Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/208

196 You'll owe your ruin to your bulk: Your foes already waiting stand, To tear you like a founder'd hulk, While you lie helpless on the sandsand. [sic] Thus, when a whale has lost the tide, The coasters crowd to seize the spoil; The monster into parts divide, And strip the bones, and melt the oil. O! may some western tempest sweep These locusts whom our fruits have fed, That plague, directors, to the deep, Driv'n from the South Sea to the Red. May he, whom Nature's laws obey, Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud, "Quiet the raging of the sea, And still the madness of the crowd!" But never shall our isle have rest, Till those devouring swine run down, (The devils leaving the possest) And headlong in the waters drown. The nation then too late will find, Computing all their cost and trouble, Directors promises but wind, South Sea at best a mighty bubble. TO