_Was it a dream, that low dim-lighted room With that dark periwigged phantom of Dean Swift Writing, beside a fire, to one he loved,-- Beautiful Catherine Barton, once the light Of Newton's house, and his half-sister's child?_ Yes, Catherine Barton, I am brave enough To face this pale, unhappy, wistful ghost Of our departed friendship. It was I Savage and mad, a snarling kennel of sins, "Your Holiness," as you called me, with that smile Which even your ghost would quietly turn on me-- Who raised it up. It has no terrors, dear. And I shall never lay it while I live. You write to me. You think I have the power To shield the fame of Newton from a lie. Poor little ghost! You think I hold the keys Not only of Parnassus, then, but hell. There is a tale abroad that Newton owed His public office to Lord Halifax, Your secret lover. Coarseness, as you know, Is my peculiar privilege. I'll be plain, And let them wince who are whispering in the dark. They are hinting that he gained his public post Through you, his flesh and blood; and that he knew You were his patron's mistress! Yes, I know The coffee-house that hatched it--to be scotched, Nay, killed, before one snuff-box could say "snap," Had not one cold malevolent face been there Listening,--that crystal-minded lover of truth, That lucid enemy of all lies,--Voltaire. I am told he is doing much to spread the light Of Newton's great discoveries, there, in France. There's little fear that France, whose clear keen eyes Have missed no morning in the realm of thought, Would fail to see it; and smaller need to lift A brand from hell to illume the light from heaven. You fear he'll print his lie. No doubt of that. I can foresee the phrase, as Halley saw The advent of his comet,--_jolie niece, Assez amiable,_ ... then he'll give your name As _Madame Conduit_, adding just that spice Of infidelity that the dates admit To none but these truth-lovers. It will be best Not to enlighten him, or he'll change his tale And make an answer difficult. Let him print This truth as he conceives it, and you'll need No more defence. All history then shall damn his death-cold lie And show you for the laughing child you were When Newton won his office. For yourself You say you have no fear. Your only thought Is that they'll soil his fame. Ah yes, they'll try, But they'll not hurt it. For all time to come It stands there, firm as marble and as pure. They can do nothing that the sun and rain Will not erase at last. Not even Voltaire Can hurt that noble memory. Think of him As of a viper writhing at the base Of some great statue. Let the venomous tongue Flicker against that marble as it may It cannot wound it. I am far more grieved For you, who sit there wondering now, too late, If it were some suspicion, some dark hint Newton had heard that robbed him of his sleep, And almost broke his mind up. I recall