The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley

Arms, and the good old cause I sing,
Which threaten'd vengeance on our king,
Brought down the storm so long a-brewing,
And Britain to the brink of ruin,
While all her foes intestine join
To execute the dark design,
And glut the patriotic zeal
Of France, America, and hell.

An army of Associators,
Of rebels, regicides, and traitors,
(With here and there a warm Dissenter,
Geneva Jack, and John the painter,)
Of real, or pretended zealots,
Of Scots, sworn enemies to prelates,
Of patriots a countless throng
Their banners rear, and pour along;
Russians and Frenchmen in disguise,
Americans, their sworn allies,
And all the friends of Congress meet,
To make the' infernal host complete.

451

See, where the Protestant crusade,
With Masaniello at their head,
March from the Fields with mild intent,
To' address, and purge the Parliament!
With loud huzzas their friends they greet,
And safe escort them through the street:
But woe to those they can't confide in!
Unfit their carriages to ride in,
They drag 'em out, and thrust, and bruise 'em,
And most papistically use 'em.
Commons and lords alike they shake,
Compell'd the Covenant to take;
Judges, and ministers of state,
On these they wreck their keenest hate;
Or roll with Oliverian sport
Their legislators in the dirt,
Or bishops o'er the houses fright,
Right glad to save their lives by flight.

Less fierce the saints of Forty-one
With 'prentices their work begun,
And carrying on the Reformation,
O'erturn'd at last both church and nation.

But now the dupes of meek condition,
Who blindly follow'd their petition,
Shock'd at the madness of their fellows,
(While Masaniello blows the bellows,)
Wisely escape from hell broke loose,
And slip their necks out of the noose.

Meantime the resolute crusaders,
(No longer psalm-singing paraders,)

452

From outraged senators returning,
Begin their work of chapel-burning;
The choicest imps of hell employ
To tear, demolish, and destroy.
(Themselves at a convenient distance
To give their instruments assistance.)
“Courage, my lads! 'tis now or never:
Down with the mass-houses for ever!”
'Tis said; 'tis done; in half a minute
The chapel's storm'd: the foe within it,
With Gothic or with Scottish feelings,
Batter the walls, or mar the ceilings,
Compassionate as stones or stocks,
And gentle as reforming Knox;
Altar and cross their fury feel,
On pictures they let loose their zeal,
On organs they discharge their rage,
On books; nor spare the sacred page:
Bibles must aid to feed the fire,
Till Popery all in smoke expire.

Flush'd with success, without their head
The sons of anarchy proceed,
Satan anew their violence rouses
To gut, and then to burn the houses.
And first they an example make,
And vengeance on the wretches take,
(All vile informers to deter,)
Who durst against their comrades swear.
And next the men that dared commit them,
And like atrocious villains treat them,

453

They justly to destruction doom,
And burn them out of house and home.

Of neither evidence nor warrant
Afraid, as an outrageous current
They now the dams and banks o'erflow,
And menace every Popish foe;
“Down with the mass-houses,” they cry;
And Walworth's successor stands by:
The City's meek administrator,
A tame, not unconcern'd, spectator,
Quakes, as the conflagration rages,
And pays the devil's slaves their wages,
With “Come, my lads, enough is done;
Take this,—and quietly be gone!”
The aldermen in corners hide,
And wisely for themselves provide;
The shrieves an awful distance keep,
Or—sometimes—venture at a peep!
The justices with dread look on,
Till their own houses are pull'd down,
Content the mob shall burn their hives,
If they will only spare their lives.

The generous mob, too brave to martyr
Meek citizens who beg for quarter,
Or storm the houses mark'd for burning
Without a fair, sufficient warning,
Seeing the gallant city yield,
The' acknowledged masters of the field
To all their victims send advice,
And scorn to take them by surprise.

Of Naples.

Bishop of L---

In Scotland.

University of Virginia Library

CANTO I.