Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 18.djvu/433

Rh That we the wretched, creeping far behind, Can scarce th' impression of his footsteps find; Smooth as that airy nymph so subtly born With inoffensive feet o'er standing corn; Which bow'd by evening breeze with bending stalks, Salutes the weary trav'ller as he walks; But o'er th' afflicted with a heavy pace Sweeps the broad sithe, and tramples on his face. Down falls the summer's pride, and sadly shows Nature's bare visage furrowed as he mows: See Muse, what havock in these looks appear, These are the tyrant's trophies of a year; Since hope his last and greatest foe is fled, Despair and he lodge ever in its stead; March o'er the ruin'd plain with motion slow, Still scatt'ring desolation where they go. To thee I owe that fatal bent of mind, Still to unhappy restless thoughts inclin'd; To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide, That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; From thee whatever virtue takes its rise, Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice; Such were thy rules to be poetically great, "Stoop not to int'rest, flattery, or deceit; Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid; Learn to disdain their mercenary aid; Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall, Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale; And since unhappy distance thus denies T' expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise; Since thy few ill presented graces seem To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem." —— Rh