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The Mitre

A Poem [by Edward Perronet]

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 IV. 
CANTO IV.


218

CANTO IV.

O Tempora! O Mores!
Virg.

1

Here paus'd again—again we mourn,
And mourning—to our task return:
As hopeless as before:
Nathless while love magnetic draws,
We live to vindicate thy Cause,
Or else thy Curse deplore!

2

“Thy Christ'nings next”—O what a farce!
(Could one unblam'd the whole rehearse)
Of superstitious guile!
Allow'd the duty—dark or clear;
Yet how express enough severe,
The blended pure and vile!

3

“A Child is born”—'tis born to die:
Make haste—perhaps it's end is nigh:
Here comes the Curate—well!
The hov'ring gossips round him stand,
When with his high-commission'd hand,
He saves one half from Hell:

4

The other left—a longer time:
'Tis left for good—and where's the crime?
The baby panting lies
Wearied with life—instinct of pain,
He seeks his native clime to gain,
And weeping pale—he dies!

219

5

Some cry, “A Mercy”—and some mourn
(Cruel!) a moment—it's return
From Vanity and Death:
From all the sorrows and the snares,
That taint our lives—or point our cares:
And make us curse our breath!

6

From bad examples seen at home:
From all the sufferings yet to come:
Who longer seasons know:
From all the guilt of various crimes,
From all the follies of the times,
And everlasting woe.

7

Hail, little favourite of God!
Now sparkling in thy fair abode,
Bright as the morning star!
What glories now enchant thine eye!
What unheard scenes before thee lie!
Thy Intellect—how clear!

8

Not so thy rival—who succeeds,
(For whom a distant mourner bleeds,
Born and re-born again:)
The parents glory and their hope:
In all the Pride of Life brought up,
Or nastiness and sin!

9

He's quite regenerate—and renew'd,
The Fees are paid—his Baptism's good,
The Sponsors—better still:
They were so kind—as to engage
He should perform—what dullest sage
May guess he never will.

220

10

Promise he shall all that renounce,
Which they themselves ne'er did but once,
'Twas then—by Proxy done:
Would you they more should do for him,
Than ever yet was done for them?
The child is not their own!

11

And if it was—'twere just the same:
A being—nurture—or a Name:
What can the parents more?
The warmest passion could not save
A fav'rite lap-dog from his grave,
Nor Julia—from a Whore!

12

“But then—Examples should be show'd!”
They shou'd—and Woe that Parent's load,
Who seeks not to excel:
But keener still his pain shall prove,
Who or from pride, neglect, or love,
Has sown his seed in Hell!

13

But whose is he? why you shall hear,
(Shudder ye sires—twinge ev'ry ear,
Hear all ye Parent-brood)
He's born of them—perhaps of you,
Who care not if he prove a Jew:
Or any thing—but good!

14

Conceiv'd in Sin”—he's now it's heir,
His parents crimes and follies share,
Perhaps their rotten health:

221

A partner in their life and vice:
Lives as they die, and then enjoys
Their perjur'd, ill-got wealth!

15

Taught from a child to love the Ill,
Impuls'd from Nature to his will,
What e'er he wills—performs:
Unus'd to bridle or restraint,
Can brook nor caution, nor complaint,
But like a madman storms.

16

Blusters the Tyrant or the Slave,
Proves or a Coxcomb—or a Knave:
Dupe of himself and sin:
He games, he rakes, he stamps, he swears,
Falls sick, condemn'd, he raves and tares,
Then drops to endless pain!

17

Or taught t'admire the scarlet-hose:
To raise the neck and turn the nose:
“How pretty Miss—and good!
Told of her family and name:
Her future fortune and her fame,
Her Heraldry of Blood!

18

Early initiate in the arts
Of losing Grace, or gaining Hearts,
She courts the coxcomb's bow:
But what is here of blame or lies,
She never broke the promises:
Who made the senseless vow?

222

19

Never corrected, or with pain,
“Come—hush—we'll make it up again:”
Thus void the sacred rules
Of wisdom's discipline sublime:
The child unconscious of a crime,
Sees Both the parents—Fools.

20

Hence loss of government and peace:
Hence strife, and passion, and distress:
Hence fell domestic wars:
Hence children's stubborness and pride:
Hence parents false or surly chide
Reciprocally jarrs.

21

Nor less the Stranger helps our woe,
These all the pretty moppet know,
And fondly act the Knave:
Acquaintance, relative, or friend,
All help to it's untimely end:
The Gallows or the Grave.

22

Next view the Poor—what better here?
Devoid of grace, or shame, or fear:
They work or steal for Gin:
What rude impiety is found?
How discontent or scorn abound?
What Raggedness of sin?

23

Point at the man whose kind intent
Would save their souls, or them from want,
From each distress redeem:
Yet how they curse, reproach, deride:
Shiver with Nakedness and Pride:
Till drop their rags and them.

223

24

Another lives and drives a trade:
No doubt his fortune will be made:
A citizen or sh'riff!
Perhaps an alderman—a fish—
There's nothing easier than to wish:
But yet—he dies a Thief!

25

“He dies (you answer) in his Bed:”
What then? but where his heart, his head?
Or harden'd or insane?
Pity'd by those who wish him free
From small to highest misery:
The plunge of deepest pain!

26

In short, go wander thro' the land,
What can ye find on either hand,
But rioting or want?
And where's the wonder, when ye hear
How void of virtue or of fear,
And all religion—Rant?

26

And whence is this? comes it not hence,
(The only plea in your defence
But) that ye were Beguil'd?
The Church began the baleful lay,
Your parents led you more astray,
Deluded from a Child!

27

Taught from the first, nay bid believe,
(What none but madmen e'er receive)
“That Baptism was your Grace:”
As well they might have said—and true,
“The chrystal rivulet was blue:
“The bason was your face.”

224

28

From hence your scorn and disregard
Of all that ever since ye heard,
Of being born again!
Laugh and reject th' important theme,
As but a fool or madman's dream,
The oozings of their brain.

29

Woe worth such Parents and such Guides!
(Not strange the Infidel derides,
So humorous a sight:)
What know ye not 'tis but a sign
Of deeper things—not to refine,
Or wash the Æthiop white?

30

No—nor such washing—never will,
Had they e'en kept on washing still,
You'd been but where you are:
The shack'ed slave of guilt and sin,
A foe to God—of future pain,
The everlasting heir!

31

But had they honestly declar'd
“Your state by Nature—foul and hard,
“Your heart impure and vile:
“The taint by Baptism unremov'd,”
Your base hypocrisy reprov'd,
(Solemnity of Guile!)

32

Ye would have trembled at the sound,
Or prostrate fallen on the ground,
With broken heart deplor'd
Your rooted epidemic stain,
Nor rash, nor sudden rose again,
Till bidden by your Lord:

225

33

“Arise and be baptiz'd within,
Arise and wash away thy Sin,
“Invoke the sacred name
“Of him that calls you to return,
“Bids you with tears afflictive mourn
“Your danger and your shame.”

34

Then had you been baptiz'd indeed!
From guilt, and fear, and judgment freed,
From darkness and it's pow'rs:
Fought with his saints the Fight of Faith,
Obtain'd the everlasting wreath,
As more than Conquerors!

35

Instead of this—their constant lore
We are not sick—we have no sore,
We all have been baptiz'd,
“Are all regenerate again:”
“Yea cleans'd”—and yet unpurg'd from sin:
And God himself despis'd.

36

But this not long—he calls aloud:
Hear him ye unawaken'd crowd,
His thunder's at your door:
Rise—see the lightning on his wheels,
The swift avenger at your heels:
And God despis'd no more!

37

Now just disclose a kindred scene,
Than in it's order comes between
A Tragedy and Jest:
Where with the form of something good,
How sacrileg'd the name of God,
How prostitute the Priest!

226

38

Dight Confirmation now at hand:
Where rows of blended rabble stand,
Each in disorder plac'd:
But hard to say from what you see,
Or all or whether of the three,
Or Bishop'd—curs'd or blest.

39

See myriads throng together brought,
Void or of Decency or Thought:
How like a mart—the place!
Each to obtain (what none believe,
Nay what their hands can never give)
The Signature of grace.

40

Now see each rev'rend pastor leads
The untaught flock his dulness feeds:
The infant with the sage:
Deep in his care—O what a task,
To search distinct or gravely ask
What name, or place, or age!

41

Or if more close the scrutiny,
Then thro' or fear or modesty,
Each pupil's found a dunce:
The pray'r—the decalogue or creed,
This has forgot—that cannot read:
But all could say it once!

42

All now deliver up their charge,
Each left to live and sin at large,
To stand or fall alone:
Freed ev'ry parent from his fear,
As ev'ry sponsor from his care:
Committed to their own.

227

43

Taught to maintain, they've all receiv'd,
What just before not one believ'd,
Or was, or could be giv'n:
Walk on their way—their sin pursue,
Alike regenerate and new:
Alike secure of heav'n!

44

How different this from theirs of old,
(Engross'd on leaves of sacred gold)
When apostolic men,
Laid on the hands of Faith and Love,
Invok'd the Spirit from above:
And souls were born again!

45

Or, born before, afresh renew'd
The seal and evidence of God:
Afresh their Grace confirm'd,
Of living faith—or humble hope:
Their hearts in grateful joy lift up,
With livelier ardor warm'd!

46

A multitude the sound inflames,
Of grace descending as in streams
Of rapture from on high:
While gaze the Gentile and the Jew,
Each marvel, as acknowledg'd true:
Nor dare profane draw nigh?

47

All now were of one heart and mind,
Their hopes, their joys, their suff'rings join'd,
The same, elective call:

228

No murm'ring voice of avarice heard,
None claim'd his own, but gladly shar'd,
In common with them all!

48

Stedfast as ardent they abode,
In all the ordinance of God,
With gratitude of fear:
Unwavering hearers of his word,
They meek attended on their Lord:
In vigilance and prayer!

49

Such were the times—and such the men
Whom here we mimick—but in vain,
Till kindled from above,
We feel their first seraphic flame,
That warm'd the followers of the Lamb,
All purity and love!

50

Till then—or pow'r from him is giv'n,
To shut or ope the doors of heav'n,
Communicate his grace:
We but elude each vulgar soul:
Palm on their judgment brass for gold:
Foul insult of grimace.

51

Nay more than this—'tis downright Guile:
Not worthy bare neglect or smile:
'Tis guile of deepest dye:

229

Abhorr'd of reason and of God,
It merits his vindictive rod,
And irritates his eye.

52

First to impose yourselves as they
Whose beck the sacred gifts obey,
Of knowledge or of faith:
Abuse the senseless multitude,
Of proud, or light, or vain, or lewd,
Heirs of eternal wrath.

53

As if how base or vile before,
They now were vile or base no more:
Endu'd with grace divine:
Pardon'd their trespasses and sin,
From guilt, offence or judgment clean:
A spotless, sacred line!

54

Yet view their tempers or their lives:
Would one suppose that e'er survives
A thought of heav'n or hell?
When erst they came, or march'd their way,
How rude—how light—how vain—how gay!
How—any thing you will.

55

O what absurdity of thought!
What wonder all returns to nought?
The source from whence it came:
Or more than nought—it ends a Curse,
When proves the whole (if nothing worse)
A senseless, noon-day dream!

56

And how should it be otherwise,
When nothing's heard but sacred Lies?
Nay more—when thanks are giv'n,

230

That maugre all their guilt and sin,
They're each regenerate and clean,
Ascertain'd heirs of heav'n!

57

See here the close of all the farce:
It's baleful consequence rehearse,
(O what a fearful scene!)
With pride and careless fancy warm'd,
The multitudes disperse—confirm'd,
In Ignorance and Sin!

58

To close at length this tedious plan,
Of all thy nonsense proud and vain,
These two objections more:
Reserv'd the last, to grace the whole,
As what of all best paint thy soul:
(A part how soft and sore!)

59

“Thy Abbies huge, Minsters and Choirs,
“Lin'd with a range of pond'rous sires,
“That look like things abroad.”
Who lean or loll, or sit, or stand,
As best agrees with heart or hand,
Or head—dispos'd to nod.

231

60

Fronting their Eastern deity,
Who had he spectacles to see,
Their worshipful intent:
Might peep himself behind the screen,
And with his godlike air and mien,
Return the compliment.

61

These ( they pretend) are such a weight,
“About the neck of church and state,
“That if not hang'd elsewhere,
“Will either sink them to the Deep,
“Or tost aloft like down of sheep,
“Up-mount them into air!”

62

Then Disproportion of thy Boons,”
Wider than wax'd from waning moons,
(Rome first the difference made)
This call “my Lord”—that hardly “Sir,”
Here comes the Doctor blowz'd in fur,
But is his Curate paid?

63

Some roll in State and some in dust:
This venison feeds—and that a crust:
Another basks in down:
His brother chance on nothing more,
Than wheaten bed—or humble floor,
Nor these (or long) his own!

64

Some move in chairs, and some on foot,
Well-feather'd crowns, or bald as coot,
Expos'd to heat or cold:
One plaits his lawn—this pares his nails,
One tells his griefs—a fourth his vails,
Of Copper or of Gold.

232

65

Such the dire contrast of thy Call,
And yet alike divine of all!
Why not more equal Pay?
If all are thine—why then so Few,
Who hardly find so much their Due,
As stable-room or hay?

66

I'll tell thee why—(for thou may'st shame)
Thy Predecessors were to blame,
Who forg'd this Right divine:
With what intent—but to defraud
The poor, the naked, and their God,
And aggrandize their shrine?

67

O such a plea for stolen wealth!
No wonder as it came by Stealth,
What each can get his own!
Or what he grasps his Right believes,
Shar'd like the moiety of Thieves,
Some all and others none!

68

In short, they all get all they can:
Would grasp Potosi at a span,
Or stride th' Æquator'd line:
And tho' at last but mod'rate gains,
Lecture or Living for their pains,
Yet, this is right divine!

69

Another happier—fastens more,
Robs friends, the widow, or the poor,
(Such thy permissive will!)
He plays, or sports, retails, or shoots,
Lackers my lord—procures, or votes:
This is diviner still.

233

70

A third—more fortunate than both,
(Fell dread or envy of the Cloth
Such his effectual call!)
Somehow—procures a Deanery,
A golden-Prebend or a See:
This—most divine of all!

71

In short 'tis nothing but divine,
Whether they swell, or burst, or pine:
All's sacred—all's secure!
O how infatuate the times,
When Priests by subtlety or crimes,
Could such demesnes procure!

72

Hence then the boast of Right Supreme?
Why not engross'd the Air or Flame?
What pity but they cou'd!
If Air would keep, or vend the Sun,
So much for breath or light per Tun:
As now so much for Wood!

73

I know what's ready in return:
“A proper Order must be borne,
“Or all would be destroy'd:
“The church must have her wealthy sires,
(“This indispens'd her state requires)
“Down to her meanest Child.

74

Next “Just Gradation is thy plea,”
(O such a scale of harmony!)
A true hierarchal plan!
So then to keep the balance even,
This dares, while that discredits heav'n:
And scuffles as he can!

234

75

Well—and requires her Dignity,
That some should burst a Plethory,
While others scarce have Bread?
Why, sure she's not a Monster grown,
Her hands and feet—and heart all one:
And nothing but a Head!

76

If this the case—all wonder ceas'd:
Her pains and penalties releas'd:
Know this—ye North and South!
The Church (whate'er to you she seems)
Depriv'd of all her former limbs,
Is nothing but a Mouth!

77

Feed her with lions, or with fawns,
With vultures wild—or tamer swans,
Or aught she can digest:
Feed her with honours, styles, and state,
Ye know her lore, be these her Bait,
And Hell's extreme her rest!

78

But jest apart—for truth 'tis none,
More solemn far than broken bone,
Or common broken Heart:
And thine will break I dare to say,
(Whoever lives to see the day)
When thou and Wealth shall part!

79

And part ye must—nay part from All,
The Mitre, Purple, and the Pall:
Prefigure these thine End?
E'en tho' thy sorrows should excel,
The howl of Hadadrimmon's vale:
Or, Jesse's for his friend.

235

80

O were it giv'n thee thus to mourn,
Thy breast with keen concern to burn,
Thy sorrows loud deplore
The loss of all thy Dignity,
End of thy Faith and Purity:
Conspicuous now no more!

81

Address we here our last design,
Come listen to a friend of thine,
Thy welfare his desire:
Permit him free to reprimand,
Kindly embrace thy careless hand,
And modestly enquire,

236

82

Is all this Truth—or is it not?
With mickle more that might be brought,
If pity did not sue,
And beg the Muse to say no more,
Lest found so like the Scarlet Whore,
Ye scarce were known for two.

83

Nor wou'd you now—but those who rule,
Kindly prevent your turning Fool,
As they have often done:
Nay really were it not a sin,
To wed—who are so near a kin,
For me, you might be one.

84

Not that this need break any square,
She can, ye know, with graceful air,
The chastest laws postpone:
Widest extremes together tye,
Much more the two that are so nigh:
Consolidate in one.

85

As you again from her decree,
Have frequent molten two from three,
For profit or for ease:
And then dissolve, for gain or will,
When there remains as many still,
For any that can seize.

237

86

But this is the Opposer's tale,
Now hear a friend that bids thee well,
One in thy circle born:
Permit him too to deal as plain,
As thou hast done with many a man,
And ask thee in thy turn.

87

Not with the threats of racks or noose,
Such as thy Kinswoman would use,
To torture out the truth:
But such as one might freely do,
With one's best friend—as I with you,
Thou gentle virgin-youth.

88

Yet ah! what little hope I see,
That e'er thy sons will follow me,
In all or aught I mean:
As soon may Thames o'er-freeze in June,
Hoarse ravens croak the Syren's tune,
Or, Cantia's streets be clean!

89

Sooner shall Shylock hate his Gold:
Arabia's sands burn frore with Cold:
The Planets burst their rule:

238

From Avon's tide old Naiads spring:
A Blake--- or Blakeney fly like B---:
Or Ch------st------rf---ld turn Fool!

90

However—be my end despair,
'Twill make at least my Reverence clear,
And 'tis a debt I owe:
In case I think thee false or wrong,
To tell thee so, in gentle song,
Tho' not the half I know.

91

Why feign we then our warp from her,
As cringing hounds afraid to stir,
Or, growling dare not bark?
For what's the difference that's seen,
But little more than that between
The Parish-Priest and Clerk?

92

What says the saucy papal dame,
But British canons say the same,
Or, would repeat again?
Let Rome but thunder out her Bulls,
'Gainst heretic, dissenting culls,
And England cries “amen!

93

Away then all thy specious boast,
Of Bells, and Beads, and Bodkins lost:
Thou farther must depart,

239

Or, maugre all thy form of pure,
Thy visage prim, or mien demure,
Be deem'd a Jilt at heart.

94

If then thou would'st thy fame retrieve,
Nor scandal of thy children live,
Who mourn a Parent's fall:
Not this or that the bar removes,
But all thy scarlet sister loves,
The Prison as the Pall.

95

But if thou wilt nor leave nor mend,
Persisting fondly to the end,
To boast thy pontiff line:
Assert thy claim to Tythes and dues,
And punish such as dare refuse,
On score of Right divine.

96

Permit me to foretel thy Doom,
(Which has in Part— been that of Rome)
Thou wilt be clean abhorr'd:
The Nation will expose thy shame,
Cast out as dung thy putrid name,
The vengeance of the Lord!

240

97

For while her Orders and her Rules,
Are made the Standard of thy Schools:
And all beside of Blame:
What other portion canst thou hope,
But that the Wise should give thee up,
Her Ape—without her Name?

98

Nor deem this sentence false or hard,
Depictur'd thus by witless bard,
As Blasphemy were done:
What milder judgment can prevail,
Than that the church of England's pale,
And Rome's (not Christ's) are one?

99

Complain not then, as if defam'd:
As had traduc'd—or causeless blam'd,
The writer or his Muse:
Is not the whole as fair and calm,
As zephyr'd breeze or vernal balm?
'Tis Satyr—not Abuse.

100

And that you know, is always mild:
It's wound the man—it's aim the Child:
Tho' like a ponyard sharp:
Or, like an Organ sill'd and warm,
Blends with the thunder's loud alarm,
The sweetness of the harp.

101

Or, like a high-bred, generous Horse,
That bounds or canters o'er the course,
With front undaunt as gay:
So would my Muse—her temper hold,
Champ on the bit, serene as bold,
Good-humour'd all the way.

241

102

But maugre this, I know there are,
Who rash will deem us too severe,
If not alike untrue:
To these, we must a while reply,
Unconscious of Design or Lye:
A moment then adieu.

103

Severe in what—we crave to know?
What more severe than what they do,
Of whom we here complain?
Can you resent a baser deed,
Than theirs who made their Call a Trade,
Or Godliness—their Gain?

104

Can you bewail more heinous crimes
Than theirs—who vilely serve the times,
Themselves alone regard?
Who eat the fatness of the land,
And frontless ask at ev'ry hand
The lucre of reward!

105

Cry—“Look on us—lo! we are they,
“Who can alone point out the way
“To happiness and life:”
Strangers themselves to all beside,
Attach'd to indolence and pride,
Or, Mammon's eager strife!

106

Who preach themselves and not their Lord,
Their own, and not his sacred word,
It's Spirit or it's Pow'r:
Spout forth the dreams of other men,
Or of their own—as dull or vain:
Fast barr'd the gospel door!

242

107

Who cauponize the word of grace:
Then with the air of high grimace
Bid you “Do this and live:”
Harden the vile, or wound the meek,
Raise not the dead—nor heal the sick:
Nor bid the faint—revive.

108

Confirm the sinner in his sin,
So that he shall not turn again,
Nor leave the widen'd road
Of guilt, and danger, and despair,
Careless his thought, unmov'd his care,
For happiness or God.

109

Shut up their bowels of concern,
From all on whom should sweetly yearn,
Their pity or their love:
Hide all compassion from their own,
Flesh of their flesh, bone of their bone,
But Fellow-heirs above!

110

Are these the men you would excuse?
Condemn their censure for Abuse,
What can more mild be done,
Than gravely to arraign their Deed,
Boldly—their insolence implead?
Less sharp than just the tone.

111

How more severe what soon may break
In thunder's loud, concussive crack
O'er ev'ry guilty head:
Fill ev'ry heart with deep amaze,
While the keen lightning's livid blaze,
Shall sweep them to the dead!

243

112

Saw ye this sight, wou'd ye condemn
My softer Muse—her Ardor blame,
As impious or severe?
Would ye not wish a louder strain
Had first alarm'd the slumbring train,
And realiz'd their fear?

113

But ye think—“Satyr will not do.”
Says mine a syllable untrue?
What but a fair record
Of deeds perverse, and actions done
Before his eyes (who lights the sun!)
And sharper than a Sword?

114

What are his judgments now abroad?
What all th' artillery of God,
(Loud echoes of his call!)
But his rebuke for human crimes?
Censur'd the past and present times:
Grand satyrs on us all!

115

What human Pains and Penalties,
But legal censures to make wise,
Or keep the Fool in awe?
What the dire ensigns in her hand,
Stern Justice waves o'er all the land,
But Satyrs of the Law?

116

What all the censure of this pen,
On Times, on Manners, or on Men,
Unjustly term'd “Abuse,”
But the weak arm of Infancy,
Waving her reed at Infamy:
The Satyr of the Muse?

244

117

And what the plain intent of all,
But to prevent a farther fall
From Virtue and from Rest:
Convince the rebel of his sin,
Secure his soul from final pain,
High number'd with the blest?

118

To this object—“Their warm resent,”
Wide of the end or just intent,
Of satyr or it's aim:
Fill'd with disgust—refuse to turn,
Or fir'd with proud resentment burn,
Or glory in their shame.

119

Whom have we satyriz'd—unspar'd?
Or, whom have we undaunted dar'd
To cauterize with fear?
None but the villain or profane:
The proud, the saucy, or the vain:
Impartial—tho' severe.

120

None but the insolent at least:
The hypocrite or surly priest:
The tyrant or the slave
Of parties, interests, pique, or names:
Alike their honesty or aims:
The bigot or the knave.

121

O'er whom has wav'd our gentle rod,
But such as scorn the scourge of God?
Yet tempt the lifted hand
Of justice human or divine:
Serving an idol or their shrine:
Desilers of the land.

245

122

Nor has the Muse ingrate pass'd by
The men of mean estate or high,
Pure, and upright, or good:
But in their different ranks dispos'd,
Their virtue or their grace disclos'd,
To mortals and their God.

123

Who now should blush? the Muse or they
Who warn'd, advis'd, yet spurn away
The writer and his rod?
Yet what to marvel here as strange,
When each alike refuse to change
For Justice or her God?

124

What strange to see a wretch resist
The hand divine—or (as a beast,
Wild taken in the snare,)
Bluster, blaspheme, revile, rebel,
As plung'd beneath the lowest hell,
Fast pris'ner of despair!

125

What strange to see a Thief condemn
The judge, the witness, or the beam,
Suspensive of his doom?
What is yet this but Wrath to hear
His sentence?—insolence of fear,
At judgment yet to come!

126

What else their anger or disdain,
The pride of fury and it's pain,
At villainy disclos'd?
But servile dread, unjust as base,
Their rage canine (how plain the case!)
As punish'd or expos'd.

246

127

No difference too 'twixt us and them
Who indiscriminately blame
As serv'd or lost their End?
Let all alike at random go,
Or deal the hard unequal'd blow,
On enemy or friend.

128

No difference 'twixt my muse and those
Who envious or enrag'd expose
The frailties of a few?
Or warp'd with malice or design,
Blast, or besiege, or undermine
The fame of all they know?

129

Are not you one who here condemn
For too severe—the general blame,
As levell'd at the whole?
Wilfully blind to the barrier
High fix'd with justice as with care,
Between the fair and foul.

130

Are not you one wise in your own,
(Alike familiars as unknown)
Are blind with both your eyes?
Govern'd by passion, pride, or spleen,
Oft see no difference between,
Or friends or enemies.

131

But with the weather or the wind,
Alike to fix or change inclin'd,
So various thy mood:
Prone now to censure or to smile,
How base the great! how pure the vile!
How profligate the good!

247

132

What this but whim or low revenge,
Harsh turning on the grating hinge
Of prejudice or pride?
Full of herself, yet easy tost
From side to side—with all her boast,
Too impotent to hide.

133

Nay—let them call your Dog a name,
'Tis well if not provok'd some flame:
Some well-bred warm return:
Would not some keen sensations rise,
Some sparks of fervor dart thine eyes,
Some secret ardor burn?

134

Would here escape the Church or Priest,
Who thus abus'd a harmless beast:
A favourite of his Dame?
I much mistake—all would not share
Their part in the resentive pray'r,
Of tenderness and flame!

135

How justly then provok'd our zeal,
For Zion's or the publick weal:
Ardent her sons to save!
But least of those who mourn her fall,
And aid with their inferior call,
Her rescue from the grave.

136

Nor plead the impotence of mine,
Far less concern'd to please or shine,
Than to avert her Doom:
'Tis but humanity—nor more
To seek her ruins to restore:
E'en Satyr may save some.

248

137

May mine save you—who would abuse,
Destroy it's nature and it's use:
When take away the Ill:
You quite annihilate of course
The end, the genius, and the force
Of Satyr and her quill.

138

But while the villainy remains
Deep in it's dye and bright it's stains,
Unpunish'd nor pursu'd:
She still unsheathes the two-edg'd sword,
(The double savour of her word)
For ruin or for good.

139

Or like an Eagle—mounts on high,
Self-center'd in the sun's bright eye,
Where ken'd the prey her own:
Broad as the light, clear as the day,
She points and seizes on her prey:
A Dunghill—or a Throne!

140

Or like a graceful well-taught hand,
Whose fingers move at her command,
Eager to fire or please:
She plays around her living pen,
Impartial, accurate, serene,
With sprightliness and ease.

141

Malice—low creeping on the ground,
A serpent sly, malicious found,
Haunts but the fens or brakes:
Hisses at Man—her first distaste,
Doubles her folds then seeks in haste
Her brethren the Snakes.

249

142

So these with envious pride or hate,
Or flatter or despise the great,
The virtuous or the good:
Or kindred mingle with the vile,
Altern their horror or their smile:
A hissing, winding brood!

143

But where thus partial or malign?
Where or of pique or sect the sign,
Or false distinction known?
The portrait may be just and strong,
But what improbity or wrong,
That each should trace his own?

144

Nor less the care to steer between
The bombast swell or vulgar mean:
Come draw thy wooden sword:
Point with it's dull unpointed blade,
The base reflection falsly made,
Or one ill-natur'd word.

145

Sprightly and blithe she may appear:
And well—as freed from ev'ry care
That could extort a frown:
Depress the genius of the Muse,
Or squeeze a lying vile excuse,
Her Senses not her own.

146

Much less has she condemn'd the whole:
Ten thousand bodies as one soul:
One undistinguish'd blend:
But just defin'd the separate bound,
Has left on the unhallow'd ground
His minions and the fiend!

250

147

Nay here we might without excuse,
Or feeblest shadow of abuse,
Pronounce “the whole—unclean:”
Just as a Patient sore diseas'd,
All whom the leprosy has seiz'd,
Save that untouch'd his Shin.

148

Come—view that yonder dunghill there:
Go fetch a spade full of it here:
“'Twas there a Diamond fell:”
Allow'd—but what infer'd from hence?
Howe'er it sprang, or came, or whence,
What but a Dunghill still?

149

So is the Church—a blended heap
Of dead in Sin or dead in Sleep,
Wanton or dull their mood:
But shall the few (like diamonds found)
On rotten, vile, unhallow'd ground,
Denominate her good?

150

As well esteem a Mummy such,
That fair, yet dreads the fatal touch
Of gentlest infant-hand:
Or, close preserv'd with trembling care,
Lest some small breeze of lightest air
Should mold it on the strand.

151

Equal the folly and abuse,
Of Justice servile to excuse
A Group for some alone:
As to condemn or censure all,
(Without distinction great and small)
For little more than one.

251

152

Now go survey that yonder mass,
Mingled with straws, or stones, or grass:
See here the brilliants shine!
This makes a difference indeed,
We now pronounce (another creed)
“No Dunghill—but a Mine.”

153

So shall the Chur ch—when purg'd her Scum,
Her papal dross of pomp and Rome,
Her rotteness and shrine:
Tho' still remain a few unsound,
Still shall be sacred held her ground,
And all her sons divine.

154

For this my heart shall often bleed,
For this my spirit interceed,
For this my eye run down:
In secret places will I mourn,
Her faded laurels late return,
Her worship and renown!

155

Hail then again thou portly dame,
Attend the ruin of thy fame,
Attend thy certain doom:
Precinctive sure and unrepell'd,
While aught unconsecrate is held,
Of popery and Rome.

156

Hast thou not heard, hast thou not known,
The trumpet of her vengeance blown,
From high Prophetic word:
On her and all who share her Crimes:
Pamper the spirit of her times?
The vengeance of the Lord!

252

157

And is not yet her genius found
Within thy courts unhallow'd ground?
Do not her ensigns shine,
As standards blazing from on far,
The tokens of pontific war,
On all who quit thy shrine?

158

What then in reason to presume,
But partial crimes—a partial doom,
Of misery and woe:
Or unrepenting—share the fall
Of Rome's elate imperial wall,
God's high decisive blow!

159

Now struck at Lisbon and her sons,
Proud, cruel, sanguinary dons,
Of insolence and blood:
Where rag'd the tyrant and the priest,
Fell members of the papal beast,
The curse and scourge of God.

160

Now scourg'd themselves with livid flame,
High blazing forth their horrid shame,
From earth's unburthen'd womb:
Burst with the load so long retain'd,
Nor till this period restrain'd,
But God secur'd the tomb.

161

Now opens wide the yawning earth,
Teeming with souls (a second birth)
Their ashes new reviv'd:
A moment view the ghastly pile,
Now burnt or levell'd with the soil,
Where once their tortures liv'd.

253

162

The spot where late tremendous stood,
The house of Mercy and of blood,
A den of pontiff thieves:
Devote to insolence and gain,
The cave of horror and her pain,
Hell's tyrants and her slaves.

163

Where, nor sweet liberty nor peace,
Dar'd shew their undissembled face,
E'en Thought herself confin'd
Within the limits of Disguise,
Looks the impostor in her eyes:
Corrupt as rack'd their mind!

164

Where bright religion never shone,
But with her squalid garments on,
Of horror and dismay:
Stalk'd like a murderer in despair,
Or with the witchcraft of her glare,
Put out the blaze of day!

165

Where nought but avarice of gain,
The lore of torture and it's pain.
Hot fierce pontific zeal:
Ravag'd like monsters all around,
While howling agonies were found,
Unequall'd but in Hell!

166

A matchless rival of that den,
(Deep from the sight of human ken)
Where Fiends with torture glow,
Rattle their chains of Adamant,
And with infernal Gnashings taunt
The partners of their woe!

254

167

Now vast augmented by a crew,
Of dark, blood-thirsty, crimson hue,
Fell murderers of mankind:
Haters of God and of his race,
Now basking in the livid blaze,
Excruciate as confin'd.

168

Prisoners of judgment and despair,
Their eyes the living anguish glare,
Quick rolls the tortur'd ball:
Swift darts around her piercing ray,
Unview'd the light or beam of day,
Or hope that comes to all.

169

No longer now their state ador'd,
For ever blasted and abhorr'd
Their cruelty and scorn:
No longer vaulting o'er the groans,
Of nature's agonizing sons,
Unpity'd and forlorn.

170

No longer gauls the heavy chain
Her prisoner's feet with iron pain:
No more the merc'less Wheel,
Stretches the victim from his joints,
While mockery all his torment points,
His torturers now in hell.

171

Here write the memorable day ,
When God for ever swept away
These varlets from the earth:
When vengeance teeming with despair,
Struck them beneath the burning sphere,
First fountain of their birth.

255

172

A day of torture and of pain,
When souls a sacrifice are slain,
To murderers and their God:
A day of cruelty and scorn:
A day when unhelp'd wretches burn:
Of blasphemy and blood!

173

A day devoted to his Saints,
Not one—but all—while eager pants
The bigot and his priest:
To light the high sacrific pile,
The painted sufferers revile
Their agonies—their Jest.

174

A day when warm with furious hope,
Their dark, blood-thirsty eyes look up,
As waiting to behold
Heaven's judge assisting with his train,
Ten thousand deep—prophetic strain,
Of Enoch from of old:

175

Ah dire mistake! (the contrast hear,
Throb ev'ry heart—hark ev'ry ear)
On high enroll'd the deed!
But not approv'd—the saints resign
Their grand prerogative divine:
Stand Demons in their stead!

176

Not to adjudge—but to fulfil
His stern, unalterable will,
High thunder'd from his throne:
“That they who sought themselves the blood,
“Of weeping victims to their God,
“Should now pour forth their own.”

256

177

And more than this, “should bleed at heart,
“And bleed for ever from the smart
“Of vengeance and despair:”
The demons bow'd, and hugg'd their charge,
A moment loos'd, they range at large,
And throng the thick'ning air.

178

Now rose the Sun in bright array,
Threw round his eyes of piercing day,
With Justice at his side:
Survey'd the death-devoted crew,
“These, thou avenger, are thy due,
“The sons of lust and pride.”

179

Justice had long stretch'd out his arm,
But Mercy, bleeding mercy warm,
With pity for the land:
Besought a moment to refrain
The stroke of full decisive pain,
And stopt his eager hand:

180

Arm'd with the sword of deep revenge:
Mercy—slow turning on her hinge,
The everlasting door:
Now final shut, for ever barr'd,
Their future cries and groans unheard:
God merciful no more!

181

Justice survey'd the destin'd prey,
Listen'd awhile the frantic lay,
Of madmen and their theme:
Silent review'd their black design,
Then in a moment sprung the mine:
God's grand vindictive scheme.

257

182

Vengeance for crimes of various dye,
Whose hue had blacken'd all the sky,
Drew o'er their threaten'd heads
The clouds of judgment and dismay,
While Mercy weeping march'd her way,
And left them at their Beads:

183

And—at their Sins (devout or not)
Nor God nor judgment in their thought,
No Charity at least:
But all a black ill-minded brood,
They ask, they seek, they pant for blood,
Fell offspring of the Beast!

184

Leaves each his palace or his cell,
To help condemn to deepest hell,
His brother or his friend:
Silent or loud approve the deed,
Sees a companion broil or bleed:
Their torments without end.

185

All on the point precinctive stand,
Black rows of Priests on either hand,
Their standard high uprear'd:
See clouds of rabble—each his torch,
Blazing with eagerness to scorch,
Or give the Dogs a beard .

186

See ev'ry heart and ev'ry eye,
With joy infern, elate on high,
See flocks of demons croud:

258

See trembling caitiffs meet array'd,
Their life, their blood, an off'ring made,
To Moloch,—Lisbon's God.

187

Made—but yet only in intent,
Their death and their Damnation meant,
(Doom of the papal whore)
Fond they suppose themselves the men,
Whom Justice follow'd with her train,
But Justice was before.

188

Before with them and with their crime:
Now is her hour and now her time,
Her turn to strike the blow:
She did—and dashes with her hand,
A group of villains to the land
Of everlasting woe.

189

Big with amazement and the guilt
Of past, as with the blood unspilt,
But only in design:
They rush amain (O what a leap)
And headlong plunge the soundless Deep,
Beneath the wrath divine.

190

Devils in arms to see them come,
With raptur'd horror make them room,
Their portion now the same:
Burning with joy they whet their taste,
While broiling Furies dress the feast,
High roasted in the flame.

191

O what a rapture of repast,
E'en Devils have their fill at last,
And gorge them to the full:

259

Feed on the flesh of torturing Priests,
(Fatten'd themselves like slaughter'd beasts)
And scrap'd their very skull.

192

How just their judgment from on high,
Who just before had doom'd to die,
The guiltless or the good!
Scorch'd with the flames themselves had made,
For ever blazing o'er their head:
Hell's panders and her food!

193

Come hither all ye feather'd fowl,
Ye spirits damn'd that flying howl,
Around the dark domain:
Perch on your long intended prey,
Or in your talons bear away
To realms of deeper pain.

194

Spare ye not them, they spar'd not here
The tortur'd groan, or falling tear,
Fast dropping from the eyes
Of souls tormented to their death,
Crackt or their limbs, suffus'd their breath,
Unseen or mock'd their cries.

195

Nor this the whole that justice saw,
By all contemn'd the common law,
Of equity and love:
Fond of revenge, of guile and death,
Invok'd her judgment from beneath,
Her vengeance from above!

196

A land blood, and pride, and ease,
Careless and settled on her lees,
Unmov'd as unrefin'd:

260

Enslav'd her court to fraud and lies,
Brilliant her diamonds and her vice,
And trifling as the wind.

197

Her prince unshaken at the groans
Of hapless widows and their sons,
The virgin or her sire:
Saw them unhelp'd (how helpless He! )
To Baal low the trembling knee,
Or in the flames expire.

198

Expire for what? for lust or blood?
No, but for honouring their God
Beyond an Idol's shrine:
Prefer'd the Patriarch to the Saint:
The warm Apostle to the paint
Of priestcraft and her line.

199

For these—what blood has not been shed!
What eyes not wept—what hearts not bled!
What sorrows have not howl'd!
Hast thou not seen! hast thou not heard!
(My Country for a moment spar'd)
Or hast thou not been told?

200

Yes thou hast heard and seen it too,
And is not half her doom thy due,
The Part'ners of her Trade?
And half her Crimes—as all supprest
The native candour of thy breast,
Uncrush'd the horrid deed!

261

201

Had Albion but stretched out her hand,
Her Senate grac'd the high command,
Petition'd to cast down
The cruel dome of Lust and Blood:
E'en Lisbon longer might have stood,
Or milder ruin known.

202

Yet Albion's sons heard all her cries,
E'en Albion turn'd away her eyes,
And stop'd her tingling ears:
Smote with the glitter of her gain,
She view'd oblique the victim's pain,
Nor wip'd away his tears.

203

But why should Albion interpose?
Albion the wife—why she disclose
Her secret disgust?
At hazard of her own repute:
Her Interest barter or commute,
For virtue or for dust?

204

Suffic'd if not her leave for trade?
Or aught their luxury had made
Expedient or esteem'd?
What ours to do with racks or fire?
She only saw their sons expire;
Or pitied unredeemed!

205

This God beheld—and saw it long:
Justice survey'd the sanguine throng,
And waited their return:
But all in vain—her wearied arm
Impatient struck with short alarm,
They tremble, howl, and burn!

262

206

See now a Capital in flames!
See Nobles (once distinguish'd names)
Just blended with the vile:
All in one common ruin thrown,
While stately palaces rush down,
And aggrandize the pile?

207

E'en Tagus lifts her tumid tide,
As fill'd with horror at their pride;
And all her banks o'erflow'd:
As indignation swell'd her stream,
To vindicate her Maker's name;
Forerunner of his Rod!

208

Feels Cadiz next the horrid shock,
Shakes from the basis of her rock:
What tremulous amaze!
With dread awaits the rushing sound
Of flames emerging from the ground,
Or Sodom's falling blaze!

209

The dire concussion spreads abroad,
E'en Madrid trembles at the rod:
High waving o'er her head!
Shriek here the victims bleeding cries,
While vile Inquisitors despise
The living and the dead!

263

210

Where rich and poor (alike their slave)
With bending servile meanness crave
A blessing from their tongue:
Inur'd to fawning and deceit,
They stoop or stooping kiss their feet:
Their idol and their song!

211

Bow to their shrine of pride and blood:
Adore the Priest—blaspheme their God:
To tyranny inur'd:
Shudder the Rack—yet kiss the hand,
That in a moment may command
Themselves to be immur'd.

212

Where all humanity's destroy'd,
The strongest ties of nature void:
Here no distinction known:
Alike their bigotry and zeal;
A Father (for the Church's weal)
Arraigns or stabs his Son.

213

The daughter from her mother torn,
Her innocence must yield or burn:
Heard here no virgin-cries:
Fast in the hands of Demon-priests
As devils hard and foul as beasts;
She guiltless sins—and dies.

214

For these, and crimes like these unknown,
Justice shall shake th' Escurial throne:
Nor always stand unpaid,
The sanguine debt of poor Peru;
Their Blood as once their gold—her Due:
And register'd their dead!

264

215

For this the arm of Vengeance bar'd
Without distinction or regard,
(For all approve the crime:)
Shall deal the thunders awful sound:
While livid light' nings scorch the ground:
And torrify her clime.

216

Barren as now their minds of grace,
Be then their land of herb or grass;
The food of beasts or men:
Heaven's iron canopy severe
Shall leave e'en verdant pastures bare,
Nor drop the fruitful rain.

217

That fount of life—they now despise,
Far off remov'd elude their cries;
Athirst unquench'd they pine:
Their Nobles shall for hunger fail,
While famine ravenous as pale,
Consumes the pamper'd line.

218

Her Priests in vile contempt array'd,
A hissing of the vulgar made,
Shall quit their sanguine Lay:
No more exalt their lucrous lye,
Themselves for ever doom'd to fly
Where glowing tortures play!

219

Nor these alone—but on the shores,
Of dull Batavia's greedy boors,
Is heard the threat'ning sound
Of vengeance hast'ning in her car,
Commenc'd the wide vindictive war,
Beneath the floating ground.

265

220

Here unrepenting shall they feel,
The trembling soil's concussive reel:
Or from the warning giv'n,
For ever plunge beneath the deep,
Involv'd in more than native sleep:
Death's dark asphaltic hav'n.

221

Nor for the cruelty or gain
Of priests—or racks distorting pain,
For daring to believe
What these dislike—or would impeach
The vile absurdities they teach;
Nor base their shrine receive.

222

But for their avarice of gold,
Their fame, and peace, and country sold
To perfidy and France:
For trampling on the Saviour's name;
While scornful Japonese blaspheme
The Christians and their Trance!

223

For all their mercantile defraud,
To serve the honours of their god;
Vile Mammon's molten shrine:
For all their cruelty and lies,
The yet unwip'd—unbury'd cries
Of Bantam and Amboyne!

266

224

For all her own domestic jars,
Her private stabs or civil wars,
Her Patriots condemn'd:
Their schemes of probity oppos'd,
Their secrets artfully disclos'd,
And baffled or contemn'd.

225

Nor less the venerable Name
Of Orange and her patriot flame,
Inherent from her Sire:
Shares the reproach of envious scorn,
From Dutchmen with their leaden horn:
Unquench'd the perjur'd fire.

226

Hail, widow'd Princess! and thy son:
Heir of his father and his throne,
Thy genius and thy friend:
Lift up in hope thy hopeless eyes,
See brighter days precinct arise:
And all thy sorrows end!

227

See Britain aid thy feeble hand!
See all her sires around thee stand:
Belgia's defence and thine!
See perjur'd villains flee thy face:
The nations and their own disgrace:
See Providence divine

228

Assert thy cause—his smile thy guard,
His hand thy shield—and thy reward,
The blessings of his throne:
See him prepare thy peaceful way:
Resum'd the triumph of the day,
The laurels all thine own!

267

229

Now Albion thee—fairest of all!
Permit to join my feeble call
With heaven's loud alarm:
Attend the universal blow,
Let all thy sons and daughters know
The impartial outstretch'd arm

230

Of Justice in her full career;
Not distant as of old but near,
That Albion may attend:
Felt not thy coasts the fatal shock,
The dread divine elastic stroke
Of Justice—yet thy friend?

231

Justice—that with her loud alarm,
Wou'd fain thy sons with fervor warm:
And recollected rise
From out the ashes of their sin,
E'er her vindictive charge begin,
And set at nought their cries.

232

E'er Mercy—disappointed turn
Away her sight with weeping scorn,
At penitence to come:
Hopeless to see their morals mend,
His wrath appeas'd or God their friend:
And unrevok'd their doom.

233

“But what! compare Britannia's crimes,
With Lisbon's sanguinary climes
Of tyranny and blood?
Compare her genius meek and mild,
Her borders free and undefil'd
The favourite of God?”

268

234

“With Lisbon's horrid worthless crew,
For whom what more reserv'd or due
Than vengeance and despair?
Region of cruelty and lies:
Where myriads mock the martyrs cries:
Nor heed the guiltless prayer.”

235

“Where thousand unheard crimes are done;
Secret to all beneath the sun,
But his keen searching eye;
Equal to whom the deepest night,
As fairest noon's meridian light,
Their darkness can descry.”

236

Here bright religion's gentle hand,
Waves over all her olive-wand
Of liberty and peace:
Her children smile beneath her shade,
Her saints in robes of truth array'd,
Her priests with righteousness.”

237

In part allow'd—in part deny'd:
Or else how wisdom justify'd
In dealing here her blow?
Why else should Britain feel the sound
Of distant warnings all around?
Prophetic strokes of woe!

238

Are not her sins of crimson dye?
Is not her smoke gone up on high?
Her offerings to the dead?
Her pride, and levity, and scorn,
Her bendless neck and dauntless horn
High branching o'er her head?

269

239

What wantonness of deed and thought!
What scenes of vice or folly wrought!
What sacrifice of truth!
Virtue of all the hate or smile:
Her ancients how debas'd and vile!
How dissolute her youth!

240

What foes to nature and their own!
How fond of ruin—not alone
A Father tells his shame:
His children snatch the dire mistake,
The slender yoke in sunder break,
And plead a Parent's name.

241

What blasphemy of Providence!
His word a bauble or offence,
To scorners and the wise:
Prophan'd his name—despis'd his day:
His secret warnings cast away,
For liberty and lies.

242

For licence to walk on in sin:
For leave to live and die therein,
Without remorse or fear:
High privilege of Albion's sons,
While each amain unbridled runs
To ruin and despair?

243

What murmuring and discontent!
What jealousy or base resent
At injuries ne'er receiv'd!
What murders, lewdness, and debauch!
What false malevolent reproach!
What infamy believ'd!

270

244

What vile indecency of pride!
What native proneness to deride
The Stranger or the Good!
What insolence of poverty!
What raggedness of villany!
What thirstiness of blood!

245

What lust of pleasure and of sense!
What brutal base incontinence!
What idleness and strife!
What secret treachery and design!
What hard attempts to undermine,
Our property or life!

246

What total loss of probity!
What falshood—shameless perjury!
What appetite of gain!
What private stabs of harmless friends!
What stone unturn'd to serve their ends!
What mockery of pain!

247

What boldness of impertinence!
What plots or censure of their prince!
E'en Brunswick feels his share:
(But yet not feels—or feels unseen
The envious malice of their spleen:
Their happiness his care!)

248

Hail him again—thy regal Sire!
Britain's great hope—whose patriot fire
Enkindles all her sons!
Long may her scepter grace his hand:
Her foes confess his dread command,
Whom God himself enthrones!

271

249

Long may he wave the scepter'd rod,
For Albion's honour and her God
Long may he grace her throne:
Till call'd from dignity and care,
His brows a brighter lawrel wear,
An everlasting crown!

250

Long may his num'rous offspring shine,
The charge of providence divine!
Long may his guardian hand
Protect the num'rous rising race!
Blest in his love enrich'd with grace
The darlings of the land!

251

Are these then Britain's graceless crimes?
Is this the portrait of Her times;
And can She still demand
“What room to fear the threaten'd woe;
“Of Lisbon's dread, judicial blow,
“Re-echo'd on her land!”

252

Is not the Lord of terrors nigh?
Is not his hand lift up on high;
His arrows cast abroad?—
Drawn from the bow (elastic steel)
To wound, consume, or drive to hell
The haters of their God!

253

Are not his kind monitions dealt?
Why tremors or the murrain felt,
Among thy Bestial brood?
More just as victims snatch'd away,
Than feed thy carcase for the day
Of slaughter and of blood!

272

254

These die to save their Lords from death!
To lengthen ours resign their breath,
Nay more, they die to save
A Nation from her death of Sin:
And (doom of all who dye therein)
An everlasting grave!—

255

Is Albion ignorant of this?
Albion—the stately, and the wise:
Can She untaught deny
The gentle lashings of his hand,
Or stout, beneath his vengeance stand,
Exalt her horn on high!

256

Can she refuse (from pride) to hear
The warning stroke of rumour'd war
Not distant as of old:
But from her borders kens the hosts
Of murderers—hov'ring o'er her coasts;
Must Britain then be told,

257

These are the engines—These the rod:
The scourge vindictive from her God:
Brandish'd before her eyes?
To shock the hardness of her sons,
To melt the marrow of their bones;
And make their sorrows rise?”

258

“That Nature's self is nothing more
Than his artillery or store
Of water, air or fire:
Engines—from whence around are hurl'd,
Storms, or confusions thro' the world;
The weapons of his ire.”

273

259

Maker of nature and her Lord,
That Wind and Storms fulfil his word,
The Lightning but his Eye
Flashing displeasure on mankind,
While the loud Thunder rolls his mind?
Dread voice of majesty!

260

What, all the Rains on herb or grass,
But tears wept o'er the fallen race
Of miserable men?
Tears of compassion to melt down
The Human heart more hard than stone;
More infamous than sin!

261

What, Locusts scatter'd o'er the land,
Dropt from the fingers of his hand
But tendrills of that rod,
Bound for the backs of senseless fools,
Who laugh at wisdom and her rules;
The discipline of God!

262

What, all the Foes that Albion hate,
Alien or homeborn in her state;
Beside a sword of Thine?
Ready whene'er thy Justice calls,
To rase the turrets of her walls;
Or, violate her shrine!

263

But These perhaps we may be spar'd;
If not Britannia's on her guard;
A match for human foes:

274

Mow'd as the grass beneath her steel?
Her sons around successive deal
Her thunders or her blows!

264

But can she equal guard her coasts
Against the light, suspensive hosts
Of Locusts and their train?
Flying in squadrons from on far,
Pregnant with famine's baleful war,
Unnumber'd as the rain!

265

Will these regard her glittering arms?
The martial trumpet's loud alarms?
Will these be struck with fear
At all the forces she can raise—
The front of terror and it's blaze,
The fulness of their rear?—

266

Will these regard her brib'd allies?
A camp of gewgaw butterflies:
The glitt'ring of their sword?
Themselves in polish'd armour clad
Shall bold defie their keenest blade
The army of the Lord!

267

Can Britain calm the Thunder's power!
Can She repel the bursting shower
Of Water or of Fire!
Can She resist th' o'erwhelming stream
Or, quench the universal flame?
Or, hectoring require—

275

268

(By or her Statutes or her Law)
The arm vindictive to withdraw
The Murrain from her Herd?
Or, can she live without their aid?
Her sons (with them) an offering made:
Unpity'd and unspar'd?

269

Can She unmov'd the Tremor feel
Of earth's intoxicated reel?
When staggering too and fro;
She rocks (as drunkards from their wine)
While bursting tempests undermine
Her Basis from below!

270

If she must strive—let her contend
With (such as match her feeble hand)
The Potsherds of the Earth:
But let not Albion boast her Shame,
Or, madly dare contend with Him,
Who gave Britannia birth!

271

Howe'er on them she turn her eyes,
Their threatnings or their arms defies;
Their promises or guile:
Here let her drop her lifted hand,
Aghast before her Maker stand;
And weep his absent smile!

272

Put off the garments of her Pride:
And wait till Justice' scale decide
The balance of her doom:
Till Mercy's sov'reign arm shall raise
Her drooping head—and her bright blaze
Dispel the gen'ral gloom.

276

273

The gloom of ignorance and sin,
Dark gloom of conscience and it's pain
Now foolishly disguis'd:
If yet at Heart, her spirit fail,
Within her anxious dread prevail,
Externally despis'd!—

274

Despis'd in vain—for yet not long;
E'er, what is now her scorn or song;
May be contemn'd no more:
But Albion's sons may feel the Rod
High waving in the hand of God,
Fierce thunder of his power!

275

Her peers no more direct her stage;
Or lead the manners of the age,
With insolence demand
What rabble dare their pleasures chuse?
“The plaudit of their taste refuse”—
Or, lift the Vulgar hand!

276

Better be every hand employ'd—
(With folly's guilty pleasures cloy'd)
Lift up the general pray'r:
Or, wipe their wanton, scornful eyes,
While floods of inbred sorrows rise;
And wash them from Despair;

277

But hark—thy Prince proclaims a Fast!
For what? the Present—and the Past,
The guilt of Future times:

277

For Albion's sons will yet again
Pursue their Follies and their sin;
Reiterate her crimes!

278

See ye not this—see in their face
The signs of insolence and grace—
In weeping they rebel:
Stretch forth the hands of lust and pray'r:
The lifeless, legal form, their care
But does Britannia feel!

279

Feels She compunction for her sin?
Does Albion feel the poignant pain
Of generous distress
For all the evils of her sons?
While o'er her utmost border runs
The stream of wickedness.

280

Feels She the warm vindictive shame
At all the honours of her name
Contaminate by vice?

278

Blushes the land for aught impure?
Still or how faithless or obdure;
How stupid—or how wise!

281

Laugh not her sons at all around?
While yet her Prince a Mourner found,
Extends the regal hand
Pities the Nation and the times,
Weeps o'er his own and Albion's crimes:
The spokesman for the land.

282

Does not thy Prince thy fate discern?
For this do not his bowels yearn?
Sees not the King thy doom?
Hear him—ye rebels—call aloud:
With him invoke your injur'd God,
And flee the wrath to come.

283

Will nothing then Britannia move?
Her Maker's threatnings nor his love;
Will nothing move her fears?
She cannot sure be deaf to all:
Alike his thunder as the call,
Of gentle, vernal airs!

284

Awake then, Albion, awake!
Thy children from their slumber shake,
E'er sees the rising sun
The morning of their hapless fate:
Sequel of that thou heard'st so late:
At Lisbon—but begun.

279

285

Remember hers, and watch thine end:
Alike thine own and Mercy's friend,
Still—lingring at thy door:
See him who weighs the Nations stand!
Who lift the Balance with his hand,
And Lisbon—is no more!
 

As a naturally necessary consequence, not vindictive or judicial—but as it was a consideration that ought to have deterred the parent from committing sin, so is it a severe, but wise and gracious designation of providence to make his offspring abhor it; so that tho' the father may have eaten sour grapes, yet (in one sense) the children's teeth need not be set on edge!

See Acts ii. 42. O what a picture of a Christian church! —had the church of Rome preserved this system uncorrupt— there had been no Reformation—had the church of England done it, there had been no dissention—and if the Methodists maintain it, there will be no division.

In the abby at Durham, the Dean and Chapter wear not the similar, but very identical garments that their predecessors (the Popish priests) wore there about 200 years ago— and I think such figures they must make, as are seldom to be met with—unless in those countries, where their profession, as well as practice, is really papistical—what would these gentlemen say, if any of the dissenters were deck'd up in this manner, and have they not a right? Nay, would not those who turn to the Church for hire or reward, put on these upon the very same motive?

The Dissenters.

Whoever would see to the utmost advantage, the controversy (not barely between the Dissenters—for there is no end of their squabbles, but really) between Scripture, common sense, and common decency on the one side—and the Church of England as by law established on the other—debated and decided in the most convincing and masterly manner, let him only read a book, entituled “The Dissenting “Gentlemen's Answer to the rev. Mr. White,” (not long since gone to answer himself for having drawn over his parish from their communion, instead of their sins—in which, it is to be feared, some of them still lived and died.) A book, wrote in so just and correct a spirit, that it deserves to be printed in letters of gold, and worn around the neck of all the clergy in England—nor less does the most ingenious author deserve the best preferment in the church, if either her gratitude would offer it, or his conscience permit him to accept it—but she knows better, and I hope he does too.—I was born, and am like to die in her tottering communion, but I despise her nonsense, and thank God I have once read a book, that no fool can answer, and no honest man will—to this I will readily add— “Neale's Hist. Purit.—Calamy's Hist of ejected Ministers— “Bennet on the Reformation.—An Essay on the Character “of Charles I.—The Life of that memorable man OliverCromwell, written by a Gentlemen of Oxford,—and the “rev. Mr. John Wesley's three Appeals.

As I know a certain dignified divine did, not long since, even when his own hands were as full as they could hold;— whereby a valuable, and useful man was deprived of his expectation, and in some measure of his right. Pray now, when a wretch acts in this manner, does not it shew the nature of a pig? and ought such a disposition to be indulged in a church established by law?

The capital or metropolis of the county of Kent, (in Latin, Cantium) which I have been told is (with the city, &c. of York) most remarkable for it's dirtiness, as the precincts of it's cathedral for their darkness.—What pity a severe act of parliament does not compel them both to do that, which neither common conveniency, humanity, reputation nor decorum ever did yet, or ever will without it!

An eminent sea-commander, who once saved the British fleet from the barbarous designs of a merciless and inveterate enemy — whom he set at defiance by the dextrous disposition of his sails and rigging — but for which signal piece of service, he was sometime under his discontented country's disgrace. See his own letter dated May 25, off Minorca.— Anno — quo scriptum est.

I almost query who is the greatest criminal, the rev. Mr. T. who threw poor John Little into prison, or those trusty friends of Quakers, who permit him to lie in, as he has done for some years? to the present honour of both parties, and I hope their future happiness and applause. I really think that next to a case in Canterbury, where a poor woman has lain in a common jail, for about sixteen years, (half the time, it seems, at a particular friend's request) for a debt contracted by the industry of the spiritual court — I hardly know one that wears such an aspect of equity and benevolence! but it must be death, I believe, (and not the law,) or private humanity, that must set either of them at liberty.

Nov. I. being All-Saints day, in the year 1755.

This is the phrase that is made use of, when with their lighted torches they singe the faces of such as are fasten'd to the Stake.

See the publick accounts, where thevery King himself bemoans his situation—as being without a house, without attendants, and without bread!

It is highly observable that this river rose to a very remarkable height a few hours before the earthquake; so that had it been but duly attended to, some might have escaped, and others, tho they had perish'd, might nevertheless not have perish'd in their Sin!

Which the Dutch are universally reported to do, by treading publickly on the cross at Japan, in token of their not being Christians but Dutchmen—(a truth as demonstrable as the light)—for which they are most cruelly censured—but I most cordially commend them—since having renounced the gospel of Christ, for the friendship of mammon—I cannot blame them for procuring as much of this world as they can.

For some—not all—time was indeed when Europe trembled at the name of an Englishman, and well it might—but now a single country of what our vast significancy calls Poltrons— begin to mortify and stagger our intrepedity—but a nation that has lost its virtue has in effect lost all.

I believe so conceited a nation as the English are hardly to be found on the face of the earth—but some late occurrences perhaps may contribute to make both the present and the future generation a little less sanguine and somewhat more vigilant and modest.

Tho' I am fully persuaded that the last day of public humiliation was really and effectually such among many in the nation—for whom (I trust) God may in some measure have been intreated for the land—yet I fear the greater part either afflicted not themselves at all, or have since prov'd it but a mockery of God and of their King, by the fresh if not redoubled return to their impieties. I am sure little better can be thought or hop'd of them who had the insolence and impiety both before nay at and after the royal proclamation to advertise in the public news-papers—their infamous assignments for balls, plays, &c. in half the little paultry cities and towns of this kingdom, or who attended them— If this be not to mock God, and despise his threatnings, I should be glad to know what is?—but is it not a doubt among us whether there be any God—or no—or at least any that troubles his head with the transactions of mankind —and who only sits an invisible and unconcern'd spectator of the wheel of that vast machine his necessitated omnipotence has set in motion.