Jonathan Swift(1667–1745)
Stella's Birthday
March 13, 1727 5
T h i s day, w h a t e ' e r t h e f a t e s d e c r e e ,
Shall still be k e p t w i t h j o y by m e :always
T h i s day t h e n , let u s n o t b e told
T h a t y o u are sick, a n d I g r o w n old,
N o r t h i n k on o u r a p p r o a c h i n g ills,
A n d talk o f s p e c t a c l e s a n d pills;
T o m o r r o w will b e t i m e e n o u g h
To hear such mortifying 0 stuff.depressing
Yet since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,
Which can in spite of all decays
Support a few remaining days:
From not the gravest of divines,
Accept for once some serious lines.
Although we now can form no more
Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast,
Can look with joy on what is past.
Were future happiness and pain
A mere contrivance of the brain,
As atheists argue, to entice
And fit their proselytes 0 for viceconverts
(The only comfort they propose,
To have companions in their woes),
Grant this the case, yet sure 'tis hard
That virtue, styled its own reward,
And by all sages understood
To be the chief of human good,
Should acting, die, nor leave behind
Some lasting pleasure in the mind,
Which, by remembrance, will assuage
Grief, sickness, poverty, and age;
And strongly shoot a radiant dart,
To shine through life's declining part.
Say, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent
Your skillful hand employed to save
Despairing wretches from the grave;
And then supporting from your store
Those whom you dragged from death before
(So Providence on mortals waits,
Preserving what it first creates);
Your generous boldness to defend
An innocent and absent friend;
That courage which can make you just,
To merit humbled in the dust:
The detestation you express
For vice in all its glittering dress:
That patience under torturing pain,
Where stubborn stoics6 would complain.
Must these like empty shadows pass,
Or forms reflected from a glass
Or mere chimeras 0 in the mind,wild fancies
That fly and leave no marks behind
Does not the body thrive and grow
By food of twenty years ago
And, had it not been still supplied,
It must a thousand times have died.
T h e n w h o w i t h r e a s o n c a n m a i n t a i n
That no effects of food remain
A n d i s n o t virtue i n m a n k i n d
T h e n u t r i m e n t that f e e d s t h e m i n d ?
U p h e l d b y e a c h g o o d a c t i o n past,
A n d still c o n t i n u e d b y t h e last:
T h e n w h o w i t h r e a s o n c a n p r e t e n d
T h a t all e f f e c t s of virtue e n d ?
B e l i e v e m e , Stella, w h e n y o u s h o w
T h a t true c o n t e m p t for t h i n g s b e l o w ,
N o r prize y o u r life for o t h e r e n d s
T h a n m e r e l y to o b l i g e y o u r friends,
Your f o r m e r a c t i o n s c l a i m their part,
A n d j o i n t o fortify y o u r heart.
For virtue in h e r daily race,
Like J a n u s , 7 bears a d o u b l e f a c e ,
L o o k s b a c k w i t h joy w h e r e s h e h a s g o n e ,
A n d t h e r e f o r e g o e s w i t h c o u r a g e o n .
S h e a t y o u r sickly c o u c h will wait,
A n d g u i d e y o u t o s o m e b e t t e r state.
O t h e n , w h a t e v e r H e a v e n i n t e n d s ,
Take pity on your pitying friends;
N o r let y o u r ills a f f e c t y o u r m i n d ,
T o f a n c y t h e y c a n b e u n k i n d .
M e , surely m e , y o u o u g h t t o spare,
W h o gladly w o u l d y o u r s u f f e r i n g s share;
Or give my scrap of life to y o u ,
A n d t h i n k i t far b e n e a t h y o u r d u e ;
You, to w h o s e care so o f t I o w e
T h a t I'm alive to tell y o u so.