One maid she had belov'd above the reft;
Secure of her, the fecret fhe confefs'd;
And now the chearful light her fears dispell'd
She with no winding turns the truth conceal'd,
But put the woman off, and ftood reveal'd:
With faults confefs'd commiffion'd her to go,
If pity yet had place, and reconcile her foe;
The welcome meffage made, was foon receiv'd;
'Twas to be wifh'd, and hop'd, but fcarce believ'd;
Fate feem'd a fair occafion to present;
He knew the fex, and fear'd fhe might repent,,.
Should he delay the moment of confent.
There yet remain'd to gain her friends (a care
The modefty of maidens well might (pare ;)
But fhe with fuch a zeal the cafe embrac'd,
(As women, where they will, are all in hafte,).
The father, mother, and the kin befide,
Were overborne by fury of the tide:
With full confent of all fhe chang'd her state;
Refistless in her love, as in her hate.
By her example warn'd, the reft beware;
More eafy, lefs imperious, were the fair;
And that one hunting, which the devil defign'd
For one fair female, loft him half the kind.
(Dr. Jonathan Swift, geboren 1667, gestorben 1745, erwarb sich zwar den meisten Ruhm durch seine prosaischen Schriften satirischer Gattung; aber auch als Dichter behauptet er unter seinen Landesleuten eine rühmliche Stelle; und man findet in seinen meisten Versen eben die reiche Ader des Wizes und der Laune wieder, die seine Prose so reich durchs fromt. Ihr Ton ist leicht und munter, und ihre Schreibart korrekt. Der aus Ovid's Metamorphosen (B. VIII, v. 618. ff.) bekannten Fabel von Philemon und Baucis hat Swift in folgender Erzählung eine sehr glückliche komische Wendung zu geben gewußt. Eine Nachahmung beider Dich ter findet man in von Hagedorn's Fabeln und Erzähluns gen.)
In ancient Times, as ftory tells,
The Saints would often leave their Cells,
And ftrole about, but hide their Quality,
To try good People's Hospitality.
It happen'd on a Winter Night,
As Authors of the Legend write;
Two Brother Hermits, Saints by Trade,
Taking their tour in Masquerade;
Difguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went
To a fmall Village down in Kent;
Where, in the Strolers canting Strain,
They begg'd from Door to Door in vain;
Try'd ev'ry Tone, might Pity win,
But not a Soul would let 'em in,
Our wand'ring Saints in woful State,
Treated at this ungodly Rate,
Having thro' all the Village país'd,
To a fmall Cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honeft Yeoman,
Call'd in the Neighbourhood, Philemon.
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his poor Hutt to pass the Night;
And then the hospitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire;
While he from out the Chimny took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook;
And freely from the fatteft Side
Cut out large Slices to be fry'd:
Then ftept afide to fetch 'em Drink
Fill'd a large fugg up to the Brink;
And faw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
'Twas ftill replenif h'd to the Top,
As if they ne'er had toucht a Drop.
The good old Couple was amaz❜d,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighted to the Heart,
And just began to cry; What art!
Then foftly turn'd afide, to view
Whether the Light were burning blue.
The gentle Pilgrims foon avare on't,
Told 'em their Calling, and their Errant:
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints, the Hermits faid;
No hurt fhall come to you or yours;
But, for that Pack of Churlifh Boors,
Not fit to live on Chriftian Ground,
They and their Houses fhall be drown'd;
Whilst you shall fee your Cottage rise,
And grow a Church before your Eyes.
They fearce had fpoke, when, fair and foft, The Roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rofe ev'ry Beam and Rafter
The heavy Wall climb'd flowly after.
The Chimney widen'd, and grew high'r,
Became a Steeple with a Spire.
A wooden Jack, which had almost
Loft, by difufe, the Art to roast,
A fudden Alteration feels,
Encreaf'd by new Inteftine Wheels:
And, what exalts the Wonder more,
The Number made the Motion flow'r:
The Flyar, tho' 't had leaden Feet,
Turn'd round fo quick you scarce could fee't;
But flacken'd by fome fecret pow'r
Now hardly moves an Inch an Hour.
The Jack and Chimney near ally'd,
Had never left each others fide;
The Chimney to a Steeple grown,
The Jack would no be left alone,
But up against the Steeple rear'd,
Became a Clock, and still adher❜d:
And ftill its Love to Houl hold Cares
By a fhrill Voice at Noon declares,
Warning the Cook-maid not to burn
That Roaft-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning Chair began to crawl
Like a huge Snail along the Wall;
There stuck aloft in publick View,
And, with fmall Changé, a Pulpit grew.
The Porringers that in a Row
Hung high, and made a glittering Show,
To a lefs noble Subftance chang'd,
Were now but Leathern Buckets rang'd.
The Ballads pafted on the Wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rofamond, and Robin Hood,
The little Children in the Wood;
Now feem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in Picture, Size, and Letter;
And high in Order plac'd, defcribe
The Heraldry of ev'ry Tribe.
A Bedfted of the antique Mode,
Compact of Timber many a Load,
Such as our Ancestors did ufe.
Was metamorphof'd into Pews,
Which still their ancient Nature keep;
By lodging Folks, difpof'd to Sleep.
The Cottage, by fuch Feats as these,
Grown to a Church by juft Degrees,
The Hermits then defir'd their Hoft
To afk for what he fancy'd moft:
Philemon having pauf'd a while,
Return'd'em thanks in homely ftile;
Then faid; my House is grown fo fine,
Methinks I ftill would call it mine:
I'm old, and fain would live at ease,
Make me the Parfon, if you please.
He spoke, and prefently he feels
His Grafiers Coat fall down his Heels;
He fees, yet hardly can believe,
About each Arm a Pudding-fleeve.
His Waftcoat to a Caffock grew,
And both affum'd a fable Hue;
But being old, continu'd juft
As thread-bare, and as full of Duft.
His talk was now of Tythes and Dues,
Could imoak his Pipe, and read the News;
Knew how to preach old Sermons next,
Vampt in the Preface and the Text.
A Chriftnings well could act his Part,
And had the Service all by Heart;
Wish'd Women might have Children faft,
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