by Paul Keegan
But there’s no talking to some Men.
And, then their Tenderness appears,
By adding largely to my Years:
‘He’s older than he would be reckon’d,
‘And well remembers Charles the Second.
‘He hardly drinks a Pint of Wine;
‘And that, I doubt, is no good Sign.
‘His Stomach too begins to fail:
‘Last Year we thought him strong and hale;
‘But now, he’s quite another Thing;
‘I wish he may hold out till Spring.’
Then hug themselves, and reason thus;
‘It is not yet so bad with us.’
In such a Case they talk in Tropes,
And, by their Fears express their Hopes:
Some great Misfortune to portend,
No Enemy can match a Friend;
With all the Kindness they profess,
The Merit of a lucky Guess,
(When daily Howd’y’s come of Course,
And Servants answer; Worse and Worse)
Wou’d please ’em better than to tell,
That, GOD be prais’d, the Dean is well.
Then he who prophecy’d the best,
Approves his Foresight to the rest:
‘You know, I always fear’d the worst,
‘And often told you so at first:’
He’d rather chuse that I should dye,
Than his Prediction prove a Lye.
Not one foretels I shall recover;
But, all agree, to give me over.
Yet shou’d some Neighbour feel a Pain,
Just in the Parts, where I complain;
How many a Message would he send?
What hearty Prayers that I should mend?
Enquire what Regimen I kept;
What gave me Ease, and how I slept?
And more lament, when I was dead,
Than all the Sniv’llers round my Bed.
My good Companions, never fear,
For though you may mistake a Year;
Though your Prognosticks run too fast,
They must be verify’d at last.
‘Behold the fatal Day arrive!
‘How is the Dean? He’s just alive.
‘Now the departing Prayer is read:
‘He hardly breathes. The Dean is dead.
‘Before the Passing-Bell begun,
‘The News thro’ half the Town has run.
‘O, may we all for Death prepare!
‘What has he left? And who’s his Heir?
‘I know no more than what the News is,
‘’Tis all bequeath’d to publick Uses.
‘To publick Use! A perfect Whim!
‘What had the Publick done for him!
‘Meer Envy, Avarice, and Pride!
‘He gave it all: – But first he dy’d.
‘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.
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 rul’d, for ought appears,
‘He might have liv’d 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, the Dean is dead.
Kind Lady Suffolk 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 were forgot.
‘I promis’d them, I own; but when?
‘I only was the Princess then;
‘But now as Consort of the King,
‘You know ’tis quite a different Thing.’
(… )
Here shift the Scene, to represent
How those I love, my Death lament.
Poor POPE will grieve a Month; and GAY
A Week; and ARBUTHNOTT 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 dye.
Indifference clad in Wisdom’s Guise,
All Fortitude 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 God.
The Fools, my Juniors by a Year,
Are tortur’d with Suspence and Fear.
Who wisely thought my Age a Screen,
When Death approach’d, to stand between:
The Screen remov’d, 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.)
‘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 engag’d To-morrow Night!
‘My Lady Club wou’d take it ill,
‘If he shou’d fail her at Quadrill.
‘He lov’d 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.’
1740
ALEXANDER POPE On Queen Caroline’s Death-bed
Here lies wrapt up in forty thousand towels
The only proof that C* * * had bowels.
SAMUEL JOHNSON An Epitaph on Claudy Phillips, a Musician
Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty pow’r, and hapless love,
Rest here distrest by poverty no more,
Find here that calm thou gav’st so oft before;
Sleep undisturb’d within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.
CHARLES WESLEY Morning Hymn
Christ, whose Glory fills the Skies,
CHRIST, the true, the only Light,
Sun of Righteousness, arise,
Triumph o’er the Shades of Night:
Day-spring from on High, be near:
Day-star, in my Heart appear.
Dark and Chearless is the Morn
Unaccompanied by Thee,
Joyless is the Day’s Return,
Till thy Mercy’s Beams I see;
Till they Inward Light impart,
Glad my Eyes, and warm my Heart.
Visit then this Soul of mine,
Pierce the Gloom of Sin, and Grief,
Fill me, Radiancy Divine,
Scatter all my Unbelief,
More and more Thyself display
Shining to the Perfect Day.
1742
ALEXANDER POPE from The Dunciad
[The Tribe of Fanciers]
Then thick as Locusts black’ning all the ground,
A tribe, with weeds and shells fantastic crown’d,
Each with some wond’rous gift approach’d the Pow’r,
A Nest, a Toad, a
Fungus, or a Flow’r.
But far the foremost, two, with earnest zeal,
And aspect ardent to the Throne appeal.
The first thus open’d: ‘Hear thy suppliant’s call,
Great Queen, and common Mother of us all!
Fair from its humble bed I rear’d this Flow’r,
Suckled, and chear’d, with air, and sun, and show’r,
Soft on the paper ruff its leaves I spread,
Bright with the gilded button tipt its head,
Then thron’d in glass, and nam’d it CAROLINE:
Each Maid cry’d, charming! and each Youth, divine!
Did Nature’s pencil ever blend such rays,
Such vary’d light in one promiscuous blaze?
Now prostrate! dead! behold that Caroline:
No Maid cries, charming! and no Youth, divine!
And lo the wretch! whose vile, whose insect lust
Lay’d this gay daughter of the Spring in dust.
Oh punish him, or to th’ Elysian shades
Dismiss my soul, where no Carnation fades.’
He ceas’d, and wept. With innocence of mien,
Th’ Accus’d stood forth, and thus address’d the Queen.
‘Of all th’ enamel’d race, whose silv’ry wing
Waves to the tepid Zephyrs of the spring,
Or swims along the fluid atmosphere,
Once brightest shin’d this child of Heat and Air.
I saw, and started from its vernal bow’r
The rising game, and chac’d from flow’r to flow’r.
It fled, I follow’d; now in hope, now pain;
It stopt, I stopt; it mov’d, I mov’d again.
At last it fix’d, ’twas on what plant it pleas’d,
And where it fix’d, the beauteous bird I seiz’d:
Rose or Carnation was below my care;
I meddle, Goddess! only in my sphere.
I tell the naked fact without disguise,
And, to excuse it, need but shew the prize;
Whose spoils this paper offers to your eye,
Fair ev’n in death! this peerless Butterfly.’
‘My sons! (she answer’d) both have done your parts:
Live happy both, and long promote our arts.
But hear a Mother, when she recommends
To your fraternal care, our sleeping friends.
The common Soul, of Heav’n’s more frugal make,
Serves but to keep fools pert, and knaves awake:
A drowzy Watchman, that just gives a knock,
And breaks our rest, to tell us what’s a clock.
Yet by some object ev’ry brain is stirr’d;
The dull may waken to a Humming-bird;
The most recluse, discreetly open’d, find
Congenial matter in the Cockle-kind;
The mind, in Metaphysics at a loss,
May wander in a wilderness of Moss;
The head that turns at super-lunar things,
Poiz’d with a tail, may steer on Wilkins’ wings.
‘O! would the Sons of Men once think their Eyes
And Reason giv’n them but to study Flies!
See Nature in some partial narrow shape,
And let the Author of the Whole escape:
Learn but to trifle; or, who most observe,
To wonder at their Maker, not to serve.’
(… )
[The Triumph of Dullness]
Then blessing all, ‘Go Children of my care!
To Practice now from Theory repair.
All my commands are easy, short, and full:
My Sons! be proud, be selfish, and be dull.
Guard my Prerogative, assert my Throne:
This Nod confirms each Privilege your own.
The Cap and Switch be sacred to his Grace;
With Staff and Pumps the Marquis lead the Race;
From Stage to Stage the licens’d Earl may run,
Pair’d with his Fellow-Charioteer the Sun;
The learned Baron Butterflies design,
Or draw to silk Arachne’s subtile line;
The Judge to dance his brother Sergeant call;
The Senator at Cricket urge the Ball;
The Bishop stow (Pontific Luxury!)
An hundred Souls of Turkeys in a pye;
The sturdy Squire to Gallic masters stoop,
And drown his Lands and Manors in a Soupe.
Others import yet nobler arts from France,
Teach Kings to fiddle, and make Senates dance.
Perhaps more high some daring son may soar,
Proud to my list to add one Monarch more;
And nobly conscious, Princes are but things
Born for First Ministers, as Slaves for Kings,
Tyrant supreme! shall three Estates command,
And MAKE ONE MIGHTY DUNCIAD OF THE LAND!’
More she had spoke, but yawn’d – All Nature nods:
What Mortal can resist the Yawn of Gods?
Churches and Chapels instantly it reach’d;
(St. James’s first, for leaden Gilbert preach’d)
Then catch’d the Schools; the Hall scarce kept awake;
The Convocation gap’d, but could not speak:
Lost was the Nation’s Sense, nor could be found,
While the long solemn Unison went round:
Wide, and more wide, it spread o’er all the realm;
Ev’n Palinurus nodded at the Helm:
The Vapour mild o’er each Committee crept;
Unfinish’d Treaties in each Office slept;
And Chiefless Armies doz’d out the Campaign;
And Navies yawn’d for Orders on the Main.
O Muse! relate (for you can tell alone,
Wits have short Memories, and Dunces none)
Relate, who first, who last resign’d to rest;
Whose Heads she partly, whose completely blest;
What Charms could Faction, what Ambition lull,
The Venal quiet, and intrance the Dull;
‘Till drown’d was Sense, and Shame, and Right, and Wrong –
O sing, and hush the Nations with thy Song!
* * * * * *
In vain, in vain, – the all-composing Hour
Resistless falls: The Muse obeys the Pow’r.
She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold
Of Night Primæval, and of Chaos old!
Before her, Fancy’s gilded clouds decay,
And all its varying Rain-bows die away.
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
