Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/18

6 VI.

Only the laurel got by peace No thunder e'er can blast: Th' artillery of the skies Shoots to the earth, and dies: And ever green and flourishing 'twill last, Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' cries. About the head crown'd with these bays, Like lambent fire the lightning plays; Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, Makes up its solemn train with death; It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath.

VII.

The wily shifts of state, those jugglers' tricks, Which we call deep designs and politicks, (As in a theatre the ignorant fry, Because the cords escape their eye, Wonder to see the motions fly) Methinks, when you expose the scene, Down the ill-organ'd engines fall; Off fly the vizards, and discover all: How plain I see through the deceit! How shallow, and how gross, the cheat! Look where the pully's tied above! Great God! (said I) what have I seen! On what poor engines move The thoughts of monarchs, and designs of states! What petty motives rule their fates! How the mouse makes the mighty mountain shake! The mighty mountain labours with its birth, Away the frighten'd peasants fly, Scar'd at th' unheard-of prodigy, Expect some great gigantick son of earth; Lo!