JONATHAN SWIFT, D. D. 33

Nay, more, profanely you leap o ' er

Your peaceful neighbour ' s ancient bounds,

Invade the weak, unfriended poor,

And seize his patrimonial grounds.

Expell ' d by you from their abodes,

The tender wife and husband fly,

In vain they invocate their gods,

In vain their helpless infants cry.

And yet this dearly bought estate

How quickly must its owner leave !

The wealthy miser ' s last retreat,

And surest portion, is the grave.

What would you more ? impartial earth

Wraps in her lap with equal care

The high and low, nor royal birth

Preserves its poor distinctions there.

Not all Prometheus ' boasted art

Could ever surly Charon sway,

Nor gold itself work on his heart,

To wake him back into the day.

Proud Tantalus, and all his race,

He holds in chains ; the royal kin

In vain implores the smallest grace,

No patient empire his for sin.-

Yet, call ' d or not, the poor he hears,

And in his last and painful strife,

To his assistance straight repairs,

And carries off his load of life.

VOL. I. C