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naturally not good, became violent and irascible, and his friends were driven from him by his avarice and ill nature, He finally sunk, as he had long anticipated, into madness of a most unhappy character, and literally " expired a driveller and a shew." His fortune, which was considerable, he left to build an hospital for lunatics. In his own time, Swift was in Ireland placed by his party and patriotic writings on the very pinnacle of popularity, and incurred in England, what is next to fame, violent persecution. He is now better known as the author of the TALE OF A TUB, and of the inimitable TRAVELS OF GULLIVER. His prose style is considered a model of simplicity, force, and perspicuity. Passing over his well-known works, and his sermons and pamphlets, we find an unspeakable charm in his nonsensical, kindly, and familiar journals, kept for Mrs Johnson and her female friend, and written in what he calls “the little language;" and in such effusiouis as “ Mary the Cook-Maid's Petition,” and “ Hamilton Bawn.”
This severe, stern, and ambitious politician and vindictive party-writer, who was not apt to forgive, and who was never known to smile, appears in this easy undress of his mind in a light so engaging, and almost soft, that we cease to wonder at the attachments he inspired, and at the singular power which he held over two accomplished women, and a wide circle of devoted and even enthusiastic admirers and friends.
VERSES ON HIS OWN DEATH.
Occasioned by reading the following Maxim in Rochefou.
cault,-" Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous
trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas." In the adversity of our best friends, we always find some
thing that doth not displease us.
As Rochefoucault his maxims drew
This maxim more than all the rest
To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thus much may serve by way of proem ;
The time is not remote when I
That old vertigo in his head
" For poetry, he's past his prime:
And then their tenderness appears
In such a case, they talk in tropes,
Yet should some neighbour feel a pain
My good companions, never fear ;
Behold the fatal day arrive ! “ How is the Dean ?'-" He's just alive.” Now the departing prayer is read ; He hardly breathes—The Dean is dead.
Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run. “Oh! may we all for death prepare ! What has he left ? and who's his heir ?" 66 I know no more than what the news is ; 'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses.' “ To public uses ! there's a whim ! What had the public done for him ? Mere envy, avarice, and pride : He gave it all—but first he dy'd. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation ? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood !"
Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd ; With elegies the town is cloy'd : Some paragraph in every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.
The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame. " We must confess his case was nice ; But he would never take advice. Had he been ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived these twenty years : For, when we open'd him, we found That all his vital parts were sound.”
From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court, “ The Dean is dead.” And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the Queen. The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, " Is he gone ? 'tis time he should. He's dead, you say
then let him rot. I'm glad the medals were forgot.