The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

But, whence the model for this curse immense,
This boundless magic of a baseless creed
For ages, like an incubus of hell
O'er human spirit brooding? Whence the power
Bewitching, far beyond destruction's range?
Why, 'tis a counterpart; a church reversed,
A mock of Satan by a man inform'd,
A mimic Show of what in very life
And lustre, form and glory, should the Church
As ground and pillar of the truth, have been.
For, had she constant to her First Love proved,
Binding on earth what God in heaven has bound,
And witness'd boldly for her absent King
A true confession, then would hostile Earth
And Falsehood from her hallow'd mien have shrunk
Self-blasted! and this o'erawed world beheld
The Saviour's Body arm'd with regal powers,
Mitred, and crown'd, in majesty supreme
Anointed Priestess of all grace to man.

But Satan copies, where he cannot change;
And thus a parody in Popes contrived
The Lord forestalling. Hence, the Fiend has framed
A pageant hollow, where his plot can hide
And act Himself beneath the Saviour's name.
For more than haughty Rome assumes to be,
By Heaven empower'd in privilege and grace
Imperial, would the gospel Church have been,
If holiness with apostolic charm
Her shrines, her altars, and memorial rites,
Her ministers, and members, all had crown'd.

And here, (as ever) from the Plan Divine
The lost Archangel hath, with fiendish craft,
Directive elements of wisdom drawn.
His model was Judaic: thence he stole
Those adaptations for the sensuous mind
He view'd there, organised in typic forms;
Myst'ries and rites, or ceremonial laws,
And ritual pomps where Priesthood looks sublime,
He found prevailing: these he studied well,
Then caught the genius of the mighty whole,
And made a copy for the papal Church
Which pope and priest, levitically blind,
Transcribed for ages, and is using now.
Thus, the dead carcass of Mosaic forms
By God deserted when Emmanuel died,
Satan himself hath repossess'd, and fill'd
Or quicken'd. Here, the Roman witchcraft see!
While man travesties what Messiah did,
And writes “unfinish'd!” o'er His perfect Cross.

Nor can our Age, though clad with self-conceit,
And helmeted with intellectual powers,

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Produce the David whose predestined hand,
With sling of scripture, and with stone of truth
Well-aimed, her brazen forehead might indent,
Blasting her glory, with a righteous blow.
And, where the signs, the symptoms of Her fall?
Whence come the weapons Christian arms can wield,
Wherewith the triple Crown to pluck, and dash
Her high pretensions into baseless dust?
Alas! our locks of strength are almost shorn;
Distracted counsels, or divided aims
Impede fair union; and that mystic Robe
Which all unrent in perfect glory hung
While on His cross the dying Saviour bled,
Is torn to tatters, underneath His throne,
By hands and hearts schismatical, and wild!
Is this an attitude for deeds sublime?
With Masters many, while our Lord is One,
Our cold negations can no Church evince
In act embodying what our creed affirms
Of Union vast, and visible, and true.
How can we thus, with uncompacted force,
And mere abstractions, depthless, dim, or faint,
Battle with Rome, or keep her priests at bay?

Alas! expediency our Moloch was,
And at Her feet our ancient glories fell
Dishonour'd. Mute that mighty Protest, now,
By martyrs thunder'd like a voice from Heaven,
“Come out from her, my people! quickly come:”
Since base concession legalised her guile,
And lo! the Land, whose soil with sainted blood
Is hallow'd, where burnt Hooper's ashes sleep,
And lived the lion-hearted men, whose tongues
Shook the roused Empire with their shout for God,
For faith, and freedom! there, the Papal “Beast”
Is lodged, and in his den of lies secure!

Yet, to and fro, behold! the many “run”
And knowledge, as by Seers foretold, increase.
Still, what though ocean, air, and matter seem
A university for Mind become,
Where Sense can study, Science take degrees,
And Comfort all her sensual dreams enjoy,
Is this protection from the spells of Rome?
Oh! not in culture where no sacred germs
Are planted; not by knowledge, where no peace,
No pardon and no purity abound
For conscience, not by these are empires great,
A people glorious, or their welfare sure.