July 15.
St. Swithin.
For this saint, and his supposed miraculous power over the weather, see vol. i. p. 953.
On this day in the year 1743 died, “in earnest,” the wife of one Kirkeen, who was twice at Dublin ready to be buried; but came to life to her loving husband’s great disappointment, who fearing the like accident immediately put her into a coffin, had it nailed up, and buried her the next day.
As wrapp’d in death like sleep Xantippe lay,
’Twas thought her soul had gently stole away;
Th’ officious husband, with a pious care,
Made no delay her funeral pile to rear:
Too fast, alas! they move the seeming dead,
With heedless steps the hasty bearers tread,
And slipping thump the coffin on the ground,
Which made the hollow womb of earth resound;
The sudden shock unseal’d Xantippe’s eyes,
O! whither do you hurry me? she cries;
Where is my spouse?—lo! the good man appears,
And like an ass hang down his dangling ears;
Unwillingly renews his slavish life,
To hug the marriage chain, and hated wife.
For ten long tedious years he felt her pow’r,
At length ’twas ended in a lucky hour;
But now the husband, wiser than before,
Fearing a fall might former life restore,
Cries, “Soft, my friends! let’s walk in solemn measure,
Nor make a toil of that which gives us pleasure.”[261]