I grieve that our degenerate days
Produce no mighty soul like these:
Patriot, philosopher, and bard,
Are names unknown, and seldom heard.
"Spare your reflection," Phœbus cries;
"'Tis as ungrateful as unwise:
Can you complain, this sacred day,
That virtues or that arts decay?
Behold in Swift reviv'd appears
The virtues of unnumber'd years;
Behold in him, with new delight,
The patriot, bard, and sage, unite;
And know, Ierne in that name
Shall rival Greece and Rome in fame."
NO pedant Bentley proud, uncouth,
Nor sweetening dedicator smooth,
In one attempt has ever dar'd
To sap, or storm, this mighty bard.
Nor Envy does, nor Ignorance,
Make on his works the least advance.
For this, behold! still flies afar
Where'er his genius does appear;
Nor has that ought to do above,
So meddles not with Swift and Jove.
A faithful, universal fame
In glory spreads abroad his name;
Pronounces Swift, with loudest breath,
Immortal grown before his death.
