An Epistle To Robert Nugent, Esq.[1]

WITH A PICTURE OF DR. SWIFT. BY WILLIAM DUNKIN, D.D.

To gratify thy long desire, (So love and piety require,) From Bindon's colours you may trace The patriot's venerable face. The last, O Nugent! which his art Shall ever to the world impart; For know, the prime of mortal men, That matchless monarch of the pen, (Whose labours, like the genial sun, Shall through revolving ages run, Yet never, like the sun, decline, But in their full meridian shine,) That ever honour'd, envied sage, So long the wonder of the age, Who charm'd us with his golden strain, Is not the shadow of the Dean: He only breathes Boeotian air-- "O! what a falling off was there!" Hibernia's Helicon is dry, Invention, Wit, and Humour die; And what remains against the storm Of Malice but an empty form? The nodding ruins of a pile, That stood the bulwark of this isle? In which the sisterhood was fix'd Of candid Honour, Truth unmix'd, Imperial Reason, Thought profound, And Charity, diffusing round In cheerful rivulets to flow Of Fortune to the sons of woe? Such one, my Nugent, was thy Swift, Endued with each exalted gift, But lo! the pure ethereal flame Is darken'd by a misty steam: The balm exhausted breathes no smell, The rose is wither'd ere it fell. That godlike supplement of law, Which held the wicked world in awe And could the tide of faction stem, Is but a shell without the gem. Ye sons of genius, who would aim To build an everlasting fame, And in the field of letter'd arts, Display the trophies of your parts, To yonder mansion turn aside, And mortify your growing pride. Behold the brightest of the race, And Nature's honour, in disgrace: With humble resignation own, That all your talents are a loan; By Providence advanced for use, Which you should study to produce Reflect, the mental stock, alas! However current now it pass, May haply be recall'd from you Before the grave demands his due, Then, while your morning star proceeds, Direct your course to worthy deeds, In fuller day discharge your debts; For, when your sun of reason sets, The night succeeds; and all your schemes Of glory vanish with your dreams. Ah! where is now the supple train, That danced attendance on the Dean? Say, where are those facetious folks, Who shook with laughter at his jokes, And with attentive rapture hung, On wisdom, dropping from his tongue; Who look'd with high disdainful pride On all the busy world beside, And rated his productions more Than treasures of Peruvian ore? Good Christians! they with bended knees Ingulf'd the wine, but loathe the lees, Averting, (so the text commands,) With ardent eyes and upcast hands, The cup of sorrow from their lips, And fly, like rats, from sinking ships. While some, who by his friendship rose To wealth, in concert with his foes Run counter to their former track, Like old Actæon's horrid pack Of yelling mongrels, in requitals To riot on their master's vitals; And, where they cannot blast his laurels, Attempt to stigmatize his morals; Through Scandal's magnifying glass His foibles view, but virtues pass, And on the ruins of his fame Erect an ignominious name. So vermin foul, of vile extraction, The spawn of dirt and putrefaction, The sounder members traverse o'er, But fix and fatten on a sore. Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile His wit, his humour, and his style; Since all the monsters which he drew Were only meant to copy you; And, if the colours be not fainter, Arraign yourselves, and not the painter. But, O! that He, who gave him breath, Dread arbiter of life and death: That He, the moving soul of all, The sleeping spirit would recall, And crown him with triumphant meeds, For all his past heroic deeds, In mansions of unbroken rest, The bright republic of the bless'd! Irradiate his benighted mind With living light of light refined; And there the blank of thought employ With objects of immortal joy! Yet, while he drags the sad remains Of life, slow-creeping through his veins, Above the views of private ends, The tributary Muse attends, To prop his feeble steps, or shed The pious tear around his bed. So pilgrims, with devout complaints, Frequent the graves of martyr'd saints, Inscribe their worth in artless lines, And, in their stead, embrace their shrines.