God were not safe, his thunder could they shun;
He should be forc'd to crown another son,
Thus when the heir was from the vineyard thrown,
The rich possession was the murd' rers' own.
In vain to sophistry they have recourse;
By proving theirs no plot, they prove 'ts worse,
Unmask'd rebellion, and audacious force;
Which though not actual, yet all eyes may see
'Tis working, in th' immediate pow'r to be;
For, from pretended grievances they rise,
First to dislike, and after to despise;
Then, Cyclop-like, in human flesh to deal,
Chop up a minister at every meal:
Perhaps not wholly to melt down the King,
But clip his regal rights within the ring:
From thence t'assume the pow'r of peace and war,
And ease him, by degrees, of public care.
Yet, to consult his dignity and fame,
He should have leave to exercise the name,
And hold the cards while Commons play'd the game.
For what can pow'r give more than food and drink,
To live at ease and not be bound to think?
These are the cooler methods of their crime,
But their hot zealots think 'tis loss of time;
On utmost bounds of loyalty they stand,
And grin and whet like a Croastian band,
That waits impatient for the last command,
Thus outlaws open villany maintain;
They steal not, but in squadrons scour the plain
And if their pow'r the passengers subdue,
The most have right, the wrong is in the few.
Such impious axioms foolishly they show,
For in some soils republics will not grow;
Our temp'rate isle will no extremes sustain,
Of pop'lar sway or abitrary reign;
But slides between them both into the best,
Secure in freedom, in a monarch blest :
And though the climate vex'd with various winds,
Works, through our yielding bodies, on our minds,
The wholesome tempest purges what it breeds,
To recommend the calmness that succeeds.
But thou, the pander of the people's hearts,
O crooked soul, and serpentine in arts!
Whose blandishments a loyal land have whor'd,
And broke the bonds she plighted to her lord;
What curses on thy blasted name will fall;
Which age to age their legacy shall call ?
For all must curse the woes that must descend on all.
Religion thou hast none; thy Mercury
Has past through ev'ry sect, or theirs through thee;
But what thou giv'st, that venom still remains,
And the pox'd nation feels thee in their brains.
What else inspires the tongues, and swells the breasts
Of all thy bellowing renegado priests,
That preach up thee for God; dispense thy laws,
And with thy stum ferment their fainting cause; 270
Fresh fumes of madness raise, and toil and sweat
To make the formidable.cripple great?
Yet should thy crimes succeed, should lawless pow'r
Compass those ends thy greedy hopes devour,
Thy canting friends thy mortal foes would be;
Thy god and theirs will never long agree.
For thine (if thou hast any) must be one
That lets the world and human kind alone;
A jolly god, that passes hours too well
To promise heav'n, or threaten us with hell;
That unconcern'd can at rebellion sit,
And wink at crimes he did himself coinmit.
A tyrant theirs; the heav'n their priesthood paints
A conventicle of gloomy sullen saints;
A heav'n, like bedlam, slovenly and sad,
Foredoom'd for souls with false religion mad.
Without a vision poets can foreshow
What all but fools by common sense may know:
If true succession from our isle should fail,
And crowds profane with impious arms prevail;
Not thou, nor those thy factious arts engage,
Shall reap that harvest of rebellious rage,
With which thou flatter'st thy decrepit age,
The swelling poison of the sev'ral sects,
Which, wanting vent, the nation's health infects.
Shall burst its bag; and, fighting out their way,
The various venoms on each other prey.
The Presbyter puff'd up with spirit'al pride,
Shall on the necks of the lew'd nobles ride.
His breth'ren damn, the Civil pow'r defy,
And parcel out republic prelacy:
But short shall be his reign; his rigid yoke
And tyrant pow'r will puny sects provoke:
And frogs and toads, and all the tadpole train,
Willcroak to Heav'n for help from this devouring crane,
The cut-throat Sword and clam'rous Gown shall jar,
In sharing their ill-gotten spoils of war:
Chiefs shall be grudg'd the part which they pretend;
Lords envy lords, and friends with ev'ry friend
About their impious merit shall contend.
The surly Commons shall respect deny,
And justle peerage out with property,
Their Gen'ral either shall his trust betray,
And force the crowd to arbitrary sway;
Or they, suspecting his ambitious aim,
In hate of kings, shall cast anew the frame,
And thrust out Collatine that bore their name.
Thus inborn broils the factions would engage,
Or wars of exil'd heirs, or foreign rage,
Till halting Vengeance overtook our age:
And our wild labours, wearied into rest,
Reclin❜d us on a rightful monarch's breast.
Pudet haec opprobia vobis
Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli.
OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.
AN ODE.
IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY,
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were plac'd around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,
(So should desert in arms be crown'd)
The lovely Thais by his side
Sate like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
"Happy, happy, happy pair!
"None but the brave,
"None but the brave,
"None but the brave deserves the fair."
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