Verses on the Anniversary of the Death of Dean Swift
 

Death mask of Jonathan Swift

The time is not remote when I
Must, by the course of nature, die …

And so, eventually, he did:
Though by the time they closed the lid
There’d been a long, hard interim                                                                             
While illness had its way with him.
On this world’s rack extended still,
He had the time, if not the will,                                                                                
To meet some connoisseurs of pain:
Corinna, pride of Drury Lane,                                                                                               
Bright carcase, might have chanced to stroll                                                           
Inside the cellars of his soul,
While rotting Celia, bending low,                                                                                        
Cast on his mind her wormy glow.
What would they say, that loathsome pair,                                                               
With eyes of glass and mice for hair,                                                                       
Riddled with pox, with treatment sore,
Sick, ageing, comfortless, and poor?                                                                        
Supposing they had breached his thought,                                                               
They’d hardly bring the comfort brought                                                                   
By stoic Stella, nicely bred,                                                                                      
Dressed, educated, housed, and fed;
But maybe, in that dark distress                                                                               
At which old gossip makes us guess,                                                                       
He might have gleaned, from these brave rags –                                                       
These bedclothes come to life as hags –                                                                  
Some fellow-feeling, or at least                                                                               
Acceptance of the human beast.                                                                               
Then, though we’re told he voiced dismay                                                              
When Dublin cheered his natal day,                                                                           
Perhaps, unknown, he might have found                                                                 
Some trace of comfort in the sound;                                                                        
For shallow though it be, and fake,                                                                          
The best of life is ours to make,                                                                               
And given Houyhnhmnland’s so far,                                                                         
It’s best not hating what we are.                   
 
Julia Griffin

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Julia Griffin  would be pleased to hear them