Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 18.djvu/469

What elogy may best become
The greatest dean in christendom.
At last I've hit upon a thought ——
Sure this will do —— 'tis good for nought ——
This line I peevishly erase,
And choose another in its place;
Again I try, again commence,
But cannot well express the sense;
The line's too short to hold my meaning;
I'm cramp'd, and cannot bring the dean in.
O for a rhyme to glorious birth!
I've hit upon't —— The rhyme is earth ——,
But how to bring it in, or fit it,
I know not, so I'm forc'd to quit it.
Again I try — I'll sing the man —
Ay do, says Phœbus, if you can:
I wish with all my heart you would not,
Were Horace now alive he could not:
And will you venture to pursue,
What none alive or dead could do?
Pray see, did ever Pope or Gay
Presume to write on his birthday?
Though both were fav'rite bards of mine,
The task they wisely both decline.
With grief I felt his admonition,
And much lamented my condition:
Because I could not be content
Without some grateful compliment,
If not the poet, sure the friend
Must something on your birthday send.
I scratch'd, and rubb'd my head once more:
"Let ev'ry patriot him adore."
Alackaday, there's nothing in't —
Such stuff will never do in print.