University of Virginia Library

On my Lord Lin******n's Brother turning Roman Catholick.

From the Embraces of a Harlot flown,
The Heavens have brought you to your native Home.
Now your once faded Laurels bloom again;
Thus Phœbus rises from the weeping Main.
That Guardian Angel wandring Israel fled,
With happy Care has blest your glorious Head.
Safe from th'involving Gulph you now may view
The falling Precipice that threaten'd you.
Religion's Truth will all your Care remove;
Your happy self protected from above,
Not by a Saint, or an intreating she,
But by the sole, the blest Divinity.
Vainly let those their num'rous Converts boast;
What they have got we wholly fancy lost.
Shining in Glory, and in number few;
We are the slighted Asians, but the true.
In you alone our Triumphs greater be,
You ballance all the number'd Progeny.
Legion their Name, Legion their Nature too:
The Truth can never yield, altho it bow.
See tho what Chaplets all our Nymphs prepare
To grace your Head, and to adorn your Hair.
Laurels immortal, and reviving Bay,
The perfect Emblem of your chosen way,
Shall crown the Virgin Beauties on their Brow;
This pious Gratitude and Heaven allow:
So Mecca's Saint rose proudly from a Slave;
So smooth Religion led the Victor Knave.
From pious Weeds to virtuous Arms decreed,
Tho Monkish Pride impose on Monkish Breed:
He gain'd the specious Phantom of a Throne,
And Blood and Murder did his Temples crown.
Prevent the Omen, be the Finis good,
'Tis a dark Bog, and darkly understood.
Sweet Looks are plac'd, and the deceiving Brow,
Crocodiles smile, and smiling murder too.
The Doctor libel'd, 'tis a meer Lampoon;
Can Father Hall mate Father Tillotson?
Ken speaks, the World his Eloquence must prize,
'Tis School-Boy's Logick echoes Prejudice.
He talks against the Antichristian Pope;
Thus Paul, tho beaten, unresisted spoke:
A Bishop he, and such may still remain,
Unenvy'd by the Darling of the Crown:
Let his dull miter'd Crosier vainly boast,
Van-Leader of th'Apostatizing Host.
This let him, nay and is there more, enjoy,
They well deserve such Passive Joys to try,
Who likely pay so dearly for't as he.
'Twas Interest the false Apostle sway'd,
How well his End his Int'rest obey'd?
No Prophet I, tho here we all accord,
Their Souls may well be fear'd, they fly their Lord.
Hence ye dull Earth, the Scandal to our Cause,
Go sink your Souls as you have damn'd the Laws,
Play with the Snakes that harbour in your Breast,
And when they bite, pray let them be at rest.
And since you play so much with Destiny,
Hear me, I'll wish, tho calmly, e'er I die;
May that false Pen, that did the Nonsense write,
May that false Tongue, that did the Lines indite,
Be damn'd, till those who do the Shams admire,
Shall curse the Writers, and deplore the Fire.