Increase apace, by periodic days
Of annual payment, or thy patron's boon,
The lean reward of gross unbounded praise!
It much avails, to seize the present hour,
And, undeliberating, call around
The hungry creditors; their horrid rage
When once appeas'd, the small remaining store
Shall rise in weight tenfold, in lustre rise,
As gold improv'd by many a fierce essay.
'Tis thus the frugal husbandman directs
His narrow stream, if, o'er its wonted banks
By sudden rains impell'd, it proudly swell;
His timely hand through better tracks conveys
The quick decreasing tide; ere borne along
Or through the wild morass, or cultur'd field,
Or bladed grass mature, or barren sands,
It flow destructive, or it flow in vain!
But happiest he who sanctifies expense
By present pay! who subjects not his fame
To tradesmen's varlets, nor bequeaths his name,
His honour'd name, to deck the vulgar page
Of base mechanic, sordid, unsincere!
There, haply, while thy Muse sublimely soars
Beyond this earthly sphere, in Heaven's abodes,
And dreams of nectar and ambrosial sweets,
Thy growing debt steals unregarded o'er
The punctual record; till nor Phœbus' self,
Nor sage Minerva's art, can aught avail
To sooth the ruthless dun's detested rage.
Frantic and fell, with many a curse profane
He loads the gentle Muse; then hurls thee down
To want, remorse, captivity, and shame.
Each public place, the glittering haunts of men,
With horrour fly. Why loiter near thy bane?-
Why fondly linger on a hostile shore,
Disarm'd, defenceless? why require to tread
The precipice? or why, alas, to breathe
A moment's space, where every breeze is death?
Death to thy future peace! Away! collect
Thy dissipated mind; contract thy train
Of wild ideas o'er the flowery fields
Of show diffus'd, and speed to safer climes.
Economy presents her glass, accept
The faithful mirror: powerful to disclose
A thousand forms, unseen by careless eyes,
That plot thy fate. Temptation, in a robe
Of Tyrian dye, with every sweet perfum'd,
Besets thy sense; Extortion follows close
Her wanton step, and Ruin brings the rear.
These and the rest shall her mysterious glass
Embody to thy view: like Venus kind,
When to her labouring son, the vengeful powers
That urg'd the fall of Ilium, she display'd,
He, not imprudent, at the sight declin'd
The unequal conflict, and decreed to raise
The Trojan welfare on some happier shore.
For here to drain thy swelling purse await
A thousand arts, a thousand frauds attend, [boxes,
"The cloud-wrought canes, the gorgeous snuff-
The twinkling jewels, and the gold etwee,
With all its bright inhabitants, shall waste
Its melting stores, and in the dreary void
Leave not a doit behind." Ere yet exhaust
Its flimsy folds offend thy pensive eye,
Away! embosom'd deep in distant shades,
Nor seen nor seeing, thou mayst vent thy scorn
Of lace, embroidery, purple, gems, and gold!
There of the farded fop, and essenc'd beau,
Ferocious with a stoic's frown disclose
Thy manly scorn, averse to tinsel pomp ;
And fluent thine harangue. But can thy soul
Deny thy limbs the radiant grace of dress,
Where dress is merit! where thy graver friend
Shall wish thee burnish'd! where the sprightly fair
Demand embellishment! e'en Delia's eye,
As in a garden, roves, of hues alone
Inquirent, curious? Fly the curst domain;
These are the realms of luxury and show;
No classic soil: away! the bloomy Spring
Attracts thee hence; the waning Autumn warns;
Fly to thy native shades, and dread e'en there,
Lest busy fancy tempt thy narrow state
Beyond its bounds. Observe Florelio's mien.
Why treads my friend with melancholy step
That beauteous lawn; why pensive strays his eye
O'er statues, grottos, urns, by critic art
Proportion'd fair? or from his lofty dome,
Bright glittering through the grove, returns his eye
Unpleas'd, disconsolate? And is it Love,
Disastrous Love, that robs the finish'd scenes
Of all their beauty? centring all in her
His soul adores? or from a blacker cause
Springs this remorseful gloom? is conscious Guilt
The latent source of more than love's despair?
It cannot be within that polish'd breast
Where science dwells, that guilt should harbour
No! 'tis the sad survey of present want,
And past profusion! Lost to him the sweets
Of yon pavilion, fraught with every charm
For other eyes; or, if remaining, proofs
Of criminal expense! Sweet interchange
Of river, valley, mountain, woods, and plains!
How gladsome once he rang'd your native turf,
Your simple scenes, how raptur'd! ere expense
Had lavish'd thousand ornaments, and taught
Convenience to perplex him, art to pall,
Pomp to deject, and beauty to displease.
Oh! for a soul to all the glare of wealth, To Fortune's wide exhaustless treasury, Nobly superior! but let Caution guide The coy disposal of the wealth we scorn, And Prudence be our almoner! Alas! The pilgrim wandering o'er some distant clime, Sworn foe of Avarice! not disdains to learn its coin's imputed worth; the destin'd means To smooth his passage to the favour'd shrine. Ah let not us, who tread this stranger-world, Let, none who sojourn on the realms of life, Forget the land is mercenary; nor waste His fare, ere landed on no venal shore.
Let never bard consult Palladio's rules; Let never bard, O Burlington! survey Thy learned art, in Chiswick's dome display'd; Dangerous incentive! nor with lingering eye Survey the window Venice calls her own. Better for him, with no ingrateful Muse, To sing a requiem to that gentle soul Who plann'd the sky-light; which to lavish bards Conveys alone the pure ethereal ray. For garrets him, and squalid walls await, Unless, presageful, from this friendly strain He glean advice, and shun the scribbler's doom,
YET once again, and to thy doubtful fate
The trembling Muse consigns thee. Ere contempt,
Or Want's empoison'd arrow, ridicule,
Trausfix thy weak unguarded breast, behold!
The poet's roofs, the careless poet's, his
Who scorns advice, shall close my serious lay.
When Gulliver, now great, now little deem'd,
The plaything of comparison, arriv'd
Where learned bosoms their aerial schemes
Projected, studions of the public weal;
'Mid these, one subtler artist he descried,
Who cherish'd in his dusty tenement
The spider's web, injurious, to supplant
Fair Albion's fleeces! Never, never may
Our monarchs on such fatal purpose smile,
And irritate Minerva's beggar'd sons
The Melksham weavers! Here in every nook
Their wefts they spun; here revell'd uncontrol'd,
And, like the flags from Westminster's high roof
Dependent, here their fluttering textures wav'd.
Such, so adorn'd, the cell I mean to sing!
Cell ever squalid! where the sneerful maid
Will not fatigue her hand! broom never comes,
That comes to all! o'er whose quiescent walls
Arachne's unmolested care has drawn
Curtains subsusk, and save th' expense of art.
Survey those walls, in fady texture clad,
Where wandering snails in many a slimy path,
Free, unrestrain'd, their various journeys crawl;
Peregrinations strange, and labyrinths
Confus'd, inextricable! such the clue
Of Cretan Ariadne ne'er explain'd!
Hooks! angles! crooks! and involutions wild!
Mean time, thus silver'd with meanders gay,
In mimic pride the snail-wrought tissue shines,
Perchance of tabby, or of harateen,
Not ill expressive! such the power of snails.
Behold the chair, whose fractur'd seat infirm
An aged cushion hides! replete with dust
The foliag'd velvet; pleasing to the eye
Of great Eliza's reign, but now the snare
Of weary guest that on the specious bed
Sits down confiding. Ah! disastrous wight!
In evil hour and rashly dost thou trust
The fraudful couch! for, though in velvet cas'd,
Thy sated thigh shall kiss the dusty floor.
The traveller thus, that o'er Hibernian plains
Hath shap'd his way; on beds profuse of flowers,
Cowslip, or primrose, or the circular eye
Of daisy fair, decrees to bask supine,
And see! delighted, down he drops, secure
Of sweet refreshment, case without annoy,
Or luscious noon-day nap. Ah much deceiv'd,
Much suffering pilgrim ! thou nor noon-day nap,
Nor sweet repose shalt find; the false morass
In quivering undulations yields beneath
Thy burthen, in the miry gulf enclos'd!
And who would trust appearance! Cast thine eye
Where 'mid machines of heterogeneous form
His coat depends; alas! his only coat,
Eldest of things! and napless, as an heath
Of small extent by fleecy myriads graz'd.
Not different have I seen in dreary vault
Display'd, a coffin; on each sable side
The texture unmolested seems entire.
Fraudful, when touch'd it glides to dust away!
And leaves the wondering swain to gape, or stare,
And with expressive shrug, and piteous sigh,
Declare the fatal force of rolling years,
Or dire extent of frail mortality.
This aged vesture, scorn of gazing beaux,
And formal cits, (themselves too haply scorn'd)
Both on its sleeve and on its skirt, retains
Full many a pin wide-sparkling: for, if e'er
Their well-known crest met his delighted eye,
Though wrapt in thought, commercing with the sky,
He, gently stooping, scorn'd not to upraise,
And on each sleeve, as conscious of their use,
Indenting fix them; nor, when arm'd with these,
The cure of rents and separations dire,
And chasms enormous, did he view dismay'd
Hedge, bramble, thicket, bush, portending fate
To breeches, coat and hose! had any wight
Of vulgar skill the tender texture own'd;
But gave his mind to form a sonnet quaint
Of Sylvia's shoe-string, or of Cloe's fan,
Or sweetly-fashion'd tip of Celia's ear.
Alas! by frequent use decays the force
Of mortal art! the refractory robe
Eludes the tailor's art, eludes his own;
How potent once, in union quaint conjoin'd!
See near his bed (his bed too falsely call'd
The place of rest, while it a bard sustains;
Pale, meagre, muse-rid wight! who reads in vain
Narcotic volumes o'er) his candlestick,
Radiant machine, when from the plastic hand
Of Mulciber, the mayor of Birmingham,
The engine issued; now alas disguis'd
By many an unctuous tide, that wandering down
Its sides congeal; what he, perhaps, essays
With humour forc'd, and ill-dissembled smile,
Idly to liken to the poplar's trunk
When o'er it's bark the lucid amber, wound
In many a pleasing fold, incrusts the tree.
Or suits him more the winter's candied thorn,
When from each branch, anneal'd, the works of frost
Pervasive, radiant icicles depend?
How shall I sing the various ill that waits
The careful sonneteer? or who can paint
The shifts enormous, that in vain he forms
To patch his paneless window; to cement
His batter'd tea-pot, ill-retentive vase?
To war with ruin! anxious to conceal
Want's fell appearance, of the real ill
Nor foe, nor fearful. Ruin unforeseen
Invades his chattels; ruin will invade;
Will claim his whole invention to repair,
Nor, of the gift, for tuneful ends design'd,
Allow one part to decorate his song.
While Ridicule, with ever-pointing hand
Conscious of every shift, of every shift
Indicative, his inmost plot betrays,
Points to the nook, which he his study calls
Pompous and vain! for thus he might esteem
His chest, a wardrobe; a purse, a treasury;
And shows, to crown her full display, himself.
One whom the powers above, in place of health
And wonted vigour ; of paternal cot,
Or little farm; of bag, or scrip, or staff,
Cup, dish, spoon, plate, or worldly utensil,
A poet fram'd; yet fram'd not to repine,
And wish the cobler's loftiest site his own;
Nor, partial as they seem, upbraid the Fates,
Who to the humbler mechanism join'd
Goods so superior, such exalted bliss!
See with what seeming ease, what labour'd peace, He, hapless hypocrite! refines his nail,
His chief amusement! then how feign'd, how forc'd That care-defying sonnet, which implies
His debts discharg'd, and he of half a crown
In full possession, uncontested right
And property! Yet ah! whoe'er this wight
Admiring view, if such there be, distrust
The vain pretence; the smiles that harbour grief,
As lurks the serpent deep in flowers unwreath'd.
Forewarn'd, be frugal; or with prudent rage
Thy pen demolish; choose the trustier flail,
And bless those labours which the choice inspir'd.
But if thou view'st a vulgar mind, a wight
Of common sense, who seeks no brighter name,
Him envy, him admire, him, from thy breast,
Prescient of future dignities, salute
Sheriff, or mayor, in comfortable furs
Enwrapt, secure: nor yet the laureat's crown
In thought exclude him! He perchance shall rise
To nobler heights than foresight can decree.
When fir'd with wrath, for his intrigues display'd
In many an idle song, Saturnian Jove
Vow'd sure destruction to the tuneful race;
Appeas'd by suppliant Phoebus, "Bards," he said,
"Henceforth of plenty, wealth, and pompdebarr'd,
But fed by frugal cares, might wear the bay
Secure of thunder."-Low the Delian bow'd,
Nor at th' invidious favour dar'd repine.
THE EFFECTS OF SUPERSTITION.
Ar length fair Peace, with olive crown'd, regains
Her lawful throne, and to the sacred haunts
Of wood or fount the frighted Muse returns.
Happy the Bard, who, from his native hills,
Soft musing on a summer's eve, surveys
His azure stream, with pensile woods enclos'd!
Or o'er the glassy surface, with his friend,
Or faithful fair, through bordering willows green
Wafts his small frigate. Fearless he of shouts,
Or taunts, the rhetoric of the watery crew
That ape confusion from the realms they rule!
Fearless of these; who shares the gentler voice
Of peace and music; birds of sweetest song
Attune from native boughs their various lay,
And cheer the forest; birds of brighter plume
With busy pinion skim the glittering wave
And tempt the Sun; ambitious to display
Their several merit, while the vocal flute,
Or number'd verse, by female voice endear'd,
Crowns his delight, and mollifies the scene.
If Solitude his wandering steps invite
To some more deep recess (for hours there are,
When gay, when social minds to Friendship's voice,
Or Beauty's charm, her wild abodes prefer);
How pleas'd he treads her venerable shades,
Her solemn courts! the centre of the grove!
The root-built cave, by far-extended rocks
Around embosom'd, how it sooths the soul!
If scoop'd at first by superstitious hands
The rugged cell receiv'd alone the shoals
Of bigot minds, Religion dwells not here,
Yet Virtue pleas'd, at intervals, retires :
Yet here may Wisdom, as she walks the maze,
Some serious truths collect, the rules of life,
And serious truths of mightier weight than gold!
I ask not wealth; but let me hoard with care,
With frugal cunning, with a niggard's art,
A few fixt principles! in early life,
Ere indolence impede the search, explor'd.
Then, like old Latimer, when age impairs
My judgment's eye, when quibbling schools attack
My grounded hope, or subtler wits deride,
Will I not blush to shun the vain debate,
And this mine answer: "Thus, 't was thus I thought;
My mind yet vigorous, and my soul entire ;
Thus will I think, averse to listen more
To intricate discussion, prone to stray.
Perhaps my reason may but ill defend
My settled faith; my mind, with age impair'd,
Too sure its own infirmities declare.
But I am arm'd by caution, studious youth,
And early foresight; now the winds may rise,
The tempest whistle, and the billows roar;
My pinnace rides in port, despoil'd and worn,
Shatter'd by time and storms, but while it shuns
Th' inequal conflict, and declines the deep,
Sees the strong vessel fluctuate less secure."
Thus while he strays, a thousand rural scenes
Suggest instruction, and instructing please.
And see betwixt the grove's extended arms
An Abbey's rude remains attract thy view,
Gilt by the mid-day sun: with lingering step
Produce thine axe, (for, aiming to destroy
Tree, branch, or shade, for never shall thy breast
Too long deliberate) with timorous hand
Remove th' obstructive bough; nor yet refuse,
Though sighing, to destroy that favourite pine,
Rais'd by thine hand, in its luxuriant prime
Of beauty fair, that screens the vast remains.
Aggriev'd but constant as the Roman sire,
The rigid Manlius, when his conquering son
Bled by a parent's voice; the cruel meed
Of virtuous ardour, timelessly display'd;
Nor cease till, through the gloomy road, the pile
Gleam unobstructed; thither oft thine eye
Shall sweetly wander; thence returning, sooth
With pensive scenes thy philosophic mind.
These were thy haunts, thy opulent abodes,
O Superstition! hence the dire disease
(Balanc'd with which the fam'd Athenian pest
Were a short head-ach, were the trivial pain
Of transient indigestion) seiz'd mankind.
Long time she rag'd, and scarce a southern gale
Warm'd our chili air, unloaded with the threats
Of tyrant Rome; but futile all, till she,
Rome's abler legate, magnified their power,
And in a thousand horrid forms attir'd.
Where then was Truth to sanctify the page
Of British annals? If a foe expir'd,
The perjur'd monk suborn'd infernal shrieks,
And fiends to snatch at the departing soul
With hellish emulation. If a friend,
High o'er his roof exultant angels tune
Their golden lyres, and waft him to the skies.
What then were vows, were oaths, were plighted
faith?
The sovereign's just, the subject's loyal pact,
To cherish mutual good, annull'd and vain,
By Roman magic, grew an idle scroll
Ere the frail sanction of the wax was cold.
With thee, Plantagenet', from civil broils
The land a while respir'd, and all was peace.
Then Becket rose, and, impotent of mind,
From regal courts with lawless fury march'd
The churches' blood-stain'd convicts, and forgave;
Bid murderous priests the sovereign frown contemn,
And with unhallow'd crosier bruis'd the crown.
Yet yielded not supinely tame a prince
Of Henry's virtues; learn'd, courageous, wise,
Of fair ambition. Long his regal soul
Firm and erect the peevish priest exil'd,
And brav'd the fury of revengeful Rome.
In vain! let one faint malady diffuse
The pensive gloom which Superstition loves,
And see him, dwindled to a recreant groom,
Rein the proud palfrey whilst the priest ascends!
Was Coeur-de-lion blest with whiter days?
Here the cowl'd zealots with united cries
Urg'd the crusade; and see, of half his stores
Despoil'd the wretch, whose wiser bosom chose
To bless his friend, his race, his native land.
Of ten fair Suns that roll'd their annual race,
Not one beheld him on his vacant throne;
While haughty Longchamp 3, 'mid his liveried files
Of wanton vassals, spoil'd his faithful realm,
Battling in foreign fields; collecting wide
A laurel harvest for a pillag'd land.
Oh dear-bought trophies! when a prince deserts
His drooping realm, to pluck the barren sprays!
When faithless John usurp'd the sullied crown,
What ample tyranny! the groaning land
Deem'd Earth, deem'd Heaven its foe! six tedious
years
Our helpless fathers in despair obey'd
The papal interdict; and who obey'd,
The sovereign plunder'd. O inglorious days!
When the French tyrant, by the futile grant
Of papal rescript, claim'd Britannia's throne,
And durst invade; be such inglorious days
Or hence forgot, or not recall'd in vain !
Scarce had the tortur'd ear dejected heard
Rome's loud anathema, but heartless, dead
To every purpose, men nor wish'd to live,
Nor dar'd to die. The poor laborious hind
Heard the dire curse, and from his trembling hand
Fell the neglected crook that rul'd the plain.
Thence journeying home, in every cloud he sees
A vengeful angel, in whose waving scroll
He reads DAMNATION; sees its sable train
Of grim attendants, pencil'd by despair!
The weary pilgrim from remoter climes
By painful steps arriv'd; his home, his friends,
His offspring left, to lavish on the shrine
Of some far-honour'd saint his costly stores,
Inverts his footstep; sickens at the sight
Of the barr'd fane, and silent sheds his tear.
The wretch whose hope by stern Oppression chas'd
From every earthly bliss, still as it saw
Triumphant Wrong, took wing, and flew to Heaven,
And rested there, now mourn'd his refuge lost
And wonted peace. The sacred fane was barr'd,
And the lone altar, where the mourners throng'd
To supplicate remission, smok'd no more;
While the green weed luxuriant round uprose.
Some from the death-bed, whose delirious faith
Through every stage of life to Rome's decrees
Obsequious, humbly hop'd to die in peace,
Now saw the ghastly king approach, begirt
In tenfold terrours; now expiring heard
The last loud clarion sound, and Heaven's decree
With unremitting vengeance bar the skies.
Nor light the grief, by Superstition weigh'd,
That their dishonour'd corse, shut from the verge
Of hallow'd earth, or tutelary fane,
The priest alas, so boundless was the ill!
He, like the flock he pillag'd, pin'd forlorn!
The vivid vermeil fled his fady cheek,
And his big paunch, distended with the spoils
Of half his flock, emaciate, groan'd beneath
Superior pride, and mightier lust of power!
'Twas now Rome's fondest friend, whose meagre
hand
Told to the midnight lamp his holy beads
With nice precision, felt the deeper wound
As his gull'd soul rever'd the conclave more.
Whom did the ruin spare? for wealth, for power,
Birth, honour, virtue, enemy, and friend,
Sunk helpless in the dreary gulf involv'd;
And one capricious curse envelop'd all !
Were kings secure? in towering stations born,
In flattery nurs'd, inur'd to scorn mankind,
Or view diminish'd from their site sublime;
As when a shepherd, from the lofty brow
Of some proud cliff, surveys his lessening flock
In snowy groups diffusive scud the vale.
A while the furious menace John return'd,
And breath'd defiance loud. Alas! too soon
Allegiance sickening saw its sovereign yield,
An angry prey to scruples not his own.
The loyal soldier, girt around with strength,
Who stole from mirth and wine his blooming years,
And seiz'd the falchion, resolute to guard
His sovereign's right, impalsied at the news,
Finds the firm bias of his soul revers'd
For foul desertion; drops the lifted steel,
And quits Fame's noble harvest, to expire
The death of monks, of surfeit, and of sloth!
At length, fatigued with wrongs, the servile king
Drain'd from his land its small remaining stores
To buy remission. But could these obtain ?
No! resolute in wrongs the priests obdur'd ;
Till crawling base to Rome's deputed slave,
His fame, his people, and his crown, he gave.
Mean monarch! slighted, brav'd, abhorr'd before!
And now, appeas'd by delegated sway,
The wily pontiff-scorns not to recall
His interdictions. Now the sacred doors
Admit repentant multitudes, prepar'd
To buy deceit; admit obsequious tribes
Of satraps! princes! crawling to the shrine
Of sainted villany! the pompous tomb
Dazzling with gems and gold, or in a cloud
Of incense wreath'd, amidst a drooping land
That sigh'd for bread! "Tis thus the Indian clove
Displays its verdant leaf, its crimson flower,
And sheds its odours; while the flocks around,
Hungry and faint, the barren sands explore
In vain! nor plant nor herb endears the soil;
Drain'd and exhaust to swell its thirsty pores,
And furnish luxury.-Yet in vain
Britannia strove; and whether artful Rome
Caress'd or curs'd her, Superstition rag'd
And blinded, fetter'd, and despoil'd the land.
At length some murderous monk, with poisonous
art,
Expell'd the life his brethren robb'd of peace.
Nor yet surceas'd with John's disastrous fate
Must sleep with brutes their vassals; on the field; Pontific fury! English wealth exhaust,
Unneath some path, in marl unexorcis'd!
No solemn bell extort a neighbour's tear!
No tongue of priest pronounce their soul secure!
Nor fondest friend assure their peace obtain'd!
Richard I. 3 Bishop of Ely, lord chancellor.
The sequent reign beheld the beggar'd shore
Grim with Italian usurers; prepar'd
To lend, for griping unexampled hire,
To lend-what Rome might pillage uncontrol'd.
4 Henry III. who cancelled the Magna Charta,
For now with more extensive havoc rag'd
Relentless Gregory, with a thousand arts,
And each rapacious, born to drain the world!
Nor shall the Muse repeat, how oft he blew
The croise's trumpet; then for sums of gold
Annull'd the vow, and bade the false alarm
Swell the gross hoards of Henry, or his own.
Nor shall she tell, how pontiffs dar'd repeal
The best of charters! dar'd absolve the tie
Of British kings by legal oath restrain'd.
Nor can she dwell on argosies of gold
From Albion's realm to servile shores convey'd,
Wrung from her sons, and speeded by her kings!
Oh irksome day! when wicked thrones combine
With papal craft to gull their native land!
Such was our fate, while Rome's director taught
Of subjects, born to be their monarch's prey,
To toil for monks, for gluttony to toil,
For vacant gluttony, extortion, fraud,
For avarice, envy, pride, revenge, and shame!
O doctrine breath'd from Stygian caves! exhal'd
From inmost Erebus!-Such Henry's reign!
Urging his loyal realm's reluctant hand
To wield the peaceful sword; by John ere while
Forc'd from his scabbard; and with burnish'd
lance
Essay the savage cure, domestic war!
And now some nobler spirits chas'd the mist
Of general darkness. Grosted 5 now adorn'd
The mitred wreath he wore, with reason's sword
Staggering delusion's frauds; at length beneath
Rome's interdict expiring calm, resign'd
No vulgar soul that dar'd to Heaven appeal!
But ah this fertile glebe, this fair domain,
Had well nigh ceded to the slothful hands
Of monks libidinous; ere Edward's care
The lavish hand of death-bed fear restrain'd.
Yet was he clear of Superstition's taint?
He too, misdeemful of his wholesome law,
E'en he, expiring, gave his treasur'd gold
To fatten monks on Salem's distant soil!
Yes, the Third Edward's breast, to papal sway
So little prone, and fierce in honour's cause,
Could Superstition quell! before the towers
Of haggard Paris, at the thunder's voice
He drops the sword, and signs ignoble peace!
But still the Night by Romish art diffus'd
Collects her clouds, and with slow pace recedes,
When, by soft Bourdeau's braver queen approv'd,
Bold Wickliff rose: and while the bigot Power
Amidst her native darkness skulk'd secure,
The demon vanish'd as he spread the day.
So from his bosom Cacus breath'd of old
The pitchy cloud, and in a night of smoke
Secure a while his recreant life sustain'd;
Till fam'd Alcides, o'er his subtlest wiles
Victorious, cheer'd the ravag'd nations round.
Hail, honour'd Wickliff! enterprising sage!
An Epicurus in the cause of truth!
For 't is not radiant suns, the jovial hours
Of youthful Spring, an ether all serene,
Nor all the verdure of Campania's vales,
Can chase religious gloom! "Tis reason, thought,
The light, the radiance that pervades the soul,
And sheds its beams on Heav'n's mysterious sway!
As yet this light but glimmer'd, and again
Errour prevail'd; while kings by force uprais'd
Let loose the rage of bigots on their foes,
• Bishop of Lincoln, called Malleus Romanorum.
And seek affection by the dreadful boon
Of licens'd murder. E'en the kindest prince,
The most extended breast, the royal Hal!
All unrelenting heard the Lollards' cry
Burst from the centre of remorseless flames;
Their shrieks endur'd! Oh stain to martial praise!
When Cobham, generous as the noble peer
That wears his honours, paid the fatal price
Of virtue blooming ere the storms were laid!
'Twas thus, alternate, truth's precarious flame
Decay'd or flourish'd. With malignant eye
The pontiff saw Britannia's golden fleece,
Once all his own, invest her worthier sons!
Her verdant valleys, and her fertile plains,
Yellow with grain, abjure his hateful sway!
Essay'd his utmost art, and inly own'd
No labours bore proportion to the prize.
So when the tempter view'd, with envious eye,
The first fair pattern of the female frame,
All Nature's beauties in one form display'd,
And centring there, in wild amaze he stood;
Then only envying Heaven's creative hand,
Wish'd to his gloomy reign his envious arts
Might win this prize, and doubled every snare.
And vain were reason, courage, learning, all,
Till power accede; till Tudor's wild caprice
Smile on their cause; Tudor, whose tyrant reign,
With mental freedom crown'd, the best of kings
Might envious view, and ill prefer their own!
Then Wolsey rose, by Nature form'd to seek
Ambition's trophies, by address to win,
By temper to enjoy-whose humbler birth
Taught the gay scenes of pomp to dazzle more.
Then from its towering height with horrid sound
Rush'd the proud Abbey. Then the vaulted roofs,
Torn from their walls, disclos'd the wanton scene
Of monkish chastity! Each angry friar
Crawl'd from his bedded strumpet, muttering low
An ineffectual curse. The pervious nooks
That, ages past, convey'd the guileful priest
To play some image on the gaping crowd,
Imbibe the novel day-light; and expose
Obvious the fraudful engin'ry of Rome.
As though this opening Earth to nether realms
Should flash meridian day, the hooded race
Shudder abash'd to find their cheats display'd;
And, conscious of their guilt, and pleas'd to wave
Its fearful meed, resign'd their fair domain.
Nor yet supine, nor void of rage, retir'd
The pest gigantic; whose revengeful stroke
Ting'd the red annals of Maria's reign.
When from the tenderest breast each wayward
priest
Could banish mercy and implant a fiend!
When Cruelty the funeral pyre uprear'd,
And bound Religion there, and fir'd the base!
When the same blaze, which on each tortur'd limb
Fed with luxuriant rage, in every face
Triumphant Faith appear'd, and smiling Hope.
O blest Eliza! from thy piercing beam
Forth flew this hated fiend, the child of Rome;
Driven to the verge of Albion, linger'd there,
Then with her James receding, cast behind
One angry frown, and sought more servile climes.
Henceforth they plied the long-continued task
Of righteous havoc, covering distant fields
With the wrought remnants of the shat er'd pile.
While through the land the musing pilgrim sees
A tract of brighter green, and in the midst
Appcars a mouldering wall, with ivy crown'd ;
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