 | The poems of Dr. Yalden |  |
THE MORAL; FROM NOSTRADAMUS.
Le sang du juste à Londres fera saute
Brusler par feu, &c.
Brusler par feu, &c.
Thus guilty Britain to her Thames complains,
“With royal blood defil'd, O cleanse my stains!
Whence plagues arise! whence dire contagions come!
And flames that my Augusta's pride consume!”
“With royal blood defil'd, O cleanse my stains!
Whence plagues arise! whence dire contagions come!
And flames that my Augusta's pride consume!”
“In vain,” saith Thames; “the regicidal breed
Will swarm again, by them thy land shall bleed:
Extremest curse! but so just Heaven decreed!
Republicans shall Britain's treasures drain,
Betray her monarch, and her church prophane!
Till, gorg'd with spoils, with blood the leeches burst,
Or Tyburn add the second to the first.”
Will swarm again, by them thy land shall bleed:
Extremest curse! but so just Heaven decreed!
Republicans shall Britain's treasures drain,
Betray her monarch, and her church prophane!
Till, gorg'd with spoils, with blood the leeches burst,
Or Tyburn add the second to the first.”
| The poems of Dr. Yalden | |