Those birds of prey that sometime have oppressed
And stained the country with their filthy nest,
Justice abhors, and one day hopes to find
A way, to make all promise-breakers grind.
On this tree's top hangs pleasant Liberty,
Not seen in Austria, France, Spain, Italy.
True Liberty 's there ripe, where all confess
They may do what they will, save wickedness.
Peace is another fruit which this tree bears,
The chiefest garland that the country wears,
Which o'er all house-tops, towns, and fields doth spread,
And stuffs the pillow for each weary head.
It bloomed in Europe once, but now 't is gone,
And glad to find a desert mansion.
Forsaken Truth, Time's daughter, groweth here,--
More precious fruit what tree did ever bear,--
Whose pleasant sight aloft hath many fed,
And what falls down knocks Error on the head.
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