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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426380" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On Cutting Down The Thorn At Market-Hill</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">At Market-Hill, as well appears<br>By chronicle of ancient date,<br>There stood for many hundred years<br>A spacious thorn before the gate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Hither came every village maid,<br>And on the boughs her garland hung,<br>And here, beneath the spreading shade,<br>Secure from satyrs sat and sung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Sir Archibald, that valorous knight.<br>The lord of all the fruitful plain,<br>Would come to listen with delight,<br>For he was fond of rural strain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>(Sir Archibald, whose favourite name<br>Shall stand for ages on record,<br>By Scottish bards of highest fame,<br>Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But time with iron teeth, I ween,<br>Has canker'd all its branches round;<br>No fruit or blossom to be seen,<br>Its head reclining toward the ground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>This aged, sickly, sapless thorn,<br>Which must, alas! no longer stand,<br>Behold the cruel Dean in scorn<br>Cuts down with sacrilegious hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Dame Nature, when she saw the blow,<br>Astonish'd gave a dreadful shriek;<br>And mother Tellus trembled so,<br>She scarce recover'd in a week.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd,<br>In prudence and compassion sent<br>(For none could tell whose turn was next)<br>Sad omens of the dire event.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The magpie, lighting on the stock,<br>Stood chattering with incessant din:<br>And with her beak gave many a knock,<br>To rouse and warn the nymph within.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The owl foresaw, in pensive mood,<br>The ruin of her ancient seat;<br>And fled in haste, with all her brood,<br>To seek a more secure retreat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Last trotted forth the gentle swine,<br>To ease her itch against the stump,<br>And dismally was heard to whine,<br>All as she scrubb'd her meazly rump.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The nymph who dwells in every tree,<br>(If all be true that poets chant,)<br>Condemn'd by Fate's supreme decree,<br>Must die with her expiring plant.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Thus, when the gentle Spina found<br>The thorn committed to her care,<br>Received its last and deadly wound,<br>She fled, and vanish'd into air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But from the root a dismal groan<br>First issuing struck the murderer's ears:<br>And, in a shrill revengeful tone,<br>This prophecy he trembling hears:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Thou chief contriver of my fall,<br>Relentless Dean, to mischief born;<br>My kindred oft thine hide shall gall,<br>Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'And thy confederate dame, who brags<br>That she condemn'd me to the fire,<br>Shall rend her petticoats to rags,<br>And wound her legs with every brier.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Nor thou, Lord Arthur, shall escape;<br>To thee I often call'd in vain,<br>Against that assassin in crape;<br>Yet thou couldst tamely see me slain:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,<br>Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy spouse;<br>Since you could see me treated so,<br>(An old retainer to your house</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'May that fell Dean, by whose command<br>Was form'd this Machiavelian plot,<br>Not leave a thistle on thy land;<br>Then who will own thee for a Scot?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,<br>Through all my empire I foresee,<br>To tear thy hedges join in leagues,<br>Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,<br>Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,<br>With hatchet blunter than thy pate,<br>To hack my hallow'd timber down;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'When thou, suspended high in air,<br>Diest on a more ignoble tree,<br>(For thou shall steal thy landlord's mare,)<br>Then, bloody caitiff! think on me.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jonathan+Swift">Jonathan Swift</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426380" data-title="On Cutting Down The Thorn At Market-Hill de Jonathan Swift" data-description="At Market-Hill, as well appears
By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate.


Hither came every village maid,
And on the boughs her garland hung,
And here, beneath the spreading shade,
Secure ..."></div>
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