 | Mahomet The Imposter |  |
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mr. HAVARD.
To
point what Length's Credulity has run,
What Counsels shaken, and what States undone;
What hellish Fury wings th'Enthusiast's Rage,
And makes the troubled Earth one Tragick Stage;
What Blasphemies Imposture dares advance,
And build what Terrors on weak Ignorance;
How Fraud alone Rage to Religion binds,
And makes a Pandæmonium of our Minds;
Our Gallick Bard, fir'd with these glorious Views,
First to this Crusade led the Tragick Muse;
Her Power through France his charming Numbers bore,
But France was deaf—for all her Priests were sore.
What Counsels shaken, and what States undone;
What hellish Fury wings th'Enthusiast's Rage,
And makes the troubled Earth one Tragick Stage;
What Blasphemies Imposture dares advance,
And build what Terrors on weak Ignorance;
How Fraud alone Rage to Religion binds,
And makes a Pandæmonium of our Minds;
Our Gallick Bard, fir'd with these glorious Views,
First to this Crusade led the Tragick Muse;
Her Power through France his charming Numbers bore,
But France was deaf—for all her Priests were sore.
On English Ground she makes a firmer Stand,
And hopes to suffer by no hostile Hand.
No Clergy here usurp the free-born Mind,
Ordain'd to teach, and not enslave Mankind;
Religion here bids Persecution cease,
Without, all Order, and within, all Peace;
Truth guards her happy Pale with watchful Care,
And Frauds, tho' Pious, find no Entrance there.
And hopes to suffer by no hostile Hand.
No Clergy here usurp the free-born Mind,
Ordain'd to teach, and not enslave Mankind;
Religion here bids Persecution cease,
Without, all Order, and within, all Peace;
Truth guards her happy Pale with watchful Care,
And Frauds, tho' Pious, find no Entrance there.
Religion to be Sacred, must be Free;
Men will suspect—where Bigots keep the Key.
Hooded and train'd like Hawks th'Enthusiasts fly,
And the Priest's Victims in their Pounces die.
Like Whelps born blind, by Mother-Church they're bred,
Nor wake to Sight, to know themselves misled:
Murder's the Game—and to the Sport unprest,
Proud of the Sin, and in the Duty blest,
The Layman's but the Blood-Hound of the Priest.
Whoe'er Thou art, that dar'st such Themes advance,
To Priest-rid Spain repair, or slavish France;
For Judas' Hire there do the Devil's Task,
And trick up Slavery in Religion's Mask.
England still free, no surer Means requires
To sink their sottish Souls, and damp their Martial Fires.
Men will suspect—where Bigots keep the Key.
Hooded and train'd like Hawks th'Enthusiasts fly,
And the Priest's Victims in their Pounces die.
Like Whelps born blind, by Mother-Church they're bred,
Nor wake to Sight, to know themselves misled:
Murder's the Game—and to the Sport unprest,
Proud of the Sin, and in the Duty blest,
The Layman's but the Blood-Hound of the Priest.
To Priest-rid Spain repair, or slavish France;
For Judas' Hire there do the Devil's Task,
And trick up Slavery in Religion's Mask.
England still free, no surer Means requires
To sink their sottish Souls, and damp their Martial Fires.
Britons, these Numbers to yourselves you owe;
Voltaire hath Strength to shoot in Shakespeare's Bow:
Fame led him at his Hippocrene to drink,
And taught to write with Nature, as to think:
With English Freedom, English Wit he knew,
And from the inexhausted Stream profusely drew.
Cherish the noble Bard yourselves have made,
Nor let the Frauds of France steal all our Trade.
Now of each Prize the Winner has the Wearing,
E'en send our English Stage a Privateering:
With your Commission, we'll our Sails unfold,
And from their Loads of Dross, import some Gold.
Voltaire hath Strength to shoot in Shakespeare's Bow:
Fame led him at his Hippocrene to drink,
And taught to write with Nature, as to think:
With English Freedom, English Wit he knew,
And from the inexhausted Stream profusely drew.
Cherish the noble Bard yourselves have made,
Nor let the Frauds of France steal all our Trade.
Now of each Prize the Winner has the Wearing,
E'en send our English Stage a Privateering:
With your Commission, we'll our Sails unfold,
And from their Loads of Dross, import some Gold.
| Mahomet The Imposter | |