With a whirl of thought oppress'd, I sunk from reverie to rest. An horrid vision seized my head; I saw the graves give up their dead! Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, And thunder roars and lightning flies! Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown, The world stands trembling at his throne! While each pale sinner hung his head, Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: "Offending race of human kind, By nature, reason, learning, blind; You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; And you, who never fell--through pride: You who in different sects were shamm'd, And come to see each other damn'd; (So some folk told you, but they knew No more of Jove's designs than you;) --The world's mad business now is o'er, And I resent these pranks no more. --I to such blockheads set my wit! I damn such fools!--Go, go, you're bit."
[Footnote 1: This Poem was sent in a letter from Lord Chesterfield to Voltaire, dated 27th August, 1752, in which he says:
"Je vous envoie ci-jointe une piece par le feu Docteur Swift, laquelle je crois ne vous deplaira pas. Elle n'a jamais ete imprimee, vous en devinerez bien la raison, roais elle est authentique. J'en ai l'original, ecrit de sa propre main."--W. E. B.]
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