Verse > Anthologies > William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. > The Book of Restoration Verse
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William Stanley Braithwaite, ed.  The Book of Restoration Verse.  1910.
 
Stella’s Birthday, March 13, 1727
By Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)
 
THIS day, whate’er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with joy by me.
This day, then, let us not be told
That you are sick, and I grown old;
Nor think on our approaching ills,        5
And talk of spectacles and pills.
To-morrow will be time enough
To hear such mortifying stuff.
Yet, since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,        10
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        15
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;        20
As atheists argue, to entice
And fit their proselytes for vice
(The only comfort they propose,
To have companions in their woes)—
Grant this the case, yet sure ’tis hard        25
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,        30
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,        35
Reflecting on a life well spent?
Your skilful hand employed to save
Despairing wretches from the grave,
And then supporting with your store
Those whom you dragged from death before:        40
So Providence on mortals waits,
Preserving what it first creates.
Your gen’rous boldness to defend
An innocent and absent friend;
That courage which can make you just        45
To merit humbled in the dust;
The detestation you express
For vice in all its glittering dress;
That patience under tort’ring pain,
Where stubborn Stoics would complain;        50
Must these like empty shadows pass,
Or forms reflected from a glass,
Or mere chimæras in the mind,
That fly, and leave no marks behind?
Does not the body thrive and grow        55
By food of twenty years ago?
And, had it not been still supplied,
It must a thousand times have died;
Then who with reason can maintain
That no effects of food remain?        60
And is not virtue in mankind
The nutriment that feeds the mind,
Upheld by each good action past,
And still continued by the last?
Then who with reason can pretend        65
That all effects of virtue end?
  Believe me, Stella, when you show
That true contempt for things below,
Nor prize your life for other ends
Than merely to oblige your friends,        70
Your former actions claim their part,
And join to fortify your heart:
For Virtue, in her daily race,
Like Janus, bears a double face;
Looks back with joy where she has gone,        75
And therefore goes with courage on.
She at your sickly couch will wait,
And guide you to a better state.
  O then, whatever Heaven intends,
Take pity on your pitying friends!        80
Nor let your ills affect your mind
To fancy they can be unkind.
Me, surely me, you ought to spare,
Who gladly would your suff’ring share,
Or give my scrap of life to you,        85
And think it far beneath your due;
You, to whose care so oft I owe
That I’m alive to tell you so.
 
 
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