Proud of thy fleets and armies, ftol'n the

Of his just praise, to lavish it on them?

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Haft thou not learn'd, what thou art often told,

A truth ftill facred, and believ'd of old,

That no fuccefs attends on fpears and fwords

Unbleft, and that the battle is the Lord's?

That courage is his creature, and dismay
The post that at his bidding speeds away,
Ghaftly in feature, and his ftamm'ring tongue
With doleful rumour and fad prefage hung,
To quell the valour of the ftouteft heart,
And teach the combatant a woman's part?
That he bids thousands fly when none purfue,
Saves as he will, by many or by few,
And claims for ever, as his royal right,

Th' event and fure decifion of the fight?

Haft thou, though fuckled at fair freedom's breast,

Exported flav'ry to the conquer'd East,

Pull'd down the tyrants India ferv'd with dread,

And rais'd thyfelf, a greater, in their ftead?

Gone thither arm'd and hungry, return'd full,
Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul,
A defpot big with pow'r obtain'd by wealth,
And that obtain'd by rapine and by stealth?
With Afiatic vices ftor'd thy mind,

But left their virtues and thine own behind;

And, having truck'd thy foul, brought home the fee, To tempt the poor to fell himself to thee?

Haft thou by ftatute shov'd from its defign

The Saviour's feast, his own bleft bread and wine,
And made the fymbols of atoning grace
An office-key, a pick-lock to a place,
That infidels may prove their title good
By an oath dipp'd in facramental blood?
A blot that will be still a blot, in spite
Of all that grave apologists may write;
And, though a bishop toil to cleanse the ftain,
He wipes and fcours the filver cup in vain.
And haft thou fworn, on ev'ry flight pretence,

'Till perjuries are common as bad pence,

While thousands, careless of the damning fin,

Kifs the book's outside who ne'er look within?

Haft thou, when heav'n has cloth'd thee with disgrace, And, long provok'd, repaid thee to thy face,

(For thou haft known eclipfes, and endur'd

Dimnefs and anguish, all thy beams obfcur'd,
When fin has fhed difhonour on thy brow;

And never of a fabler hue than now)

Haft thou, with heart perverse and confcience fear'd,

Defpifing all rebuke, still perfever'd,

And, having chofen evil, scorn'd the voice

That cried, Repent!-and gloried in thy choice?

Thy faftings, when calamity at last

Suggests th' expedient of a yearly fast,

What mean they? Canft thou dream there is a pow'r

In lighter diet, at a later hour,

To charm to fleep the threat'ning of the skies,

And hide past folly from all-feeing eyes?
The fast that wins deliv'rance, and fufpends
The stroke that a vindictive God intends,

Is to renounce hypocrify; to draw
Thy life upon the pattern of the law;

To war with pleasure, idoliz'd before;

To vanquish luft, and wear its yoke no more.
All fafting elfe, whate'er be the pretence,
Is wooing mercy by renew'd offence.

Haft thou within thee fin, that in old time
Brought fire from heav'n, the fex-abufing crime,
Whose horrid perpetration ftamps difgrace

Baboons are free from upon human race?
Think on the fruitful and well-water'd spot
That fed the flocks and herds of wealthy Lot,
Where Paradife feem'd ftill vouchfaf'd on earth,
Burning and fcorch'd into perpetual dearth,
Or, in his words who damn'd the base defire,
Suff'ring the vengeance of eternal fire:

Then nature, injur'd, fcandaliz'd, defil'd,

Unveil'd her blufhing cheek, look'd on, and fimil'd,

Beheld with joy the lovely scene defac'd,

And prais'd the wrath that laid her beauties waste,

Far be the thought from any verfe of mine,
And farther still the form'd and fix'd defign,
To thruft the charge of deeds that I deteft
Against an innocent unconscious breast:
The man that dares traduce, because he can
With fafety to himself, is not a man:

An individual is a facred 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-intʼrest 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 enfur'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?