Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/352

 Britain, with shame, confess this land of mine First taught thee human knowlege and divine ; My prelates and my students, sent from hence, Made your sons converts both to God and sense: Not like the pastors of thy ravenous breed, Who come to fleece the flocks, and not to feed. Wretched Ierne! with what grief I see The fatal changes Time has made in thee! The Christian rites I introduc’d in vain: Lo! infidelity return'd again! Freedom and virtue in thy sons I found, Who now in vice and slavery are drown'd. By faith and prayer, this crosier in my hand, I drove the venom'd serpent from thy land: The shepherd in his bower might sleep or sing , Nor dread the adder's tooth, nor scorpion's sting. With omens oft I strove to warn thy swains, Omens, the types of thy impending chains, I sent the magpie from the British soil, With restless beak thy blooming fruit to spoil; To din thine ears with unharmonious clack, And haunt thy holy walls in white and black. What else are those thou seest in bishop's geer, Who crop the nurseries of learning here; Aspiring,