XXXIV.

DISTRACTIONS.

MEN, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy Their Forefathers; lo! Sects are formed — and split With morbid restlessness, the ecstatic fit

Spreads wide; though special mysteries multiply,
The Saints must govern, is their common cry;
And so they labour; deeming Holy Writ
Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit
Beneath the roof of settled Modesty.
The Romanist exults; fresh hope he draws
From the confusion craftily incites

The overweening-personates the mad —
To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause:

Totters the Throne; the new-born Church is sad,

For every wave against her

peace unites.

XXXV.

GUNPOWDER PLOT.

FEAR hath a hundred eyes that all agree
To plague her beating heart; and there is one
(Nor idlest that!) which holds communion

With things that were not, yet were meant to be.
Aghast within its gloomy cavity

That eye (which sees as if fulfilled and done

Crimes that might stop the motion of the sun)
Beholds the horrible catastrophe

Of an assembled Senate unredeemed

From subterraneous Treason's darkling power:
Merciless act of sorrow infinite!

Worse than the product of that dismal night,
When gushing, copious as a thunder-shower,
The blood of Huguenots through Paris streamed.

XXXVI.

ILLUSTRATION.

THE Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen
A brilliant crown of everlasting Snow,

Sheds ruin from her sides; and men below
Wonder that aught of aspect so serene
Can link with desolation. Smooth and green,
And seeming, at a little distance, slow,
The waters of the Rhine; but on they go
Fretting and whitening, keener and more keen,
Till madness seizes on the whole wide Flood,
Turned to a fearful Thing whose nostrils breathe
Blasts of tempestuous smoke-wherewith he tries
To hide himself, but only magnifies;

And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe,
Deafening the region in his ireful mood.

* The Jung-frau.

XXXVII.

TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST.

SUCH is the contrast, which, where'er we move,
To the mind's eye Religion doth present;
Now with her own deep quietness content;

Then, like the mountain, thundering from above
Against the ancient Pine-trees of the grove
And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her mood
Recals the transformation of the flood,

Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove,
Earth cannot check. O terrible excess

Of headstrong will! Can this be Piety?

No

some fierce Maniac hath usurped her name;

And scourges England struggling to be free:

Her peace destroyed! her hopes a wilderness!

Her blessings cursed her glory turned to shame!

CAR

XXXVIII.

LAUD.

PREJUDGED by foes determined not to spare,
An old weak Man for vengeance thrown aside,
Laud" in the painful art of dying" tried,
(Like a poor Bird entangled in a Snare
Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear
To stir in useless struggle) hath relied

On hope that conscious Innocence supplied,
And in his prison breathes celestial air.

Why tarries then thy Chariot? Wherefore stay,
O Death! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheels,
Which thou prepar'st, full often to convey,

(What time a State with madding faction reels) The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals

All wounds, all perturbations doth allay?