Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 18.djvu/476



NDONE by fools at home, abroad by knaves, The isle of saints became the land of slaves, Trembling beneath her proud oppressor's hand; But, when thy reason thunder'd through the land, Then all the publick spirit breath'd in thee, And all, except the sons of guilt, were free. Blest isle, blest patriot, ever glorious strife! You gave her freedom, as she gave you life! Thus Cato fought, whom Brutus copied well, And with those rights, for which you stand, he fell. A RIDDLE.