Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/182

172 A prince, the moment he is crown'd, Inherits every virtue round, As emblems of the sovereign power. Like other baubles in the Tower: Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, And so continues till he dies: His humble senate this professes, In all their speeches, votes, addresses. But once you fix him in a tomb, His virtues fade, his vices bloom; And each perfection, wrong imputed, Is fully at his death confuted. The loads of poems in his praise, Ascending, make one funeral blaze: As soon as you can hear his knell, This god on earth turns devil in Hell: And lo! his ministers of state, Transform'd to imps, his levee wait; Where, in the scenes of endless woe, They ply their former arts below; And as they sail in Charon's boat, Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; To Cerberus they give a sop, His triple barking mouth to stop; Or, in the ivory gate of dreams Project excise and South-sea schemes; Or hire their party pamphleteers To set Elysium by the ears. Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, Employ your Muse on kings alive; With prudence gathering up a cluster Of all the virtues you can muster, Which, form'd into a garland sweet, Lay humbly at your monarch's feet; Who,