O Genius of Hibernia’s state,
Sublimely good, severely great,
How doth this latest act excel
All you have done or wrote so well! 
Satire may be the child of spite,
And fame might bid the Drapier write: 
But to relieve, and to endow,
Creatures that know not whence or how
Argues a soul both good and wise,
Resembling Him who rules the skies,
He to the thoughtful mind displays
Immortal skill ten thousand ways;
And, to complete his glorious task,
Gives what we have not sense to ask!

III

Lo!  Swift to idiots bequeaths his store: 
Be wise, ye rich!—­consider thus the poor!

IV

Great wits to madness nearly are allied,
This makes the Dean for kindred thus provide.

ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK’S BIRTH-DAY BEING NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW’S DAY

Between the hours of twelve and one,
When half the world to rest were gone,
Entranced in softest sleep I lay,
Forgetful of an anxious day;
From every care and labour free,
My soul as calm as it could be. 
  The queen of dreams, well pleased to find
An undisturb’d and vacant mind,
With magic pencil traced my brain,
And there she drew St. Patrick’s Dean: 
I straight beheld on either hand
Two saints, like guardian angels, stand,
And either claim’d him for their son,
And thus the high dispute begun: 
  St. Andrew, first, with reason strong,
Maintain’d to him he did belong. 
“Swift is my own, by right divine,
All born upon this day are mine.” 
  St. Patrick said, “I own this true
So far he does belong to you: 
But in my church he’s born again,
My son adopted, and my Dean. 
When first the Christian truth I spread,
The poor within this isle I fed,
And darkest errors banish’d hence,
Made knowledge in their place commence: 
Nay more, at my divine command,
All noxious creatures fled the land. 
I made both peace and plenty smile,
Hibernia was my favourite isle;
Now his—­for he succeeds to me,
Two angels cannot more agree. 
  His joy is, to relieve the poor;
Behold them weekly at his door! 
His knowledge too, in brightest rays,
He like the sun to all conveys,
Shows wisdom in a single page,
And in one hour instructs an age
When ruin lately stood around
Th’enclosures of my sacred ground,
He gloriously did interpose,
And saved it from invading foes;
For this I claim immortal Swift
As my own son, and Heaven’s best gift. 
  The Caledonian saint, enraged,
Now closer in dispute engaged. 
Essays to prove, by transmigration,
The Dean is of the Scottish nation;
And, to confirm the truth, he chose
The loyal soul of great Montrose;
“Montrose and he are both the same,
They only differ in the name: