Far be the thought from any verfe of mine,
And farther ftill the form'd and fixt defign,

To thruft the charge of deeds that I deteft,
Against an innocent unconfcious breast:

The man that dares traduce because he can
With fafety to himself, is not a man:
An individual is a sacred mark,

Not to be pierc'd in play or in the dark,
But public censure speaks a public foe,
Unless a zeal for virtue guide the blow.

The priestly brotherhood, devout, fincere,
From mean felf-int'reft and ambition clear,
Their hope in Heav'n, fervility their scorn,
Prompt to perfuade, expoftulate and warn,
Their wisdom pure, and giv'n them from above,
Their usefulness infur'd by zeal and love,
As meek as the man Mofes, and withal
As bold as in Agrippa's prefence, Paul,
Should fly the world's contaminating touch
Holy and unpolluted—are thine fuch?

Except a few with Eli's fpirit bleft,
Hophni and Phineas may defcribe the rest.

Where fhall a teacher look in days like these,
For ears and hearts that he can hope to please?
Look to the poor-the fimple and the plain
Will hear perhaps thy falutary ftrain;
Humility is gentle, apt to learn,

Speak but the word, will liften and return :
Alas, not fo! the poorest of the flock
Are proud, and set their faces as a rock,
Denied that earthly opulence they chufe,
God's better gift they scoff at and refuse.
The rich, the produce of a nobler stem,
Are more intelligent at least, try them :
Oh vain enquiry! they without remorse
Are altogether gone a devious course,
Where beck'ning pleasure leads them, wildly stray,
Have burst the bands and caft the yoke away.

Now borne upon the wings of truth, fublime,

Review thy dim original and prime;

This island spot of unreclaim'd rude earth,
The cradle that receiv'd thee at thy birth,
Was rock'd by many a rough Norwegian blast,
And Danish howlings fcar'd thee as they pass'd;
For thou waft born amid the din of arms,

And fuck'd a breast that panted with alarms.
While yet thou waft a grov'ling puling chit,
Thy bones not fashion'd and thy joints not knit,
The Roman taught thy ftubborn knee to bow,
Though twice a Cæfar could not bend thee now:
His victory was that of orient light,

When the fun's fhafts difperfe the gloom of night:
Thy language at this diftant moment shows
How much the country to the conqu❜ror owes,
Expreffive, energetic and refin'd,

It sparkles with the gems he left behind:

He brought thy land a bleffing when he came,
He found thee favage, and he left thee tame,
Taught thee to cloath thy pink'd and painted hide,
And grace thy figure with a foldier's pride,

He

He fow'd the feeds of order where he went,
Improv'd thee far beyond his own intent,
And while he rul'd thee by the fword alone,
Made thee at last a warrior like his own.
Religion if in heav'nly truths attir'd,

Needs only to be seen to be admir'd,

But thine as dark as witch'ries of the night,
Was form'd to harden hearts and fhock the fight:
Thy Druids ftruck the well-ftrung harps they bore,
With fingers deeply dy'd in human gore,

And while the victim flowly bled to death,

Upon the tolling chords rung out his dying breath.

Who brought the lamp that with awak'ning beams Difpell'd thy gloom and broke away thy dreams, Tradition, now decrepid and worn out,

Babbler of antient fables, leaves a doubt:

But ftill light reach'd thee; and thofe gods of thine. Woden and Thor, each tott'ring in his shrine,

Fell broken and defac'd at his own door,

As Dagon in Philiftia long before.

But

But Rome with forceries and magic wand,
Soon rais'd a cloud that darken'd ev'ry land,

And thine was fmother'd in the stench and fog
Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog:
Then priest with bulls and briefs and fhaven crowns,
And griping fifts and unrelenting frowns,
Legites and delegates with pow'rs from hell,
Though heav'nly in pretenfion, fleec'd thee well;
And to this hour to keep it fresh in mind,
Some twigs of that old fcourge are left behind.*
Thy foldiery the pope's weil-manag'd pack,
Were train'd beneath his lafh and knew the fmack,
And when he laid them on the scent of blood:
Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood.
Lavish of life to win an empty tomb,

That prov'd a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome,
They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies,
His worthless abfolution all the prize.

Thou waft the veriest flave in days of

yore,

That ever dragg'd a chain or tugg'd an oar;