The Methodist Part 2

Proud _Troy_ herself (as all things must) Is crumbled into native dust; Is now a pasture, where the beast Strays for his vegetable feast, Old _Priam_'s royal palace now May couch the ox, the a.s.s, the cow.--

_Rome_, city of imperial worth, The mighty mistress of the earth; _Rome_, that gave law to all the world, Is now to blank Destruction hurl'd!-- Is now a sepulchre, a tomb, To tell the stranger, "Here was _Rome_."--

View the _West Abbey_! there we see How frail a thing is royalty!

Where crowns and sceptres worms supply, And kings and queens, like lumber lie.

The _Tombs themselves_ are worn away, And own the empire of _Decay_, Mouldering like the royal dust, Which to preserve they have in trust.

Nor has the _Marble_ more withstood The rage of _Time_, than _Flesh and Blood_!

The _King of Stone_ is worn away, As well as is the _King of Clay_-- Here lies a _King without a Nose_, And there a _Prince without his Toes_; Here on her back a _Royal Fair_ Lies, but a little worse for wear; Those lips, whose touch cou'd almost turn Old age to youth, and make it burn; To which young kings were proud to kneel, Are kick'd by every Schoolboy's heel; Struck rudely by the _Showman's Wand_, And crush'd by every callous Hand: Here a _puissant Monarch_ frowns In menace high to rival Crowns; He threatens--but will do no harm-- Our _Monarch_ has not left an arm.

Thus all _Things_ feel the gen'ral curse, _That all Things must with Time grow worse_.

But your Philosophers will say, _Best Things grow worst when they decay_.

And many facts they have at hand To prove it, shou'd you proofs demand.

As if _Corruption_ shut her jaw, And scorn'd to cram her filthy maw, With aught but dainties rich and rare, And morsels of the choicest fare; As garden Birds are led to bite, Where'er the fairest fruits invite.

If _Phoebus'_ rays too fiercely burn, The _richest Wines_ to _sourest_ turn: And they who living _highly fed_, Will breed a _Pestilence when dead_.

Thus _Aldermen_, who at each Feast, Cram Tons of Spices from the East, Whose leading wish, and only plan, Is to learn how to _pickle Man_; Who more than vie with _aegypt_'s art, And make themselves a _human Tart_, A _walking Pastry-Shop_, a _Gut_, Shambles by Wholesale to inglut; And gorge each high-concocted Mess The art of Cookery can dress: Yet spite of all, when _Death_ thinks fit To take them off, lest t' other bit Shou'd burst these _living Mummies_, able Neither to eat, nor quit the Table; Whether He Dropsy sends or Gout, To fetch them by the Shoulders out; Tho' living they were _Salt_ and _Spice_, The carcase is not over nice; And all may find, who have a _Nose_, _Dead Aldermen_ are not a rose.

This reas'ning only serves to shew, The world call'd _Natural_, is so.

But various instances proclaim, 'Tis in the _moral World_ the same.

Thus _Woman_, Nature's _chastest_ work, _l.u.s.t-struck_, out-paramours the Turk; Tho' _gentle_ as the suckling Child, _Enrag'd_, than famish'd Wolves more wild; A more fell minister of _Death_-- _Rime_ gives the instance in _Mackbeth_.

_Reason herself_, that _sober Dame_, So mild, so temperate, so tame, Her head once turn'd, and giddy grown, Raving with phrenzy not her own, Plays madder pranks, more full of spleen Than any Hoyden of sixteen.

Whether she burns with _Love_ or _Hate_, Or grows with _baseless Hopes_ elate, With _Desperation_ is forlorn, Or with imagin'd horrors torn, If on _Ambition_'s swelling tide, Her crazy bark from side to side, Reels like a drunkard, tempest-tost, Or in the _Gulph of Pride_ is lost; Whate'er the _leading Pa.s.sion_ be, That works the Soul's anxiety, In each _Extreme_ th' effect is bad, _Sense_ grows diseas'd, and _Reason_ mad.

Why shou'd the Muse of _Angels_ tell Turn'd into _Devils_ when they fell?

Why search the Chronicles of _h.e.l.l_, While _Earth_ examples it as well?

Why talk of _Satan_, while we see Each day some new Apostacy?

_Tories_ to _Whigs_ convert, and _Whigs_, _Mere Ministerial Whirlegigs_, Turn'd by the hand of _Int'rest_, take The _Tory-part_, for Lucre's sake.

_Patriots_ turn _Placemen_, and support Against their Country's good the Court; Are bought with _Pensions_ to retire, When drooping Kingdoms most require Their aid----Tho' here the Muse wou'd fain _Except_ ONE of the _pension'd Train_, (_One_ meritorious 'bove the rest, A _patriot Minister_, confest) Yet strictest honour can't acquit That _Pensioner_, who once was _P----_.

Instance on instance to my view Come rus.h.i.+ng, of the changeling crew, That I could quarrel with my Nature, To think that Man is such a Creature-- And are we all a fickle tribe, Venal to ev'ry golden bribe?

Is there not one of honour found, In all the List of _Placemen_ found?

Yes--_one_ there is, in perils tried, Yet never known to _change his Side_, Or _Principles_--nor think it strange, He ne'er had _Principles_ to change, And for a _Side_ (the proof is new) He's _none_, because that _he has two_.

Throw him from _Party_'s giddy heights, A _Cat in Politics_ he lights Ever upon his feet; his heart Clings both to _Whig_ and _Tory-part_; Is _this_, is _that_, is _both_, or _neither_, And still keeps s.h.i.+fting with the Weather.

Who does not know that _T--s--d_'s he, That reads the _Book of Ministry_?

Thus let us turn where'er we will, _Each Machiavel_'s a _Changeling_ still.

But tho' among all _Nature_'s works The seed of foul _Corruption_ lurks, Yet no where is it known to bear So vile a Crop on Ground so fair, As when upon _Religion_'s root _It raises Diabolic Fruit_.

When the Almighty Father's Love Call'd Things to Being, from above Millions of winged _Blessings_ flew, Sent from his right hand, to bedew The new-born Earth, and from their wings Shed good on all _created Things_.

Precious and various tho' the store Which down to Earth these Legates bore, That _Heav'nly Spark_ we _Reason call_, Was far the richest boon of all.

By _this_ we find _th' Almighty Cause_ From whom the World its Being draws; _By whom Earth_'s plenteous Table's spread, At which each living Creature's fed; _Who_ gave the _Breath of Life_, and whence This fine _Variety_ of _Sense_; _Whose Hands_ unfold the azure sky, Sublimely pleasing to _the Eye_; _Who_ tun'd the feather'd Songster's throat, Giving such softness to his note, To fill the _Ear_ with dulcet sound, And pour sweet Music all around; Who on the teeming Branches plac'd Such various Fruit to please the _Taste_; What bounteous Hand perfum'd the _Rose_, And ev'ry scented Flow'r that blows, And wafts its fragrance thro' the Vale, Courting the _Smell_ in ev'ry gale, To _whom_ it is we owe so much Substantial pleasure in the _Touch_; And _whence_, superior to the whole, Those raptures that transport _the Soul_; _This_ gives our Grat.i.tude to glow To him, from whom such Blessings flow; This teaches Man his _moral Part_, And grafts _Religion_ in the Heart.

_Glory to G.o.d, good Will to Man, And Peace on Earth_, compos'd the plan, For which _Religion_ first came down, And brought to Earth a _heav'nly Crown_.

Better her Purpose to complete, And _Satan_'s Malice to defeat, A Troop of _holy Genii_ came, Co-workers in the glorious Scheme.

To each a scroll the G.o.ddess gave, On which these lines She did engrave: "Go, teach the sons of Men to raise Their voice unto their _Maker_'s praise.

Go, call forth _Charity_ to meet Distress that seeks her in the Street; Bid her the lame with Legs supply, And be unto the blind an Eye; A Mantle o'er the naked throw, And reach a healing hand to Woe; Visit the bed where Sickness lies, And wipe the tears from Orphans eyes; Bid her Affliction's hour beguile, And teach the tear-worn Cheek to smile; Bid her send Comfort to expell Grief from the lonely Widow's Cell; Make blunt the arrows of Mischance, And ope the eyes of Ignorance; To those lost Pilgrims point the Way, Who in _Sin_'s tenfold Darkness stray, Recall them from _h.e.l.l_'s thickest night, And shew _Salvation_'s glorious Light; For thus the World that Peace shall find, For which it was by _G.o.d_ design'd."--

Such the commands _Religion_ gave, When first she came the World to save, Such the attendants in her Train, When She began her holy Reign.

And when _Messiah_'s gracious Love Urg'd him to leave the _Realms_ above, Urg'd him to quit his _heav'nly Throne_, His People's Trespa.s.s to atone, And, tho' so long they had withstood His Will, to wash them with his Blood; The great Command he did renew, To _give to G.o.d, and Man his due_; Bade the bright _Sun of Faith_ arise, And open'd Heav'n to mortal eyes, Leaving _Religion_ on the Earth, More fair and pure than at her Birth.--

How mutilated now and marr'd, Deform'd, distorted, mangled, scarr'd!

Thro' _modern Conventicles_ trace The G.o.ddess, you'll not know her face: The _holy Genii_ all are fled, And _Sprites_ and _Dev'ls_ come in their stead.

And now a counterfeiting Dame Usurps _Religion_'s sacred Name, But no more like in _Heart_ or _Face_, Than _F--x_'s deeds to deeds of Grace.

Visit her at her _T-tt--m_ Seat, You'll find she is an errant Cheat.

For _Satan_, Man's invet'rate foe, Whose greatest joy is human woe, Repining at the heav'nly Plan, That promis'd so much Good to Man, Us'd all his Malice, Wit, and Pow'r, The World's great Blessings to devour.

Well the _malicious Spirit_ knew Whence _Man_ his chief resources drew Of Happiness, and saw confest, Where all was good, _Religion_ best; And at her unpolluted Heart He aim'd his most envenom'd Dart.

He knew the Interest of _h.e.l.l_ Cou'd never on the _Earth_ go well, While _pure Religion_ did maintain O'er Man a sanctimonious reign.

With her he wag'd malicious War, He might, if not destroy her, mar Her Face; might with false Lights misguide, And make her Combat on his side.

Highly did his _Ambition_ burn Heav'n's Arms against itself to turn.

Nor would his _Malice_ triumph less, To _d.a.m.n_ where _G.o.d_ design'd to _bless_.

For this _the Fiend_ to Earth ascends, To try his Int'rest with his Friends.

Long in his fiery Chariot hurl'd, He had explor'd the pendent World; Long had he search'd without avail, Each _Meeting_, _Dungeon_, _Court_, and _Jail_, Each _Mart of Villainy_, where _Vice_ Presides, and _Virtue_ bears no Price, Where _Fraud_, _Hypocrisy_, and _Lies_ Are selling while the Devil buys.

Long had he search'd, but could not find An _Agent_ suited to his Mind, Who cou'd transact his Business well, And do on Earth the work of h.e.l.l; That he might at his leisure go, And manage his Affairs below.--

Tir'd and despairing of a Friend On whom he safely might depend, At _T-tt--m_ he alights from Air-- _Magus_, that _Sorcerer_, was there.

Pleas'd _Satan_ somewhat nearer drew, Look'd thro' him at a single view, Bless'd his good Luck, and grinn'd aghast-- "'Tis well, for I have found at last, The Thing I long have sought, in _Thee_, _An Agent in Iniquity_.

Thus let me mark Thee for my own, And from henceforth for _mine_ be known."

Then with out-stretched claws his Eyes He _twisted_ diff'rent ways--the _Skies_ Are watch'd by _one_, and (strange to tell!) The _other_ is the Guard of _h.e.l.l_.

Then thus--"'Tis fit thy Eyes shou'd roll, _Cross_ as the purpose of thy Soul, Fit that they look a diff'rent way, Like what You _do_, and what You _say_; Thy _Eye-b.a.l.l.s_ now are pois'd and hung, As even as thy _Heart_ and _Tongue_-- Prosper--to _me_, to _h.e.l.l_ (he cried) Be true, but false to all beside.

_Riches are mine_--I will repay For ev'ry Soul you lead astray-- Give out thyself a Light to shew Which way 'tis best to Heav'n to go; But lead the Pilgrims wrong, and s.h.i.+ne An _Ignis fatuus_ of mine-- Draw them thro' bog, thro' brake, thro' mire, I'll dry them at a _rousing Fire_."

_Magus_ complacent smil'd--his Eyes Twinkled with signs of Joy, one flies Upward, and t'other down, like Scales, Where this ascends, when that prevails-- Then _thrice_ he turn'd upon his heel, And swore Allegiance to the _De'el_--

Right faithfully his _Oath_ he kept, And might each Night before he slept Boast of his labours to maintain, And spread abroad his _Master_'s Reign; Might boast the magic of his Rod To whip away the _Love of G.o.d_, For all of _G.o.d_ he makes appear Has nought to _love_, but all to _fear_.

That debt, which _Grat.i.tude_ each day Paying, wou'd still own much to pay; Instead of _Duty_ freely paid, A _Tyrant_'s _hard Exaction_'s made.

Fitted the simple to cajole, First of his Wits, and then his Soul, He urges fifty false Pretences, Preaching his Hearers from their Senses.

He knows his _Master_'s Realm so well, His Sermons are a _Map of h.e.l.l_, An _Ollio_ made of _Conflagration_, Of _Gulphs of Brimstone_, and _d.a.m.nation_, _Eternal Torments_, _Furnace_, _Worm_, _h.e.l.l-Fire_, a _Whirlwind_, and a _Storm_, With _Mammon_, _Satan_, and _Perdition_, And _Beelzebub_ to help the Dish on; _Belial_ and _Lucifer_, and all The _nick-Names_ which _old Nick_ we call-- But he has ta'en especial care, To have nor _Sense_ nor _Reason_ there.

A thousand scorching Words beside, Over his tongue as glibly slide, Familiar as a gla.s.s of wine, Or a Tobacco-pipe on mine; That You wou'd swear he was compleater, Than _Powell_, as a _Fire-Eater_.

Virgins he will seduce astray, Only to shew the shortest Way To _Heaven_, and because it lies Above the _Zodiac_ in the Skies, That they _may better see the Track_, He lays them down _upon their Back_.

Domestic Peace he can destroy, And the confusion view with Joy, Children from Parents he can draw, What's _Conscience_?--he is safe from _Law_-- The closest Union can divide, Take Husbands from their Spouses' side, But it turns out to better Use, Wives from their Husbands to seduce; And as their Journey lies _up-Hill_, Ev'ry Inc.u.mbrance were an Ill; And lest their Speed shou'd be withstood, He takes their _Money_--_for their Good_.

Such is the Agent _Satan_ chose, _Religion_'s Progress to oppose-- Too great the Task for _one_ was thought, And _under-Agents_ must be sought-- On this high Enterprize intent, A troop of _evil Sprites_ he sent, Commission'd, wheresoe'er they found _Hearts hollow, rotten, and unsound_, Within those b.r.e.a.s.t.s accurs'd to dwell, Teaching the Liturgy of _h.e.l.l_.

Big with the Charge th' infernal Crew To their belov'd Appointment flew; With busy search thro' ev'ry Cla.s.s, Thro' ev'ry Rank of Men they pa.s.s, In ev'ry Cla.s.s of Men they find Some _Hearts_ corrupted to their Mind, Ev'ry Profession they explore, Ev'ry Profession gives them more; The higher Functions ransack'd, now Each vulgar Trade, each sweaty Brow Is search'd, and in them all were found, _Some hollow, rotten, and unsound_.

In each depraved Bosom dwell These _Sprites_, nor miss their native _h.e.l.l_.

Hence ev'ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce, Start into Preachers all at once.

Hence Ignorance of ev'ry size, Of ev'ry shape Wit can devise, Altho' so dull it hardly knows, Which are its Fingers, which its Toes, Which is the left Hand, which the Right, When it is Day, or when 'tis Night, Shall yet pretend to keep the Key Of _G.o.d_'s dark Secrets, and display His _hidden Mysteries_, as free As if _G.o.d_'s _privy Council_ He, Shall to his Presence rush, and dare To raise a _pious Riot_ there.

_Lawyers_ (a Commutation strange!) _c.o.ke Littleton_ for _Bible_ change; Quit their beloved wrangling _Hall_, More loudly in a _Church_ to bawl: _Statutes at large_ are thrown aside, And now the _Testament_'s their guide; And full as fervent, on their Knees, For _Heav'n_ they pray, as once for _Fees_; _Plaintiff_, _Defendant_, and _my Lord_, Are banish'd, and now _Faith_'s the Word, Of _Briefs_ no longer now they dream, _Religion_ is the only Theme.

The _Physic-Tribe_ their Art resign, And lose the _Quack_ in the _Divine_; _Galen_ lies on the Shelf unread, A _Pray'r-Book_ open in its stead; _Salvation_ now is all the _Cant_, _Salvation_ is the _only_ Want.

"_Throw Physic to the Dogs_," they cry, 'Twill never bring you to the Sky.

Of a _New-birth_ they prate, and prate While _Midwifry_ is out of Date; Let Fevers, Agues, take their turn, To freeze the Patient, or to burn, In vain he seeks the Physic Tribe, No _Recipe_ will they prescribe, But what is sovereign to controul The Maladies that hurt the Soul.

And tho' while _Body-quacks_, with _Pill_ Or _Bolus_, 'twas their Trade to kill, More miserably still, alack!

For the _diseased Soul_ they _quack_.

The _Sons of War_ sometimes are known To fight with Weapons not their own, Ceasing the _Sword of Steel_ to wield, They take _Religion_'s _Sword and s.h.i.+eld_.