To Dr. Swift

URg'd by the warmth of sacred friendship's flame, But more by all the wonders of thy fame, By all those offsprings of thy learned mind, In judgment solid, as in wit refin'd; Resolv'd I sing, tho' lab'ring up the way To reach my theme—O Swift! accept my lay.

Rapt by the force of thought, and rais'd above, Thro' Contemplation's airy fields I rove, Where pow'rful Fancy purifies my eye, And lights the beauties of a brighter sky, Fresh paints the meadows, bids green shades ascend, Clear rivers wind, and op'ning plains extend; Then fills its landskip thro' the varied parts With Virtues, Graces, Sciences and Arts, Superior forms, of more than mortal air, More large than mortals, more serenely fair: And there two chiefs, the guardians of thy name, Contend to raise thee to the point of fame.

Ye future times!—I heard the silver sound, I saw the Graces form a circle round; Each where she fix'd attentive seem'd to root, And all but Eloquence herself was mute.

High o'er the throng I saw the Goddess rise, Free to the breeze her upper garment flies; By turns within her eye the passions burn, The softer passions languish in their turn; Upon her lips convincing Proof resides, Thro' all her speech Persuasion melting glides; A golden crown confess'd her high command, And waving Action gently grac'd her hand.

Out of her bosom, where the treasure lay, She drew thy labours to the blaze of day, Then gaz'd, and read the charms she could inspire, And taught the list'ning audience to admire.

How strong thy flight! how large thy grasp of thought! How just thy schemes! how regularly wrought! How sure you wound when ironies deride! Which must be seen, yet feign to turn aside; How far uncommon, with an air of ease, How nicely taking are thy turns of praise! Fame wants no words to make the Patriot shine, But yet, to chuse the best, must borrow thine: What public spirit in thy works appears! What rolling language fills the ravish'd ears! Where Nature all her force of writing shows, Where Art concealing Art with Nature goes.

She ceas'd. Applause attended on the close; Then Poetry her sister art arose, Her fairer sister, born in deepest ease, Not made so much for bus'ness as to please; Upon her cheeks sits beauty ever young, The soul of music warbles on her tongue, Bright in her eyes a pleasing ardour glows, And from her heart the sweetest temper flows; A laurel-wreath adorns her curling hair, And binds their order to the dancing air; She shakes the colours of her radiant wing, While from the spheres she takes her pitch to sing.

Thrice happy Genius his! whose works have hit The lucky point of bus'ness and of wit; They seem like show'rs which April months prepare To call the flow'ry glories up to air; The drops descending make the varied bow, And while they fall for profit, dress for show. To me retiring oft he finds relief From slow consuming care, and pining grief; From me retreating oft he gives to view What eases care, and grief in others too.

Ye fondly grave! be wise enough to know, Life ne'er unbent is but a life of woe. I'll gently steal you from your toils away, Where balmy winds, and scents ambrosial play, Where on the banks, as chrystal rivers flow, They teach immortal Amaranths to grow; Then from the wild indulgence of the scene, Restore your tempers strong for toils again.

She ceas'd. Soft Music trembl'd in the wind, And sweet Delight diffus'd, thro' ev'ry mind: The little Smiles which still the Goddess grace, Sportive arose, and run from face to face. But chief— A gentle band their eager joys express: Here Friendship asks, and Love of Merit longs To hear the Goddesses renew their songs; There great Benevolence to Men is pleas'd; These own their SWIFT, and grateful hear him prais'd. You gentle band! you well may bear your part, You reign Superior Graces in his heart.

O SWIFT! if Friendship's warm yet lasting flame, If Love of Merit have to praise a claim; If just esteem from ev'ry temper flows To crown a tender sense of human woes; These fair returns are thine: nor cou'dst thou lye Unknown alive, nor wilt unlovely dye.

Or if high fame be life, (and well we know, That Bards and Heroes have esteem'd it so) Thou can'st not all expire; thy Works will shine To future times, and Life in Fame be thine.