THE PROPHECY of FAMINE. A SCOTS PASTORAL.
[]WHEN CUPID firſt inſtructs his darts to fly
From the ſly corner of ſome cook-maid's eye,
The ſtripling raw, juſt enter'd in his teens,
Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;
His heart, like dripping, melts, and new deſire
Within him ſtirs, each time ſhe ſtirs the fire;
[2]Trembling and bluſhing he the fair one views,
And fain would ſpeak, but can't—without a MUSE.
So, to the ſacred mount he takes his way,
Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay,
His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,
To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills proclaims,
In ſimpleſt notes, and all unpoliſh'd ſtrains,
The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of ſwains.
Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,
In ruſtic weeds—a cook-maid now no more—
Beneath an aged oak LARDELLA lies—
Green moſs, her couch; her canopy, the ſkies.
From aromatic ſhrubs the roguiſh gale
Steals young perfumes, and wafts them thro' the vale.
The youth, turn'd ſwain, and ſkill'd in ruſtic lays,
Faſt by her ſide his am'rous deſcant plays.
Herds lowe, Flocks bleat, Pies chatter, Ravens ſcream,
And the full chorus dies a-down the ſtream.
The ſtreams, with muſic freighted, as they paſs,
Preſent the fair LARDELLA with a glaſs,
And ZEPHYR, to compleat the love-ſick plan,
Waves his light wings, and ſerves her for a fan.
[3]
But when maturer Judgment takes the lead,
Theſe childiſh toys on Reaſon's altar bleed,
Form'd after ſome great man, whoſe name breeds awe,
Whoſe ev'ry ſentence Faſhion makes a law,
Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,
And founds his merit on our ſervile fears;
Then we diſcard the workings of the heart,
And nature's baniſh'd by mechanic art.
Then, deeply read, our reading muſt be ſhewn;
Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown.
Then OSTENTATION marches to our aid,
And letter'd PRIDE ſtalks forth in full parade,
Beneath their care behold the work refine,
Pointed each ſentence, poliſh'd ev'ry line.
Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear
The robes of Antients with a Modern air,
NONSENSE with Claſſic ornaments is grac'd,
And paſſes current with the ſtamp of TASTE.
Then the rude THEOCRITE is ranſack'd o'er,
And courtly MARO call'd from MINCIO's ſhore;
Sicilian muſes on our mountains roam,
Eaſy and free as if they were at home;
[4]NYMPHS, NAIADS, NEREIDS, DRYADS, SATYRS, FAUNS,
Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;
Flow'rs which once flouriſh'd fair in GREECE and ROME,
More fair revive in ENGLAND's meads to bloom;
Skies without cloud exotic ſuns adorn;
And roſes bluſh, but bluſh without a thorn;
Landſcapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, riſe,
And new creations ſtrike our wond'ring eyes.
For bards, like theſe, who neither ſing nor ſay,
Grave without thought, and without feeling gay,
Whoſe numbers in one even tenor flow,
Attun'd to pleaſure, and attun'd to woe,
Who, if plain COMMON-SENSE her viſit pays,
And mars one couplet in their happy lays,
As at ſome Ghoſt affrighted, ſtart and ſtare,
And aſk the meaning of her coming there;
For bards like theſe a wreath ſhall MASON bring,
Lin'd with the ſofteſt down from FOLLY's wing;
In LOVE's PAGODA, ſhall they ever doze,
And GISBEL kindly rock them to repoſe;
My lord,—to letters as to faith moſt true—
At once their patron and example too—
[5]Shall quaintly faſhion his love-labour'd dreams,
Sigh with ſad winds, and weep with weeping ſtreams,
Curious in grief, (for real grief we know
Is curious to dreſs up the tale of woe)
From the green umbrage of ſome DRUID's ſeat,
Shall his own works in his own way repeat.
Me, whom no muſe of heav'nly birth inſpires,
No judgment tempers when raſh genius fires,
Who boaſt no merit but mere knack of rhime,
Short gleams of ſenſe, and ſatire out of time,
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads
By prattling ſtreams o'er flow'r-empurpled meads;
Who often, but without ſucceſs, have pray'd
For apt ALLITERATION's artful aid,
Who would, but cannot, with a maſter's ſkill
Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill,
Me, thus uncouth, thus ev'ry way unfit
For pacing poeſy, and ambling wit,
TASTE with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongſt the loweſt of her favour'd race.
Thou NATURE, art my goddeſs—to thy law
Myſelf I dedicate—hence ſlaviſh awe
[6]Which bends to faſhion, and obeys the rules
Impos'd at firſt, and ſince obſerv'd by fools.
Hence thoſe vile tricks which mar fair NATURE's hue,
And bring the ſober matron forth to view,
With all that artificial tawdry glare,
Which virtue ſcorns, and none but ſtrumpets wear.
Sick of thoſe pomps, thoſe vanities, that waſte
Of toil, which critics now miſtake for taſte,
Of falſe refinements ſick, and labour'd eaſe
Which Art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to pleaſe,
By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) ſubdued,
However plain her dreſs, and haviour rude,
To northern climes my happier courſe I ſteer,
Climes where the Goddeſs reigns throughout the year,
Where, undiſturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,
She rules the loyal Laird, and faithful clan.
To that rare ſoil, where virtues cluſt'ring grow,
What mighty bleſſings doth not ENGLAND owe,
What waggon-loads of courage, wit and ſenſe,
Doth each revolving day import from thence?
To us ſhe gives, diſintereſted friend,
Faith without fraud and STUARTS without end.
[7]When we proſperity's rich trappings wear,
Come not her gen'rous ſons, and take a ſhare,
And if, by ſome diſaſtrous turn of fate,
Change ſhould enſue, and ruin ſieze our ſtate,
Shall we not find, ſafe in that hallow'd ground,
Such refuge, as the HOLY MARTYR found?
Nor leſs our debt in SCIENCE, tho' denied
By the weak ſlaves of prejudice and pride.
Thence came the RAMSAYS, names of worthy note,
Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote;
Thence HOME, diſbanded from the ſons of pray'r,
For loving plays, tho' no dull DEAN was there;
Thence iſſued forth, at great MACPHERSON's call,
That old, new, Epic Paſtoral, FINGAL;
Thence ſimple bards, by ſimple prudence taught,
To this wiſe town by ſimple patrons brought,
In ſimple manner utter ſimple lays,
And take, with ſimple penſions, ſimple praiſe.
Waft me ſome muſe to TWEDE's inſpiring ſtream,
Where all the little loves and graces dream,
Where ſlowly winding the dull waters creep,
And ſeem themſelves to own the power of ſleep,
[6] [...][7] [...][8]Where on the ſurface Lead, like feathers, ſwims;
There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,
As once a SYRIAN bath'd in JORDAN's flood,
Waſh off my native ſtains, correct that blood
Which mutinies at call of Engliſh pride,
And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.
From ſolemn thought, which overhangs the brow
Of patriot care, when things are —God knows how;
From nice trim points, where HONOUR, ſlave to rule,
In compliment to folly, plays the fool;
From thoſe gay ſcenes, where mirth exalts his pow'r,
And eaſy Humour wings the laughing hour;
From thoſe ſoft better moments, when deſire
Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire,
When mutual ardours of the melting fair
More than repay us for whole years of care,
At Friendſhip's ſummons will my WILKES retreat,
And ſee, once ſeen before, that antient ſeat,
That antient ſeat, where majeſty diſplay'd
Her enſigns, long before the world was made?
Mean narrow maxims, which enſlave mankind,
Ne'er from its bias warp thy ſettled mind.
[9]Not dup'd by party, nor opinion's ſlave,
Thoſe faculties which bounteous Nature gave
Thy honeſt ſpirit into practice brings,
Nor courts the ſmile, nor dreads the frown of Kings.
Let rude licentious Engliſhmen comply
With tumult's voice, and curſe they know not why;
Unwilling to condemn, thy ſoul diſdains,
To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains,
And ſtrictly weighs, in apprehenſion clear,
Things as they are, and not as they appear.
With thee GOOD-HUMOUR tempers lively WIT,
Enthron'd with JUDGMENT, CANDOUR loves to ſit,
And Nature gave thee, open to diſtreſs,
A heart to pity, and a hand to bleſs.
Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot
Of the poor, mean, deſpis'd, inſulted Scot,
Who, might calm reaſon credit idle tales,
By rancour forg'd where prejudice prevails,
Or ſtarves at home, or practiſes, thro' fear
Of ſtarving, arts which damn all conſcience here.
When Scriblers, to the charge by int'reſt led,
The fierce North-Briton foaming at their head,
[10]Pour forth invectives, deaf to candour's call,
And, injur'd by one alien, rail at all;
On Northern Piſgah when they take their ſtand,
To mark the weakneſs of that Holy Land,
With needleſs truths their libels to adorn,
And hang a nation up to public ſcorn,
Thy gen'rous ſoul condemns the frantic rage,
And hates the faithful, but ill-natur'd, page.
The Scots are poor, cries ſurly Engliſh pride;
True is the charge, nor by themſelves denied.
Are they not then in ſtricteſt reaſon clear,
Who wiſely come to mend their fortunes here?
If by low ſupple arts ſucceſsful grown,
They ſapp'd our vigour to increaſe their own,
If, mean in want, and inſolent in pow'r,
They only fawn'd, more ſurely to devour,
Rous'd by ſuch wrongs ſhould REASON take alarm,
And e'en the MUSE for public ſafety arm;
But if they own, ingenuous, virtue's ſway,
And follow where true honour points the way,
If they revere the hand by which they're fed,
And bleſs the donors for their daily bread,
[11]Or by vaſt debts of higher import bound,
Are always humble, always grateful found,
If they, directed by PAUL's holy pen,
Become diſcreetly all things to all men,
That all men may become all things to them,
Envy may hate, but juſtice can't condemn.
"Into our places, ſtates, and beds they creep:"
They've ſenſe to get, what we want ſenſe to keep.
Once, be the hour accurs'd, accurs'd the place,
I ventur'd to blaſpheme the choſen race.
Into thoſe traps, which men, call'd PATRIOTS, laid,
By ſpecious arts unwarily betray'd,
Madly I leagu'd againſt that ſacred earth,
Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth.
But ſhall I meanly error's path purſue,
When heav'nly TRUTH preſents her friendly clue?
Once plung'd in ill, ſhall I go farther in?
To make the oath, was raſh; to keep it, ſin.
Backward I tread the paths I trod before,
And calm reflection hates what paſſion ſwore.
Converted, (bleſſed are the ſouls which know
Thoſe pleaſures which from true converſion flow,
[12]Whether to reaſon, who now rules my breaſt,
Or to pure faith, like LYTTLETON and WEST)
Paſt crimes to expiate be my preſent aim,
To raiſe new trophies to the SCOTTISH name,
To make (what can the proudeſt Muſe do more)
E'en faction's ſons her brighter worth adore,
To make her glories, ſtamp'd with honeſt rhimes,
In fulleſt tide roll down to lateſt times.
Preſumptuous wretch! and ſhall a Muſe like thine,
An Engliſh Muſe, the meaneſt of the nine,
Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak ſtrain
Expect indulgence from the mighty THANE?
Should he from toils of government retire,
And for a moment fan the poet's fire,
Should he, of ſciences the moral friend,
Each curious, each important ſearch ſuſpend,
Leave unaſſiſted HILL of herbs to tell,
And all the wonders of a Cockle-ſhell,
Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes,
Would not the HOME ſtep forth, and gain the prize?
Or if this wreath of honour might adorn
The humble brows of one in England born,
[13]Preſumptuous ſtill thy daring muſt appear;
Vain all thy tow'ring hopes, whilſt I am here.
Thus ſpake a form, by ſilken ſmile, and tone
Dull and unvaried, for the LAUREAT known,
FOLLY's chief friend, DECORUM's eldeſt ſon,
In ev'ry party found, and yet of none.
This airy ſubſtance, this ſubſtantial ſhade
Abaſh'd I heard, and with reſpect obey'd.
From themes too lofty for a bard ſo mean
Diſcretion beckons to an humbler ſcene.
The reſtleſs fever of ambition laid,
Calm I retire, and ſeek the ſylvan ſhade.
Now be the Muſe diſrob'd of all her pride,
Be all the glare of verſe by Truth ſupplied,
And if plain nature pours a ſimple ſtrain,
Which BUTE may praiſe, and OSSIAN not diſdain,
OSSIAN, ſublimeſt, ſimpleſt Bard of all,
Whom Engliſh Infidels, MACPHERSON call,
Then round my head ſhall honour's enſigns wave,
And penſions mark me for a willing ſlave.
[14]
Two boys, whoſe birth beyond all queſtion ſprings
From great and glorious, tho' forgotten, kings,
Shepherds of Scottiſh lineage, born and bred
On the ſame bleak and barren mountain's head,
By niggard nature doom'd on the ſame rocks
To ſpin out life, and ſtarve themſelves and flocks,
Freſh as the morning, which, enrob'd in miſt,
The mountain top with uſual dulneſs kiſs'd,
JOCKEY and SAWNEY to their labours roſe;
Soon clad I ween, where nature needs no cloaths,
Where, from their youth enur'd to winter ſkies,
Dreſs and her vain refinements they deſpiſe.
JOCKEY, whoſe manly high-bon'd cheeks to crown
With freckles ſpotted flam'd the golden down,
With mickle art, could on the bagpipes play,
E'en from the riſing to the ſetting day;
SAWNEY as long without remorſe could bawl
HOME's madrigals, and ditties from FINGAL.
Oft at his ſtrains, all natural tho' rude,
The Highland Laſs forgot her want of food,
And, whilſt ſhe ſcratch'd her lover into reſt,
Sunk pleas'd, tho' hungry, on her SAWNEY's breaſt.
[15]
Far as the eye could reach, no tree was ſeen,
Earth, clad in ruſſet, ſcorn'd the lively green.
The plague of Locuſts they ſecure defy,
For in three hours a graſhopper muſt die.
No living thing, whate'er its food, feaſts there,
But the Camaelion, who can feaſt on air.
No birds, except as birds of paſſage flew,
No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo▪
No ſtreams as amber ſmooth, as amber clear,
Were ſeen to glide, or heard to warble here,
Rebellion's ſpring, which thro' the country ran,
Furniſh'd, with bitter draughts, the ſteady clan.
No flow'rs embalm'd the air, but one white roſe,
Which, on the tenth of June, by inſtinct blows,
By inſtinct blows at morn, and, when the ſhades
Of drizly eve prevail, by inſtinct fades.
One, and but one poor ſolitary cave,
Too ſparing of her favours, nature gave;
That one alone (hard tax on Scottiſh pride)
Shelter at once for man and beaſt ſupplied.
Their ſnares without entangling briers ſpread,
And thiſtles, arm'd againſt th' invader's head,
[16]Stood in cloſe ranks all entrance to oppoſe,
Thiſtles now held more precious than the roſe.
All Creatures, which, on nature's earlieſt plan,
Were form'd to loath, and to be loath'd by man,
Which ow'd their birth to naſtineſs and ſpite,
Deadly to touch, and hateful to the ſight,
Creatures, which, when admitted in the ark,
Their Saviour ſhunn'd, and rankled in the dark,
Found place within; marking her noiſome road
With poiſon's trail, here crawl'd the bloated Toad;
There webs were ſpread of more than common ſize,
And half-ſtarv'd ſpiders prey'd on half-ſtarv'd flies;
In queſt of food, Efts ſtrove in vain to crawl;
Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, ſmear'd the ſlimy wall;
The cave around with hiſſing ſerpents rung;
On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung,
And FAMINE, by her children always known,
As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.
Here, for the ſullen ſky was overcaſt,
And ſummer ſhrunk beneath a wintry blaſt,
A native blaſt, which arm'd with hail and rain
Beat unrelenting on the naked ſwain,
[17]The boys for ſhelter made; behind the ſheep,
Of which thoſe ſhepherds ev'ry day take keep,
Sickly crept on, and, with complainings rude,
On nature ſeem'd to call, and bleat for food.
JOCKEY.
Sith to this cave, by tempeſt, we're confin'd,
And within ken our flocks, under the wind,
Safe from the pelting of this perilous ſtorm,
Are laid emong yon thiſtles, dry and warm,
What, Sawney, if by ſhepherd's arts we try
To mock the rigour of this cruel ſky?
What if we tune ſome merry roundelay?
Well doſt thou ſing, nor ill doth Jockey play.
SAWNEY.
Ah, Jockey, ill adviſeſt thou, I wis,
To think of ſongs at ſuch a time as this.
Sooner ſhall herbage crown theſe barren rocks,
Sooner ſhall fleeces cloath theſe ragged flocks,
Sooner ſhall want ſieze ſhepherds of the ſouth,
And we forget to live from hand to mouth,
[18]Than Sawney, out of ſeaſon, ſhall impart
The ſongs of gladneſs with an aching heart.
JOCKEY.
Still have I known thee for a ſilly ſwain;
Of things paſt help, what boots it to complain?
Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's ſpite;
No ſky is heavy, if the heart be light:
Patience is ſorrow's ſalve; what can't be cur'd,
So Donald right areeds, muſt be endur'd.
SAWNEY.
Full ſilly ſwain, I wot, is Jockey now;
How did'ſt thou bear thy MAGGY's falſhood? how,
When with a foreign loon ſhe ſtole away,
Did'ſt thou forſwear thy pipe, and ſhepherd's lay?
Where was thy boaſted wiſdom then, when I
Applied thoſe proverbs, which you now apply?
[19]JOCKEY.
O ſhe was bonny! all the Highlands round
Was there a rival to my MAGGY found!
More precious (tho' that precious is to all)
Than the rare medicine, which we Brimſtone call,
Or that choice plant, ſo grateful to the noſe,
Which in, I know not what, far country grows,
Was MAGGY unto me; dear do I rue,
A laſs ſo fair ſhould ever prove untrue.
SAWNEY.
Whether with pipe or ſong to charm the ear,
Thro' all the land did JAMIE find a peer?
Curs'd be that year by ev'ry honeſt Scot,
And in the ſhepherd's calendar forgot,
That fatal year, when JAMIE, hapleſs ſwain,
In evil hour forſook the peaceful plain,
JAMIE, when our young Laird diſcreetly fled,
Was ſeiz'd, and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead.
[20]JOCKEY.
Full ſorely may we all lament that day:
For all were loſers in the deadly fray.
Five brothers had I, on the Scottiſh plains,
Well doſt thou know, were none more hopeful ſwains;
Five brothers there I loſt, in manhood's pride,
Two in the field, and three on gibbets died;
Ah! ſilly ſwains, to follow war's alarms,
Ah! what hath ſhepherd's life to do with arms?
SAWNEY.
Mention it not—there ſaw I ſtrangers clad
In all the honours of our raviſh'd Plaid,
Saw the FERRARA too, our nation's pride,
Unwilling grace the aukward victor's ſide.
There fell our choiceſt youth, and from that day
Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay:
Bleſs'd thoſe which fell! curs'd thoſe which ſtill ſurvive,
To mourn fifteen renew'd in forty-five.
[21]
Thus plain'd the boys, when from her throne of turf,
With boils emboſs'd, and overgrown with ſcurf,
Vile humours, which, in life's corrupted well
Mix'd at the birth, not abſtinence could quell,
Pale FAMINE rear'd the head; her eager eyes,
Where hunger e'en to madneſs ſeem'd to riſe,
Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart,
Strain'd to get looſe, and from their orbs to ſtart;
Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-ſunk cell,
Where wretchedneſs and horror lov'd to dwell;
With double rows of uſeleſs teeth ſupplied,
Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,
Which, when for want of food her entrails pin'd,
She op'd, and curſing ſwallow'd nought but wind;
All ſhrivell'd was her ſkin; and here and there,
Making their way by force, her bones lay bare;
Such filthy ſight to hide from human view,
O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd Plaid ſhe threw.
Ceaſe, cried the Goddeſs, ceaſe, deſpairing ſwains,
And from a parent hear what Jove ordains!
Pent in this barren corner of the iſle,
Where partial fortune never deign'd to ſmile;
[22]Like nature's baſtards, reaping for our ſhare
What was rejected by the lawful heir;
Unknown amongſt the nations of the earth,
Or only known to raiſe contempt and mirth;
Long free, becauſe the race of Roman braves
Thought it not worth their while to make us ſlaves;
Then into bondage by that nation brought,
Whoſe ruin we for ages vainly ſought,
Whom ſtill with unſlack'd hate we view, and ſtill,
The pow'r of miſchief loſt, retain the will;
Conſider'd as the refuſe of mankind,
A maſs till the laſt moment left behind,
Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay,
Whether to ſtamp with life, or throw away;
Which, form'd in haſte, was planted in this nook,
But never enter'd in Creation's book;
Branded as traitors, who, for love of gold,
Would ſell their God, as once their King they ſold;
Long have we born this mighty weight of ill,
Theſe vile injurious taunts, and bear them ſtill,
But times of happier note are now at hand,
And the full promiſe of a better land:
There, like the Sons of Iſrael, having trod,
For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,
[23]A barren deſart, we ſhall ſieze rich plains
Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns.
With ſome few natives join'd, ſome pliant few,
Who worſhip int'reſt, and our track purſue,
There ſhall we, tho' the wretched people grieve,
Ravage at large, nor aſk the owner's leave.
For us, the earth ſhall bring forth her increaſe;
For us, the flocks ſhall wear a golden fleece;
Fat Beeves ſhall yield us dainties not our own,
And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown;
For our advantage ſhall their harveſts grow,
And Scotſmen reap what they diſdain'd to ſow;
For us, the ſun ſhall climb the eaſtern hill;
For us, the rain ſhall fall, the dew diſtil;
When to our wiſhes NATURE cannot riſe,
ART ſhall be taſk'd to grant us freſh ſupplies.
His brawny arm ſhall drudging LABOUR ſtrain,
And for our pleaſure ſuffer daily pain;
TRADE ſhall for us exert her utmoſt pow'rs,
Her's, all the toil; and all the profit, our's;
For us, the oak ſhall from his native ſteep
Deſcend, and fearleſs travel thro' the deep,
[24]The ſail of COMMERCE for our uſe unfurl'd,
Shall waft the treaſures of each diſtant world;
For us, ſublimer heights ſhall ſcience reach,
For us, their Stateſmen plot, their Churchmen preach;
Their nobleſt limbs of counſel we'll disjoint,
And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint;
Devouring WAR, impriſon'd in the north,
Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp, break forth,
And, when, his chariot wheels with thunder hung,
Fell Diſcord braying with her brazen tongue,
Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and Fear,
And Deſolation ſtalking in the rear,
Revenge, by Juſtice guided, in his train,
He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,
Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey,
And to meek, gentle, gen'rous Peace give way.
Think not, my ſons, that this ſo bleſs'd eſtate
Stands at a diſtance on the roll of fate;
Already big with hopes of future ſway,
E'en from this cave I ſcent my deſtin'd prey.
Think not, that this dominion o'er a race
Whoſe former deeds ſhall time's laſt annals grace,
[25]In the rough face of peril muſt be ſought,
And with the lives of thouſands dearly bought;
No—fool'd by cunning, by that happy art
Which laughs to ſcorn the blund'ring hero's heart,
Into the ſnare ſhall our kind neighbours fall
With open eyes, and fondly give us all.
When ROME, to prop her ſinking empire, bore
Their choiceſt levies to a foreign ſhore,
What if we ſeiz'd, like a deſtroying flood,
Their widow'd plains, and fill'd the realm with blood,
Gave an unbounded looſe to manly rage,
And, ſcorning mercy, ſpar'd nor ſex nor age;
When, for our intereſt too mighty grown,
Monarchs of warlike bent poſſeſs'd the throne,
What if we ſtrove diviſions to foment,
And ſpread the flames of civil diſcontent,
Aſſiſted thoſe who 'gainſt their king made head,
And gave the traitors refuge when they fled;
When reſtleſs GLORY bad her ſons advance,
And pitch'd her ſtandard in the fields of France,
What if diſdaining oaths, an empty ſound,
By which our nation never ſhall be bound,
[26]Bravely we taught unmuzzled war to roam
Thro' the weak land, and brought cheap laurels home;
When the bold traitors league for the defence
Of Law, Religion, Liberty, and Senſe,
When they againſt their lawful Monarch roſe,
And dar'd the Lord's Anointed to oppoſe,
What if we ſtill rever'd the baniſh'd race,
And ſtrove the Royal Vagrants to replace?
With fierce rebellions ſhook th' unſettled ſtate,
And greatly dar'd, tho' croſs'd by partial fate;
Theſe facts, which might, where Wiſdom held the ſway,
Awake the very ſtones to bar our way,
There ſhall be nothing, nor one trace remain
In the dull region of an Engliſh brain,
Bleſs'd with that Faith, which mountains can remove,
Firſt they ſhall Dupes, next Saints, laſt Martyrs prove.
Already is this game of fate begun
Under the ſanction of my Darling Son,
That Son, whoſe nature royal as his name,
Is deſtin'd to redeem our race from ſhame.
His boundleſs pow'r, beyond example great,
Shall make the rough way ſmooth, the crooked ſtraight,
[27]Shall for our eaſe the raging floods reſtrain,
And ſink the mountain level to the plain.
DISCORD, whom in a cavern under ground
With maſſy fetters our late Patriot bound,
Where her own fleſh the furious Hag might tear,
And vent her curſes to the vacant air,
Where, that ſhe never might be heard of more,
He planted-LOYALTY to guard the door,
For better purpoſe ſhall Our Chief releaſe,
Diſguiſe her for a time, and call her PEACE.
Lur'd by that name, fine engine of deceit,
Shall the weak ENGLISH help themſelves to cheat;
To win our love, with honours ſhall they grace
The old adherents of the STUART race,
For pointed out, no matter by what name,
TORIES or JACOBITES are ſtill the ſame;
To ſooth our rage, the temporiſing brood
Shall break the ties of truth and gratitude,
Againſt their Saviour venom'd falſhoods frame,
And brand with calumny their WILLIAM's name;
To win our grace, (rare argument of wit)
To our untainted faith ſhall they commit,
[28](Our ſaith which, in extremeſt perils tried,
Diſdain'd, and ſtill diſdains, to change her ſide,)
That Sacred Majeſty they all approve,
Who moſt enjoys, and beſt deſerves their Love.
FINIS.