The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley

Come, Lord, to a soul That waits in Thy ways,
That stays at the pool Expecting Thy grace:
To see Thy salvation, And prove all Thy will,
With sure expectation I calmly stand still.

With fasting and prayer My Saviour I seek,
And listen to hear The Comforter speak:
In searching and hearing The life-giving word,
I wait Thy appearing, I look for my Lord.

Because Thou hast said, Do this for My sake,
The mystical bread I gladly partake,
I thirst for the Spirit That flows from above,
And long to inherit Thy fulness of love.

441

'Tis here I look up, And grasp at Thy mind,
Here only I hope Thine image to find:
The means of bestowing Thy gift I embrace,
But all things are owing To Jesus's grace.

TO BE SUNG AT A BAPTISM.

Come Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Reveal'd in the baptismal flood,
Joint Saviour Thou of sinners lost,
Descend, the one eternal God.

Now in Thy own appointed hour,
Thy own appointed means, appear,
That all may tremble at Thy power,
And own the triune God is here.

For these Thy ransom'd ones we claim
The grace which glorious life imparts,
Their souls baptize into Thy name,
And stamp Thine image on their hearts.

Into Thy fold this moment take,
True Witness of their sins forgiven,
And partners of Thy nature make,
And partners of Thy throne in heaven.

A HYMN AT THE SACRAMENT.

God of truth and power and grace,
Drawn by Thee to seek Thy face,

442

Lo! I in Thy courts appear,
Humbly come to meet Thee here;

Trembling at Thine altar stand,
Lift to heaven my heart and hand,
Of Thy promised strength secure,
All my sins I now abjure.

All my promises renew,
All my wickedness eschew,
Chiefly that I call'd my own,
Now I hate, renounce, disown.

Never more will I commit,
Follow, or be led by it;
Only grant the grace I claim,
Arm my soul with Jesu's name.

Sure I am, Thou able art
To confirm my feeble heart;
Yes, Thou wilt from sin defend,
Make me faithful to the end.

Sure I am, it is Thy will,
I should never yield to ill,
Never lose Thy gracious power,
Never sin or grieve Thee more.

What doth then my hopes prevent?
Lord, Thou stay'st for my consent;
My consent through grace I give,
Promise in Thy fear to live.

Kept by all-sufficient grace,
I will not to sin give place,
I my bosom-sin abjure,
Jesu's blood shall keep me pure.

443

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Present with Thy angel host,
While I at Thine altar bow,
Witness to the solemn vow!

Now admit my bold appeal,
Now affix Thy Spirit's seal,
Now the power from high be given,
Register the oath in heaven.

LINES WRITTEN ON BEING REQUESTED TO WRITE AN EPITAPH FOR THE REV. JAMES HERVEY.

O'erreach'd, impell'd by a sly Gnostic's art,
To stab his father, guide, and faithful friend,
Would pious Hervey act the' accuser's part?
And could a life like his in malice end?

No: by redeeming love the snare is broke;
In death his rash ingratitude he blames;
Desires and wills the evil to revoke,
And dooms the' unfinish'd libel to the flames.

Who then for filthy gain betray'd his trust,
And show'd a kinsman's fault in open light?
Let him adorn the monumental bust,
The' encomium fair in brass or marble write.

Or if they need a nobler trophy raise,
As long as Theron and Aspasio live,
Let Madan or Romaine record his praise;
Enough that Wesley's brother can forgive!

444

ON THE FAILURE OF THE ATTEMPTS TO OBTAIN A MITIGATION OF DR. DODD'S PUNISHMENT.

Ah, who the ways of Providence can know,
Distributing or good or ill below?
M---d consents that murderers should live,
And Sodom's sons the royal grace receive;
Mercy the merciful cannot obtain,
And contrite Dodd for pity sues in vain!
But lo! the righteous Judge shall quickly come,
And every soul receive his equal doom.
Who mercy now to penitents deny,
Guilty yourselves, and soon condemn'd to die,
(Yourselves to felons if ye dare prefer,)
Judgment unmix'd ye for yourselves prepare,
And death eternal at the last great bar!

AN APOLOGY FOR THE ENEMIES TO MUSIC.

Men of true piety, they know not why,
Music with all its sacred powers decry,
Music itself (not its abuse) condemn,
For good or bad is just the same to them.
But let them know they quite mistake the case,
Defect of nature for excess of grace;
And whilst they reprobate the' harmonious art,
Blamed we excuse, and candidly assert
The fault is in their ear, not in their upright heart.

445

WRITTEN AFTER PASSING BY WHITEHALL.

Unhappy Charles, mistaken and misled,
In error by a wretched father bred,
By flattery nursed, and disciplined to stray,
As born a monarch for despotic sway;
Push'd on by Churchmen's interested zeal,
O'erruled by relatives beloved too well;
What shall I say? with partial fondness aim
To palliate faults thou didst thyself condemn?
Or, in the spirit of these furious times,
Blacken thy memory with fictitious crimes?
No: rather let me blame thy course begun,
Admire the glories of thy setting sun,
And virtues worthy a celestial crown.

Convinced of every error in thy reign,
Thy upright soul renounced them all; in vain!
Resolved to make the laws thy constant guide,
(And every heighten'd wrong was rectified,)
Rejoiced to bid the cause of discord cease,
And lay the basis sure of public peace.

But fruitless all a righteous monarch's pains,
If God to plague our guilty land ordains,
Suffers His foes their fatal choice to feel,
Cries “Havoc,” and lets slip the dogs of hell.
The champion fierce of violated laws
His sword in prosperous rebellion draws,
And scorning all the laws of man and God,
Imbrues his ruffian hands in sacred blood,
Holds up the martyr's as a traitor's head,
And glories in the dire infernal deed!

446

AFTER READING MR. HILL'S “REMARKS,” AND “FARRAGO DOUBLE-DISTILLED.”

Why do the zealots of Geneva rage,
And fiercest war with an old prophet wage?
Why doth their chief with blackest slanders load
An hoary servant of the living God?
Sincerely hate, affectedly contemn?
“Because he contradicts himself—not them!”
Let Wesley then a different method try,
Himself gainsay, his own report deny;
Evade or contradict the general call,
And teach, “The Saviour did not die for all.”
This contradiction openly confess'd
Would cancel and atone for all the rest!

TO A FRIEND ON SOME LATE INFAMOUS PUBLICATIONS IN THE NEWSPAPERS. [1776.]

You ask the cause of all this pother,
And brother stigmatized by brother:
Why all these floods of scandal shed
With curses on a hoary head.
'Tis but the malice of a party,
As blind and impotent as hearty,
A Popish and Geneva trick.
“Throw dirt enough, and some will stick,
Will choke the reprobate Arminian,
And damn him in the world's opinion.”

They blacken, not because he tries
To blind, but open people's eyes;

447

They blacken, to cut short dispute,
With lies and forgeries confute,
And thus triumphantly suppress
The calm debate, and calm Address;
At once decide the controversy,
And boast, “He lies at Calvin's mercy!”
Mercy perhaps they might have shown
The nation's old deceiver John;
But patriots-elect will never
Forgive the nation's undeceiver.

PARTY LOYALTY. [1780.]

The First and Second George were wise,
And understood a faction's price;
Little account of those they made
That from mere principle obey'd,
But purchased with an annual bribe
The votes of the Dissenting tribe;
Who served with flaming zeal and hearty
The heads of their own favourite party.

Why are they changed to George the Third,
And never give him a good word?
His rebels why do they embrace,
And spit in a mild monarch's face?
“Because he slights his father's friends,
And the three kingdoms comprehends,

448

All sects and parties reconciles,
Alike on Whig and Tory smiles;
Aims at impossibilities,
And studies all the world to please;
Because our pensions he withdraws;
And if he starve the good old cause,
And if he nothing more advance—
No longer pipe, no longer dance.”

449

THE PROTESTANT ASSOCIATION, WRITTEN IN THE MIDST OF THE TUMULTS, JUNE 1780.

450

CANTO I.

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.

454

CANTO II.

And now from street to street they roam,
And ruin spread where'er they come;
The tutor'd boys, without dismay,
Pursue their work in open day,
As lords of the surrender'd town,
As hired to pull old houses down.
Young Allen's fate untaught to fear
From men inured to massacre,
They smile to see the troops draw nigher
With no authority to fire,
As sent to mark how they go on,
And guard them till their work is done.

When nothing can their force resist,
Allow'd to do whate'er they list,
They next the welcome word obey,
And to the prisons march away.
But promise first at morning-light
To burn and pillage them at night,
Set all the lawful captives free,
And make a jail-delivery.
A principle of self-compassion,
Of self-defence, and preservation,
To loose the' oppress'd, their heart engages,
Let the birds fly, and burn the cages,
Desperate, in case of a defeat,
Thus to cut off their last retreat.

The keepers warn'd, in time prepare,
And send for succour to the Mayor.

455

But is the aid they ask refused?
He only begs to be excused
“From raising the combustion higher,
From pouring oil upon the fire,
Provoking a mad multitude,
And rashly shedding Christian blood.”

As lovers at the' appointed hour,
True to their word, with wasteful power,
Dread executioners of fate,
They fire the house, and burst the gate,
The fortress storm'd, their fellows seize,
And with triumphant joy release.
Who can describe the mutual greeting
Of friends, at such a happy meeting!
As brethren and companions dear
Redeem'd from bonds and death so near,
They gladly their deliverers join,
To carry on the' humane design,
The business of Association,
And break the shackles of the nation.

Behold them rush from jail to jail,
Resolved their promise shall not fail
To set imprison'd virtue free,
Erase the marks of tyranny,
Afford the frailer sex protection,
Burn all the houses of correction,
Destroy the scourges of mankind,
Nor leave one whipping-post behind.

The threaten'd jails, an hour before,
The magisterial aid implore;

456

But cannot gain what they require;
But sink, like Newgate, in the fire,
While issuing from their burning hives,
The vermin that by plunder thrives,
Augment the gang of public spoilers
With a fresh regiment of Tylers.

One glorious enterprise remains,
To recompense the heroes' pains,
The unguarded Bank by storm to take,
A bonfire of the books to make,
Assist the insufficient state,
And pay at once the nation's debt.

Fired with the hope so rich a treasure
To seize, and then to take their pleasure,
They run, they fly, where booty calls,
And force the gate, and scale the walls,
Ready the' important fort to win,
When answer'd by a guard within,
Repulsed, o'erthrown, on heaps they lie,
And in the bed of honour die!

Yet, on the point of being sack'd,
The Bank, they say, was ne'er attack'd:
And three months hence, the Cits will tell us,
No accident at all befel us,
No Popish chapel was pull'd down,
And not a house was burn'd in town.

A rioter killed in St. George's Fields.

CANTO III.

Baffled for once, the mob retreat,
Yet conquerors still in every street,

457

The prostrate citizens they see,
And haste to' improve their victory;
The list of the proscribed make known,
For lives and fortunes are their own.

“The chapels were a good beginning,
A hint to signify our meaning;
But Protestants, or Papists, all
Shall now without distinction fall:
Whether of high or low condition,
Whoever sign'd not the petition;
The foreigners by labour fed,
Who rob the people of their bread,
Bishops, and lords, and gentlemen,
Who proudly o'er the people reign,
And all the men on gain intent,
And all the tools of Government,
The Government o'erturn'd shall see,
And mourn its sad catastrophe.

“But O! what death doth he require,
Who cast our names into the fire,
Repulsed, and treated us with scorn?
He, and his house, and church shall burn.
That rogue Romaine we soon shall have him;
Nor Mence's tuneful voice shall save him.”
(Who would not the Associates join,
Or list beneath a madman's sign.)
“Old Wesley too, to Papists kind,
Who wrote against them for a blind,

458

Himself a Papist still in heart,
He and his followers shall smart.
Not one of his fraternity
We here beneath our standard see,
To which whole regiments resort
Both from the Lock and Tottenham-court.”
[Who rave, like patriots disappointed,
And roar and curse the Lord's anointed.]

The rabble speak, and spread their bands,
To execute their own commands,
Impetuous, as the torrent pours,
Resistless, as the flame devours,
And scattering ruin far and wide,
While terror is on every side,
With blasphemies they rend the sky,
And both their king and God defy.

But chiefly those they hate and fear
Who bear the noblest character;
The hoary guardian of our laws,
Most adverse to rebellion's cause,
Most faithful to his king, and true,
Most zealous for his country too,
On him with keenest rage they fly,
As justice would with Mansfield die.
The feeble guards stand by and see
The basest tools of anarchy,
Our age and nation's foul disgrace,
Who set his mansion in a blaze:

459

Pictures, and monuments of art,
The utmost genius could exert,
Compilers of the' historic page,
The bard, and lawgiver, and sage,
Writings for general use, design'd
To teach, and to improve mankind,
With manuscripts of price unknown,
Upon the flaming heap are thrown,
More than a Vatican contains
Is lost, and not a wreck remains.

So when ferocious Omar comes,
And learning to destruction dooms,
Ptolemy's stores erect the pyre,
His volumes all in smoke expire,
And the barbaric flames devour
The work of ages in an hour.

What hinders now the fell banditti
From plundering the devoted city?
Boldly they cast the mask away,
And stand confess'd in open day;
Hourly with fresh recruits increased;
The cry of Popery now is ceased:
They threaten general desolation,
A fire to purify the nation;
A fire impartial to consume
The friends and enemies of Rome.
“Throughly to purge is our intent,
Is—to blow up the Parliament,
The rich to level with the poor,
Unbounded freedom to restore.

460

To pull the courts and churches down,
And all the palaces in town.
Demolish every public place,
Set all your records in a blaze,
And warm you with the glorious sight—
Expect a specimen to-night!”

O what a night was that! the crowd
As congregated waters loud,
Tremendous as the sea in storm,
Their promise terribly perform!
Fierce flames on every side aspire,
And vault the firmament with fire!
The clash of arms, the thundering sound,
The pierced, who fall and bite the ground,
The roaring of Abaddon's sons,
The shoutings, and the dying groans,
The shrieks of anguish and dismay,
(A picture of that final day,)
Horrible sympathy impart,
And thrill with fear the boldest heart!

Where'er we turn our blasted eyes,
The torrent roars, the flames arise:
The old, the sick, the women fear,
Or die through dread of death so near!
Swiftly the catching fire proceeds,
From house to house destruction spreads,
And streets entire are doom'd to fall,
And vengeance vows to' o'erwhelm us all.

Unhappy Langdale! who could see
Unmoved his mournful tragedy,

461

Enough to mollify the nature
Of the most stern Associator!
His numerous babes, an helpless throng,
They deprecate the cruel wrong;
The father sad, with fruitless prayer,
Entreats the savages to spare,
(Whom wine inflames, and fury blinds,)
Talks to the waves, and courts the winds;
In vain to magistrates applies,
Before his house in ashes lies,
To aldermen most humbly suing,
While trembling on the verge of ruin,
He instantaneous aid requires,
Or to prevent, or quench the fires.
Compassion steals into their breast,
And W--- assents to his request,
(That hero in tumultuous fights,
That champion for the City's rights!)
“Let's save him then,” he cries, “from murder,—
But all things must be done in order;—
Let's save him from the mob so cursed,—
But let us call a council first!”

Vain help, alas, which never came!
Consumed by the voracious flame,
His all is lost! and numbers more
His ruin and their own deplore,
Recalling oft with fresh affright
The havoc of that dreadful night!

At morn we see the fiery void,
And glorying o'er their foes destroy'd,
We shrink from the assassin band,
Possess'd of absolute command:

462

The nation's scum together rise,
To swell their host with new supplies,
From smoking jails a desperate crew,
Who rob the gibbet of its due,
Vile instruments of depredation
Let loose on an abandon'd nation,
Incendiaries from every side
Heighten the wild tumultuous tide:
Hibernians join to rend and tear,
And Papists last, the spoils to share,
(As vultures to the carcase fly,
Smelling the bloody banquet nigh,)
Flock to the city of confusion,
Given up to mobbish execution.

Who can against the ruffians stand,
Or dare deny their just demand?
Religion's friends, our faith's protectors,
Our guards—an army of collectors,
May they not maintenance require,
As workmen worthy of their hire,
And lay us under contribution,
And bring us to a good conclusion?

“That good and full conclusion's come,
Your sure, inevitable doom:
The exterminating word is pass'd,
And the next night shall be your last:
'Tis fix'd (the hellish murderer cries,)
A thousand fires at once shall rise;
Your aqueducts cut off shall fail,
And flames unquenchable prevail,
(Strange flames that never can expire,

463

A compound of Tartarian fire,)
Destruction shall your city sweep,
Burn'd down into a ruinous heap,
Your proud metropolis shall lie,
And London's boast for ever die.”

What can their purpose fell defeat,
Or snatch us from the gaping pit?
We shudder on the brink of fate,
And for our sure excision wait:
Let but another night pass o'er,
And England's glory is no more,
Triumph the Luciferan host,
Abaddon reigns, and all is lost!

The Alexandrian Library.

Newgate-street, &c.

CANTO IV.

But lo! at the appointed time,
On His eternal throne sublime,
The Lord, who o'er all nature reigns,
And holds rebellious powers in chains,
Who sets the raging sea its bounds,
He looks—and all our foes confounds!

He calls the man of His right hand,
His image, in the gap to stand,
Inspired with wisdom from above,
Clothed with authority and love,
Deputed by the Lord most high
To deal the vengeance of the sky,
Root out the sons of wickedness,
And save a most unthankful race.

464

His faithful troops from every side
Are brought to turn the rapid tide,
To scatter the wild beasts of prey,
The felons and destroyers slay,
To seize the' appointed heirs of death,
And pluck the prey out of their teeth,
The brands half-burn'd out of the fire,
And pay the incendiaries their hire.

Compell'd at last the loyal bands
To execute their king's commands,
(Their king by heaven's almighty Lord
Entrusted with the nation's sword,)
No more they tenderly forbear,
No more with cruel pity spare,
Nor slaughter all with fury blind,
But where the active fiends they find
In their infernal work employ'd,
The hell-hounds are at once destroy'd!

The pale, remaining sons of riot,
Atrocious foes to public quiet,
Quaking before their swift pursuers,
(A terror now to evil-doers,)
Into remotest corners fly,
(Their badges and their arms thrown by,)
Or wish in the deep dungeon's gloom
To screen them from the death to come,
Or long to hide their guilty head
In ruins which their hands have made.

But vain your hope of a reprieve,
Ye see the sad alternative,

465

Mercy itself is forced to cry,
The innocent, or you, must die.

What streams of blood already shed!
Heaps of intoxicated dead,
Beneath the flaming ashes found,
And carcases without a wound!
(While many a slaughter'd parricide
Is dragg'd away, his name to hide.)
Patricians here in rags remain,
There female fiends and furies slain,
To every shock'd spectator show
“There is a God that reigns below!”
But now fulfill'd His dread design,
The ministers of wrath Divine,
Behold the public peace restored,
And gladly sheathe the vengeful sword.

Extinct we see the fatal blaze,
Saved by a miracle of grace,
The national escape we view,
And scarcely dare believe it true.
Yet now beginning to respire,
We anxiously the cause inquire
Whence our calamities began,
Or who contrived the burning plan.
Too evident the' accursed design
We see; but where's the Catiline?
The wisest grant we are not got
To the dark bottom of the plot;
The least acute, methinks, might smell
The counsel of Ahithopel.
Or is there no resentment rankling
In the unnatural heart of Franklin?

466

Does nothing treasonable lurk,
Nothing American, in ------?
No depths of Luciferian art
In F---'s foul, infernal heart?
(That son of vice and dissipation,
Implunged in debt and desperation,
For each flagitious purpose fit,
A fiend in malice and in wit!)
No hope in the ejected race?
No mischief hatching in His Grace—
So forward to defend the crown,
And turn the soldiers out of town,
So willing, in our last extreme,
Our safety should be left to him!

How came Mynheer our doom to know,
And publish it two months ago?
French prophets—whence could they foresee
Our swift-approaching destiny?
Or Congress, from across the' Atlantic,
Behold the Associate mob so frantic,
And promise the destruction near
Of London and of Westminster?

In answer to these choking questions,
Or ministerial suggestions,
The patriots say, “No harm was meant,
No plot: but all was accident!”
By accident the rabble came
Together, in religion's name;
By accident, without a plan,
They with the mass-houses began;
They next suppress'd all evidence,
And all who justice could dispense;

467

The statesmen to destruction doom'd;
By accident the jails consumed;
(While water we in vain require
To quench the hell-compounded fire)
By accident the people's lees
Concurr'd our wealth and arms to seize;
From step to step, by measures just
To lay our cities in the dust,
Our name and nation to erase,
And build their empire in its place;
To reign—yet still with no intent
To reign—“for all was accident!”

So, as the sons of Epicurus
With modest confidence assure us,
Atoms did into order dance
And form'd an universe,—by chance!

“But why is no discovery made?
We see the tail, without the head.”
Our rulers may know more, and see
Farther, perhaps, than you or me;
And at the time that best befits
To bring the nation to their wits,
Unravel the complete design,
And show the face of Catiline!

Meantime in spite of all your covers,
And sly, political manœuvres,
This inference the public draws,
The effect must presuppose a cause,
The mischief point at the contrivers,
The headlong herd detect the drivers.

468

ADDRESS TO THE CITY.

Written in June 1780.

Ye citizens of London, why
So coy, and diffident, and shy,
Who should with open arms receive
The instruments, through whom ye live;
Why shun the soldiers' company,
And with the valiant city free,
And call for arms yourselves at last?
Is it, because the danger's pass'd?

Should bloody arms entrusted be
With men of your temerity,
Who, when ye in the ground assemble
Your bands, bid all the council tremble?
Who, firing but with powder, make
Yourselves, and the whole city quake?
What would become of us, if all
The liverymen should fire with ball?
The fright we never could endure;
Nor would his lordship be secure
Within the wind of such commotion,
But death again might be his potion!

Can ye so suddenly forget
Those ragged ministers of fate,
All law and order's overturners,
The furious mob of chapel-burners;
The scum and refuse of the nation,
The panic-dread, and devastation,
The ravage and the flames they spread,
With king Apollyon at their head!

469

Aghast ye stood, nor dared oppose
Your feeble, despicable foes,
Boys, women, chimney-sweeps, collected
To act, as wiser heads directed,
With horror every heart to' inspire,
To burn your stately domes with fire,
Your shackled felons to release,
Your wealth and arsenals to seize,
And gall you with the triple chain
Of France, America, and Spain.
No need of hostile fleets combined
To execute what hell design'd,
Suffice the miscreants most base
Your proud metropolis to rase.

So, if almighty Wisdom will,
The meanest instruments of ill,
Vermin out of the dust shall rise,
To deal the vengeance of the skies.

What angel in the darkest hour
Saved you from the destroyer's power?
Whose arm did the deliverance bring?
Was it the patriots, or the king?
From George the timely rescue came,
And pluck'd the brands out of the flame:
Swift to your help his legions flew,
And crush'd the desolating crew,
The authors of your woes and fears,
Your slaves—and executioners.

But do ye king and soldiers thank
Or for the Mansion-house or Bank?

470

With joy the kind preservers see
Both of your lives and property?
Rather the benefit to own
Ye scorn, and urge them to be gone,
Your friends impatient to exclude:
Such is the City's gratitude!

After the fight, ye breathe anew,
And who so valiant now as you?
Recover'd from the recent squall
Which threaten'd to o'erwhelm us all,
Ye plead your right to guide the helm,
(The City is your proper realm,)
And but your own militia need,
With dauntless K--- at their head.

So sailors when the storm is o'er,
Look up, and think of it no more,
Forget their fears, and, what is stranger,
They swear they never were in danger.

ADVICE TO THE CITY.

Written in June 1780.

What means this melancholy ditty,
Resounding through the ransom'd city?
Why do our aldermen exclaim,
So lately pluck'd out of the flame?
“Because His Majesty defends
Our lives, for his own private ends;
For spite, his courtiers interpose
Their help, to screen us from our foes:

471

The arbitrary ministry
Refuse to leave our city free,
And the officious soldiers kill,
By saving us against our will.

“What need of Government assistance,
When mob, and danger's at a distance;
What need of military care
To guard, when K--- is our Mayor?
When all the rioters in town
Are govern'd by the scarlet gown,
And see our livery in array
Prepared to fight—another day?

“Besides, ourselves the City guard,
And hunt the rogues through every ward:
Intrepid W--- appears our chief,
And who so fit to catch a thief?
His old vagaries he forgets,
Lives honestly, and pays his debts,
As bent immortal fame to win,
And die a royalist, like Prynne.

“Why send us troops who cannot need 'em?
Only to rob us of our freedom,
Debar us of our native right,
And dearest privilege, to fight,
And standing on our own defence,
Again to drive the rebels hence.

“Deny us arms? we cannot see
The meaning of His Majesty:
Does he suspect his faithful lieges,
Because he knows our skill in sieges,

472

In party-clubs, and coalitions,
Address, remonstrance, and petitions?
Our conduct past must have convinced him
We cannot turn our arms against him;
He knows our bold train-bands for valour
As famed and dreadful—as a taylor!
Nor are our aldermen such fools
To meddle rashly with edged tools;
Since not a crow that flies is shyer
Of gunpowder, when soldiers fire,
Which makes us first the redcoats order
To shoot—and try them then for murder!

“Unless the King his troops withdraw,
He means to rule by martial law,
And for our most unfeign'd affection
Dragoon us into tame subjection,
At last to change the constitution:
By military execution
Accomplish his despotic plan,
And as the Swedish monarch reign.

“How can we now preserve the nation,
But by a new Association?
Put arms into our hands, and see
If we can fight for liberty,
If each will not his castle guard:
Plenty of muskets be prepared,
Let every householder have one,
And teach him to let off his gun,
Then when the bridle you withdraw,
Which keeps the rioters in awe,

473

No longer when the troops restrain,
The rabble freed may rise again.
And let them rise, a desperate herd,
To take us lions by the beard!
Let every boy—and girl—come on,
And all the chimney-sweeps in town,
They to their own destruction come,
They rush upon their instant doom.

“Or if the beast will but be civil,
Committing only useful evil,
Let loose their prowess on our foes,
Who all our patriot-schemes oppose,
Their rage on N--- and S--- vent,
And the vile tools of Government;
Pity the troops should keep them under,
Or rob them of their lawful plunder,
Pity the troops should tear and rend them
For want of arms—which we could lend them.

“If mob is totally suppress'd,
How can a grievance be redress'd?
Or how revived the good old cause?
Or how supplied defective laws?
But rabble-government, we see,
With soldiers never can agree;
Unless we then the redcoats chace,
The mob can hardly show his face,
Or pull a courtier's mansion down,
Or strip a bishop of his gown.
But when the people's reign is o'er,
Freedom and property's no more,
With the mob's power religion fails,
And Popery over all prevails.”

474

Ye gentle citizens, attend
The cooler counsels of a friend:
Let not your hasty courage rise,
Or blind self-love put out your eyes;
Let not a spirit of opposition
Conceal from you your own condition,
But learn in time yourselves to know,
Nor triumph o'er an absent foe.
Your fortitude, a reed so weak,
Will play you still a slippery trick:
To fight ye never were intended,
Only to be yourselves defended;
Witness the absolute defeat
Which now ye labour to forget,
When fearing goods and lives to lose,
Your hearts sunk down into your hose!
Ye did not then the mob defy,
But piteously for mercy cry,
Panting, and pale, and out of breath,
And quash'd, as in the arms of death!

But now your courage is return'd,
The foe suppress'd, the danger scorn'd:
Yet, if the army stand aloof,
He still may put you to the proof;
And when the rabble reappears,
O'erwhelm'd with stupefying fears,
Ye may for help cry out again,
And wish the soldiers back, in vain.

Be caution'd then by good advice,
And learn your happiness to prize,
Your rage for liberty repress,
Nor turn it to licentiousness;

475

No more your gracious king mistrust,
So mild, and merciful, and just;
No more by cruel insults wrong,
Because he suffers you so long,
With pity your perverseness sees,
And saves you in your last distress.

And if you wish in peace to live,
No credence to your leaders give,
But every demagogue dismiss,
Those worst of all incendiaries,
Who foes to king and country, dare
Usurp the patriot's character,
Pleaders for liberty and laws,
Supporters of rebellion's cause,
Who set the nation in a flame,
And on their monarch cast the blame.

All counsels to sum up in one,
Do, what so few of you have done,
Poor, guilty worms, your Maker fear,
And then ye must your king revere!

In St. George's Fields.

SECOND ADDRESS TO THE CITY.

Written in June 1780.

Ye Londoners, with smiles regard
The homage of a nameless bard,
(Ambitious, had he power, to raise
A lasting monument to your praise,)
Who reads you with a lover's eye,
Exalts your virtues to the sky,

476

Admires your zeal and public spirit,
In strains unequal to your merit,
And with astonish'd Europe sees
Your truly wonderful police.

All-wise omnipotent creators
Of senates, kings, and legislators;
Creators, and deliverers too,
Our safety we ascribe to you.
Whose magnanimity so late
Redeem'd us on the edge of fate,
And from a general conflagration
Preserved the city and the nation.

Yet having your dear country freed,
Ye lessen the heroic deed,
The plot your valour has defeated
By you is as a nothing treated,
Who now with confidence maintain
“The mob had no concerted plan,
No thought, or previous consultation
For burning, or for desolation.
But simply meant to do no more
Than all the mischief in their power:
No counsel was in the destroyers;”
But was there none in their employers?
Here, gentlemen, we issue join:
The mob, you say, had no design:
The mob had no design, we say,
Only for plunder and for pay:
The instruments ostensible,
Actors howe'er of every ill,
Contrivers they were not, that's certain:
But were there none behind the curtain?

477

No heads, or counsellors more able
To influence the thoughtless rabble?
To teach them what, and how perform?
To manage and direct the storm?
Were none of the Associators
American or English traitors?
It cannot now be doubted whether
They help'd to bring the mob together:
But could it not be once suspected
The rabble might be ill-directed?
Or would the multitude increase
To myriads, and then part in peace?

We grant it, the Associate host,
The bulk of them were dupes at most:
But might not some be hired to' advance
The cause of Congress, and of France?
A knave behind a madman lurk?
A G--- be the tool of ------?
America might seize the' occasion,
And use the blind Association,
Amidst our national confusion,
To put their scheme in execution,
To perpetrate their hellish plan,
And kings by our excision reign?

Why would ye then, ah, tell us why,
Through modesty the truth deny,
Ye rulers of the gallant town
That still subsists to your renown?
Your fame, which fears no more eclipses
From boys, or chimney-sweeps, or gipsies,
In spite of all your foes' designs,
Illustrious, and immortal shines.

478

If bards on those who greatly dare
Can immortality confer,
Your patriotic deeds shall blaze,
Brilliant, in everlasting lays.
But stand it, far above the rest,
In England's chronicles confess'd,
That when our foes had laid the train,
And ripen'd their pernicious plan,
Rebels with regicides conspired,
And London was already fired;
Then all who wore the scarlet gown
Stood up—and trod the ruffians down:
A W--- did on our side appear,
And charged the faction—in the rear;
A B--- preserved the City's right,
And put the soldiery to flight,
A second Walworth graced the chair,
And Kennet was our glorious mayor!

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS HYMNS AND POEMS.

HYMN ON THE MEANS OF GRACE.

TO BE SUNG AT A BAPTISM.

A HYMN AT THE SACRAMENT.

LINES WRITTEN ON BEING REQUESTED TO WRITE AN EPITAPH FOR THE REV. JAMES HERVEY.

ON THE FAILURE OF THE ATTEMPTS TO OBTAIN A MITIGATION OF DR. DODD'S PUNISHMENT.

AN APOLOGY FOR THE ENEMIES TO MUSIC.

WRITTEN AFTER PASSING BY WHITEHALL.

AFTER READING MR. HILL'S “REMARKS,” AND “FARRAGO DOUBLE-DISTILLED.”

TO A FRIEND ON SOME LATE INFAMOUS PUBLICATIONS IN THE NEWSPAPERS. [1776.]

PARTY LOYALTY. [1780.]

THE PROTESTANT ASSOCIATION, WRITTEN IN THE MIDST OF THE TUMULTS, JUNE 1780.

CANTO I.

CANTO II.

CANTO III.

CANTO IV.

ADDRESS TO THE CITY.

ADVICE TO THE CITY.

SECOND ADDRESS TO THE CITY.