state the great Dean Swift died, in October 1744, "a driveller and a show!" The poems of Swift form only the smallest item in the account of his wonderful genius. They are remarkable, however, in a high degree, for their power of versification. Their ease and vivacity have never been excelled. We think them also, in conversational humour, in homely but powerful satire, and in a witty accuracy and exactness of description, unquestionably first rate. Nor are they wanting, as the poems to Stella and Vanessa prove, in tender and graceful poetical fancies. It is impossible to pass, however, without the strongest terms of reprobation and shame, certain descriptions, which frequently and shockingly disfigure these poems of Swift. It is but a poor excuse to say, that they were not written with a view to publication. We may suggest, with perhaps as slight an available ground of defence, that they were the product of his moments of spleen and indignation, when he desired to exhibit humanity at a level below itself, correspondent with that to which, from the higher aspirations of his genius, its treatment had reduced him. One thing, at least, is certain and consolatory: Swift could not degrade, as he assisted, humanity. As, while he was doing wonderful services to Ireland, he protested he did not love her; so upon that human nature which he would have us believe he loved as little, In a glad hour Lucina's aid Produc'd on Earth a wondrous maid, To try a new experiment. She threw her law-books on the shelf, And thus debated with herself: "Since men allege, they ne'er can find Those beauties in a female mind, For ever uncorrupt and pure; I'll search where every virtue dwells, This said, she plucks in Heaven's high bowers A sprig of amaranthine flowers, In nectar thrice infuses bays, Three times refin'd in Titan's rays; And sprinkles thrice the new-born maid: A sweetness above all perfumes: From whence that decency of mind, Where not one careless thought intrudes, The Graces next would act their part, By which thou shalt be known to fame; Her name on Earth shall not be told." ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. VAIN human-kind! fantastic race! I have no title to aspire; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. But with a sigh I wish it mine: If with such talents heaven hath bless'd 'em, From Dublin soon to London spread, Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Why, if he died without his shoes," Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: And then, to make them pass the glibber, St. John himself will scarce forbear My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps : "The Dean is dead: (Pray 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 will take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. 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." Suppose me dead; and then suppose Where, from discourse of this and that, |