On Sending My Son, As A Present, To Dr. Swift, Dean Of St. Patrick's, On His Birth--Day.
A Curious Statue, we are told,
Is priz'd above its Weight in Gold;
If the fair Form the Hand confess
Of Phidias, or Praxiteles:
But if the Artist could inspire
The smallest Spark of heav'nly Fire,
Tho' but enough to make it walk,
Salute the Company, or talk;
This would advance the Price so high,
What Prince were rich enough to buy?
Such if Hibernia could obtain,
She sure would give it to the Dean:
So to her Patriot should she pay
Her Thanks upon his natal Day.
A richer Present I design,
A finish'd Form, of Work divine,
Surpassing all the Power of Art,
A thinking Head, and grateful Heart,
An Heart, that hopes, one Day, to show
How much we to the Drapier owe.
Kings could not send a nobler Gift;
A meaner were unworthy Swift.