse will think herself quite undone,
Τ Trudge to Connor * from sweet London;
Aun care we must our wives to please,
we shall be ill at ease.
You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack,
Tis only some convenient tack,
Some pisenage house, with garden sweet,
To be my late, my iast retreat;
A decent church, close by its side,
There, preaching, praying, to reside;
And, as my time securely rolls,
To save my own and other souls.
DEAR Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory shines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:
I hope, to make you yet as clean
As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean.
The bishopric of Connor is united to that of Down; but there are two deans.
I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall,
And may be something else withal;
And, were you not so good a writer,
I should present you with a mitre.
Write worse, then, if you can-be wise-
Believe me, 'tis the way to rise.
Talk not of making of thy nest :
Ah! never lay thy head to rest!
That head so well with wisdom fraught,
That writes without the toil of thought!
While others rack their busy brains,
You are not in the least at pains.
Down to your dean'ry new repair,
And build a castle in the air.
I'm sure a man of your fine sense
Can do it with a small expense.
There your dear spouse and you together
May breathe your bellies full of ether.
When lady Luna is your neighbour,
She'll help your wife when she's in labour;
Well skill'd in midwife artifices,
For she herself oft falls in pieces.
There you shall see a rareeshow
Will make you scorn this world below,
When you behold the milky way,
As white as snow, as bright as day;
The glittering constellations roll
About the grinding arctic pole;
The lovely tingling in your ears,
Wrought by the music of the spheres―
Your spouse shall then no longer hector,
You need not fear a curtain-lecture;
Nor shall she think that she is undone
For quitting her beloved London,
When she's exalted in the skies,
She'll never think of mutton pies ;
When you're advanc'd above dean Viz
You'll never think of goody Griz.
But ever, ever, live at ease,
And strive, and strive, your wife to please;
In her you'll centre all your joys,
And get ten thousand girls and boys:
Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get,
And they like stars shall rise and set.
While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon
Be a new sun and a new moon :
Nor shall you strive your horns to hide,
For then your horns shall be your pride.
IF it be true, celestial powers,
That you have form'd me fair,
And yet, in all my vainest hours,
My mind has been my care:
Then, in return, I beg this grace,
As you were ever kind,
What envious Time takes from my face,
Bestow upon my mind!
* See another poem by Stella, entitled "Jealousy," in Mr. Sheridan's Life of Swift, in vol. IV. p. 26. N,
DR. DELANY'S VILLA.*
WOULD you that Delville I describe?
Believe me, sir, I will not gibe:
For who would be satirical
Upon a thing so very small?
You scarce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
A single crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Observe a vast variety;
Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows and doors, and rooms and stars,
And hills and dales, and woods and fields,
And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields ;
All to your haggard brought so cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping:
A razor, though to say't I'm loth,
Would shave you and your meadows both.
Though small's the farm, yet here's a house
Full large to entertain a mouse;
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than savage Caledonian boar;
For, if it's enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.
A little rivulet seems to steal
Down through a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek;
This was not Swift's, but written by Dr. Sheridan. S.
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