Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 18.djvu/431

Rh And if so black the cloud, that Heaven's bright queen Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen? Thus, when Dorinda wept, joy ev'ry face forsook, And grief flung sables on each menial look; The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead. Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; And to mistaken man these truths rehearse, Who dare revile the integrity of verse: Ah fav'rite youth, how happy is thy lot! But I'm deceiv'd, or thou regard'st me not; Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect Thy just submission for this bold neglect. Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use At the divine appearance of the Muse, Which to divulge might shake profane belief, And tell the irreligion of my grief; Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, And shaped my passion in such words as these. Malignant goddess! bane to my repose, Thou universal cause of all my woes; Say, whence it comes that thou art grown of late A poor amusement for my scorn and hate; The malice thou inspir'st I never fail On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; Fools commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, Th' appeal of dullness in the last resort: . XVIII.