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# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Letter from Edward Harley to Jonathan Swift - 10

FROM THE EARL OF OXFORD.
DOVER STREET, JULY 15,
MR. Clayton telling me he was going for Ireland I could not forbear sending you a few lines by him, although I may punish you; yet it is so great a pleasure to me to think of you, and to converse with you even in this manner, that I must expect you will be so good as to forgive the trouble this gives you.
I do not know what notions you entertain of us here; I fear and believe you are in a very bad way: this is my thought, that devoured we certainly shall be; but only this will be the difference, we shall have that great favour and instance of mercy, that we shall have the honour to follow you, and be the ​ last devoured; and though this is so plain, and that demonstrable, yet we have so many unthinking, unaccountable puppies among us, that to them every thing seems to go well as it should do; and are so pleased with this thought, or rather do not think at all, that it is in vain to say any thing to them. This is a very disagreeable subject, and I will therefore leave it.
My wife is, I thank God, pretty well: her stomach is rather better than it was; Peggy is very well: both desire you will accept of their humble service. You mention your law affairs: I know so much of that sort of people called lawyers, that I pity most heartily any one that is obliged to be concerned with them: if you are not already, I hope you will be soon safe out of their hands.
I suppose master Whaley is, by this time, got safe to his living, and enjoying the fruit of his victory, peace and quietness. I believe he has enough of law, of lawyers, and of lords both spiritual and temporal. I hope he is well; if you see him, my service to him.
I wish you would come over here, that we might have the pleasure of seeing you. Why should you not pass the winter here? I should think it would be more agreeable to you than where you are. Lord Bathurst has had a fever; but he is now well again. Pope I saw yesterday: he is pretty well. I am, with true respect and esteem, sir, your most affectionate humble servant,
OXFORD.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Letter from Edward Harley to Jonathan Swift - 11

FROM LORD OXFORD.
DOVER STREET, JUNE 19,
I COULD not suffer Mr. Jebb to pass into Ireland without giving you the trouble of reading a few lines from your humble servant, to inquire how you do, and to return you many thanks for your kind remembrances of me in your letters to my good friend Mr. Pope. I am much concerned for the account you give in your late letter to him of the state of your own health. I should think that the change of air, and seeing some of your remaining friends you have left in this island, would be of service to you at least to entertain and amuse you: as for any other agreeable view I cannot pretend to flatter you so far as that you must expect any; that is over, as I believe you know very well; but as I know you to be a truly good natured man, I hope you will come over; for I assure you it will be an infinite satisfaction and pleasure to your friends to embrace you here. If this motive will not do, I do not know what argument to make use of.
I troubled you last year with an account of the disposal of my daughter: it has in every point answered our expectations and wishes. I was in hopes I should have been able to have given you an account that my daughter was safely brought to bed: we expect it every day. My wife is pretty well; desires your acceptance of her humble service: she, ​among others, would be very glad to see you here. My uncle, the auditor, is in a very ill state of health: I am afraid he cannot last very long: his son has, this spring, put to Westminster school two sons; he has three more and a daughter. Mr. Thomas Harley has had the gout; but he is better, and is at his seat in Herefordshire. The duke of Leeds is returned from his travels a fine gentleman, and has imported none of the fopperies and fooleries of the countries he has passed through. My nephew Robert Hay travelled with the duke, and is come home untainted, but much improved: he is returned to Oxford to follow his studies: he designs for holy orders. My two youngest nephews are still at Westminster school. Lord Dupplin has not yet got an employment; but lives upon hopes and promises. My sister lives in Yorkshire with her daughters, as well as she can, considering the times, &c. &c. Now I ask your pardon, dear sir, for saying so much of family affairs; but as you are a good man, and have always wished my family well, I have ventured to be thus impertinent to give you the state of it. Master Pope is pretty well: he is under persecution from Curll, who has by some means, (wicked ones most certainly) got hold of some of Pope's private letters, which he has printed, and threatens more. We are in so free a state, that there is no remedy against these evils.
It is now time to release you from this dull paper: but I must assure you, what I hope you know already, that I am, with true respect and esteem, sir, your most obliged and most faithful humble servant,
OXFORD.
Please to be so good as to make my compliments to lord Orrery.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Letter from Elizabeth Germain to Jonathan Swift - 27

FROM LADY BETTY GERMAIN.
SEPT. 4, 1735.
IF you are not angry with me for my long silence, I take it ill, and need make no excuse; and if you are angry, then I would not willingly make you sorry too, which I know you will be, when I tell you, that I was laid up at Knowle with a severe fit of the gout. And since that infallible cure for all diseases, which all great fools and talkers wish joy of, I have never been quite well, but have had continually some disorder or other upon me, which made my head and spirits unfit for writing, or indeed doing any thing I should; and am still so much out of order, that I am under great apprehensions I shall not be able to ​go, next year, part of the journey to Ireland with their graces; which is also part of the road to Drayton, where I intend to stay till November, in hopes that summer deferred its coming till I was there; for I am sure, hitherto, we have had little but winter weather.
I am glad matters are settled between his grace of Dorset and you; and I dare answer, as you are both right thinkers, and of course upright actors, there wants but little explanation between you; since I, that am the go between, can easily find out, that he has as sincere a value for you, as you have for him, I do assure you I am extremely delighted, that since lady Suffolk would take a master (commonly called a husband) she chose my brother George: for if I am not partial to him, which indeed I do not know that I am, his sincere value, love, and esteem for her, must make him a good one.
We are now full of expectation of his royal highness's wedding. She has jewels bought for her, and clothes bespoke; and a gallery of communication is making between his apartment and St. James's; but as I do not love to pry into mysteries of state, I do not at all know when the lady will come over.
Your friend Mrs. Floyd is grown fat and well, under the duchess of Dorset's care and direction at Knowle; and my saucy niece is gone for a few days (and I verily believe as far as she can decently help) to her father's. Our friend Curll has again reprinted what he called our letters, as a proper third part of Mr. Pope's. He should have made those bitter silly verses on me to have been his too, instead of sir ​ William Trumbull’s, whom they just as much belonged to. But you patriots are so afraid of suppressing the press, that every body must suffer under that, and the lies of the newspapers, without hopes of redress. Adieu, my dear dean.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Letter from Elizabeth Sican to Jonathan Swift - 1

FROM MRS. SICAN.
A GENTLEMAN, who is just arrived from Paris, brought me a letter from my son, who presents his duty to you, and desires me to send you the enclosed. ​ I am sure I was glad of any occasion to write to you, in hopes of the pleasure of hearing you were well, and arrived safe at the land of Canaan. The hurt you received in your shin, I was afraid would prevent your going out of town: I beg to know how it is now. I believe you will be pleased to hear poor Throp has justice done him in College Green. The trial lasted till midnight, and two thirds of the house were for him: he is now going to petition the house to oblige colonel Waller to wave his privilege; but it is thought he will not obtain that favour.
Lady Acheson came to town yesterday. She desired me to present her best respects to you, and tell you she is something better. Lord Orrery is fretting himself to death that he did not come to town time enough to enjoy the happiness of your conversation. Our Irish ladies made a fine appearance the birthday at the castle; nothing about them Irish but their souls and bodies: I think they may be compared to a city on fire, which shines by that which destroys them. Several dealers in raw silk are broke: the weavers, having no encouragement to work up the silk, sold it, and drank the money. I beg you will give my service to Dr. Sheridan, who I hope is recovered. His old friend lord Clancarty drinks so hard, it is believed he will kill himself before his lawsuit is ended. I hope you will like the country about a month, and then order Mrs. Whiteway and me to bring a coach and six and set you safe at home, for this is no riding weather. I am, with the most profound respect, dear sir, your most obliged humble servant,
E. SICAN.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Letter from Benjamin Motte to Jonathan Swift - 2

FROM MR. MOTTE.
MRS. Launcelot, who dined with me to day, and desired me to present her humble service, showed me part of a letter from you, which gave me so much concern, that I would not let a post slip without writing to you upon the subject of it. You are pleased to express an apprehension, that Mrs. Fenton's money has not been regularly paid, because you have not heard from me for above a twelvemonth. I hope I have accounted to your satisfaction for my silence in a letter which Mrs. Hyde delivered to you since the date of yours to Mrs. Launcelot: and as to Mrs. Fenton's annuity, I have punctually paid it, and shall continue to do so until I receive your commands to the contrary. The next payment will be called for a few days after the first of November, and unless you forbid it before that time, I shall pay it. Mr. Fenton, her son, who receives it, is a man of worth and honour, and I am persuaded will return me the money, should it be paid him from any other quarter. I am surprised to find by Mrs. Hyde that my last, which was written the latter end of July, had so slow a passage, as not to come to your hand until the 13th of September.
I have been so particular (I fear even to tediousness) in that letter, that I have nothing to add, but a repetition of the sincere profession I there made, that I am, with all possible gratitude, truth, and ​ sincerity, sir, your obliged and obedient humble servant,
B. MOTTE.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Letter from Deane Swift to Jonathan Swift - 1

FROM DEANE SWIFT, ESQ.
I HAD so great an honour conferred upon me yesterday, that I know not how to express the obligations I lie under for it; unless, by endeavouring to make myself worthy of your present, I can demonstrate to the world that I daily improve in wisdom and knowledge, by studying in those books, which since the beginning of my life I have for ever esteemed to be a complete library of taste, wit, poetry, and politicks; yes, and in spite of dulness and prejudice, I will venture to say, of religion also. This I am sure of, that so great a present ​from so great a person, and in a manner so handsome and extraordinary, it is absolutely impossible I should ever be honoured with again. I always thought I added to my own reputation whenever I pointed out some of those excellencies which shine through every page of them. But to be thought worthy of receiving them from your hands, was infinitely beyond even what my vanity could hope for. I have flattered myself for many years, that to the best of my power I have continually fought under the banners of liberty, and that I have been ready, at a moment's call, either to lay down my life in the defence of it, or, whenever there should appear any probability of success, to vindicate and assert that claim, which every man in every country has by nature a right to insist upon; but, whatever principles have guided my actions hitherto, I shall from this moment enlist myself under the conduct of liberty's general; and whenever I desert her ensigns, to fight under those of tyranny and oppression, then, and not till then, will I part with those books which you have so highly honoured me with, and cast them into the flames, that I may never afterward be reproached either by the sight of them, or the remembrance of the donor. I am, sir, with the highest esteem, your most obliged and most obedient humble servant,
DEANE SWIFT.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Destruction of Magdeburg

THE DESTRUCTION OF MAGDEBURG.
[For a fine account of the fearful sack of Magdeburg, by Tilly, in the year 1631, see Schiller's "History of the Thirty Years' War."]
Oh, Magdeburg, the town! Fair maids thy beauty crown, Thy charms fair maids and matrons crown; Oh, Magdeburg, the town!
Where all so blooming stands, Advance fierce Tilly's bands; O'er gardens and o'er well-tilled lands Advance fierce Tilly's bands.
Now Tilly's at the gate. Our homes who'll liberate? Go, loved one, hasten to the gate, And dare the combat straight!
There is no need as yet, However fierce his threat; Thy rosy cheeks I'll kiss, sweet pet! There is no need as yet.
My longing makes me pale. Oh, what can wealth avail? E'en now thy father may be pale. Thou makest my courage fail.
​Oh, mother, give me bread! Is then my father dead? Oh, mother, one small crust of bread! Oh! what misfortune dread!
Thy father, dead lies he, The trembling townsmen flee, Adown the street the blood runs free; Oh, whither shall we flee?
The churches ruined lie, The houses burn on high, The roofs they smoke, the flames out fly, Into the street then hie!
No safety there they meet! The soldiers fill the street, With fire and sword the wreck complete: No safety there they meet!
Down falls the houses' line, Where now is thine or mine? That bundle yonder is not thine, Thou flying maiden mine!
The women sorrow sore, The maidens far, far more. The living are no virgins more. Thus Tilly's troops make war!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Faithless Boy

THE FAITHLESS BOY.
There was a wooer blithe and gay,— A son of France was he,— Who in his arms for many a day, As though his bride were she, A poor young maiden had caressed, And fondly kissed, and fondly pressed, And then at length deserted.
When this was told the nut-brown maid, Her senses straightway fled; ​She laughed and wept, and vowed and prayed. And presently was dead. The hour her soul its farewell took, The boy was sad, with terror shook, Then sprang upon his charger.
He drove his spurs into his side, And scoured the country round; But wheresoever he might ride, No rest for him was found. For seven long days and nights he rode, It stormed, the waters overflowed, It blustered, lightened, thundered.
On rode he through the tempest's din, Till he a building spied; In search of shelter crept he in, When he his steed had tied. And as he groped his doubtful way, The ground began to rock and sway, — He fell a hundred fathoms.
When he recovered from his blow, He saw three lights pass by; He sought in their pursuit to go, The lights appeared to fly. They led his footsteps all astray, Up, down, through many a narrow way Through ruined desert cellars.
When lo! he stood within a hall, A hundred guests sat there, With hollow eyes, and grinning all; They bade him taste the fare. ​He saw his sweetheart 'midst the throng, Wrapped up in grave-clothes white and long; She turned, and ———
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Eagle and the Dove

THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE.
In search of prey once raised his pinions An eaglet; A huntsman's arrow came, and reft His right wing of all motive power. Headlong he fell into a myrtle grove, For three long days on anguish fed, In torment writhed Throughout three long, three weary nights; And then was cured, Thanks to all-healing Nature's Soft, omnipresent balm. He crept away from out the copse, And stretched his wing—alas! Lost is all power of flight— He scarce can lift himself From off the ground To catch some mean, unworthy prey, And rests, deep-sorrowing, On the low rock beside the stream. Up to the oak he looks, Looks up to heaven, While in his noble eye there gleams a tear. Then, rustling through the myrtle boughs, behold, There comes a wanton pair of doves, Who settle down, and, nodding, strut O'er the gold sands beside the stream, And gradually approach; Their red-tinged eyes, so full of love, Soon see the inward-sorrowing one. The male, inquisitively social, leaps On the next bush, and looks Upon him kindly and complacently. "Thou sorrowest," murmurs he: "Be of good cheer, my friend! ​All that is needed for calm happiness Hast thou not here! Hast thou not pleasure in the golden bough That shields thee from the day's fierce glow? Canst thou not raise thy breast to catch, On the soft moss beside the brook, The sun's last rays at even? Here thou mayest wander through the flowers' fresh dew. Pluck from the overflow The forest-trees provide, The choicest food,—mayest quench Thy light thirst at the silvery spring. O friend, true happiness Lies in contentedness, And that contentedness Finds everywhere enough." "O wise one!" said the eagle, while he sank In deep and ever deepening thought— "O Wisdom! like a dove thou speakest!"
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Erl-King

THE ERL-KING.
Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear? The father it is, with his infant so dear; He holdeth the boy tightly clasped in his arm, He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?" "Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side! Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?" "My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."
"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh, come thou with me! Full many a game I will play there with thee; On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold, My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?" "Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives; 'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."
"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there? My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;
​My daughters by night their glad festival keep, They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not see, How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?" "My darling, my darling, I see it aright, 'Tis the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight."
"I love thee, I'm charmed by thy beauty, dear boy! And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ." "My father, my father, he seizes me fast, Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."
The father now gallops, with terror half wild, He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child: He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,— The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Exchange

THE EXCHANGE.
The stones in the streamlet I make my bright pillow, And open my arms to the swift-rolling billow, That lovingly hastens to fall on my breast. Then fickleness soon bids it onwards be flowing; A second draws nigh, its caresses bestowing,— And so by a twofold enjoyment I'm blest.
And yet thou art trailing in sorrow and sadness The moments that life, as it flies, gave for gladness. Because by thy love thou'rt remembered no more! Oh, call back to mind former days and their blisses! The lips of the second will give as sweet kisses As any the lips of the first gave before!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Farewell

THE FAREWELL.
[Probably addressed to his mistress Frederica.]
Let mine eye the farewell say, That my lips can utter ne'er; Fain I'd be a man to-day. Yet 'tis hard, oh, hard to bear!
Mournful in an hour like this Is love's sweetest pledge, I ween; Cold upon thy mouth the kiss, Faint thy fingers' pressure e'en.
Oh, what rapture to my heart Used each stolen kiss to bring! As the violets joy impart, Gathered in the early spring.
Now no garlands I entwine, Now no roses pluck for thee, Though 'tis springtime, Fanny mine, Dreary autumn 'tis to me!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Dilettante and the Critic

THE DILETTANTE AND THE CRITIC.
A boy a pigeon once possessed, In gay and brilliant plumage dressed; He loved it well, and in boyish sport Its food to take from his mouth he taught, And in his pigeon he took such pride, That his joy to others he needs must confide.
An aged fox near the place chanced to dwell, Talkative, clever, and learned as well; The boy his society used to prize, Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.
"My friend, the fox, my pigeon must see!" He ran, and stretched 'mongst the bushes lay he. "Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair! His equal I'm sure thou hast looked upon ne'er!"
​"Let's see!"—The boy gave it.—"'Tis really not bad; And yet, it is far from complete, I must add. The feathers, for instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!" So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.
The boy screamed.—"Thou must now stronger pinions supply, Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly." Soon 'twas stripped—oh, the villain!—and torn all to pieces. The boy was heartbroken,—and so my tale ceases.
He who sees in the boy shadowed forth his own case, Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Drops of Nectar

THE DROPS OF NECTAR.
When Minerva, to give pleasure To Prometheus, her well-loved one, Brought a brimming bowl of nectar From the glorious realms of heaven ​As a blessing for his creatures, And to pour into their bosoms Impulses for arts ennobling, She with rapid footstep hastened, Fearing Jupiter might see her, And the golden goblet trembled, And there fell a few drops from it On the verdant plain beneath her. Then the busy bees flew thither Straightway, eagerly to drink them, And the butterfly came quickly That he, too, might find a drop there; Even the misshapen spider Thither crawled and sucked with vigour.
To a happy end they tasted, They, and other gentle insects! For with mortals now divide they Art—that noblest gift of all.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Doubters and the Lovers

THE DOUBTERS AND THE LOVERS.
THE DOUBTERS.
Ye love, and sonnets write! Fate's strange behest! The heart, its hidden meaning to declare, Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair: Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.
Scarcely with freedom the o'erflowing breast As yet can speak, and well may it beware; Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that's there, Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.
Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone Up the steep path but step by step to roll? It falls again, and ye ne'er cease to strive.
THE LOVERS.
But we are on the proper road alone! If gladly is to thaw the frozen soul, The fire of love must aye be kept alive.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Epochs

THE EPOCHS.
On Petrarch's heart, all other days before, In flaming letters written, was impressed Good Friday. And on mine, be it confessed,
Is this year's Advent, as it passeth o'er.
​I do not now begin,—I still adore Her whom I early cherished in my breast, Then once again with prudence dispossessed, And to whose heart I'm driven back once more.
The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love, Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad; One long Good Friday 'twas, one heartache drear; But may my mistress' Advent ever prove, With its palm-jubilee, so sweet and glad, One endless May-day, through the livelong year!