Who poises and proportions sea and land,
Weighing them in the hollow of his hand,
And in whose awful sight all nations seem
As grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream;
Hast thou (a sacrilege his soul abhors)
Claimed all the glory of thy prosperous wars?
Proud of thy fleets and armies, stolen the gem
Of his just praise, to lavish it on them?
Hast thou not learned, what thou art often told,
A truth still sacred, and believed of old,
That no success attends on spears and swords
Unblest, and that the battle is the Lord's?
That courage is his creature, and dismay
The post that at his bidding speeds away,
Ghastly in feature, and his stammering tongue,
With doleful rumour and sad presage hung,
To quell the valour of the stoutest heart,
And teach the combatant a woman's part?
That he bids thousands fly when none pursue,
Save, as he will, by many or by few,
And claims for ever, as his royal right,

Th' event and sure decision of the fight?

Hast thou, though suckled at fair freedom's breast, Exported slavery to the conquered East,

Pulled down the tyrants India served with dread,
And raised thyself a greater in their stead?
Gone thither armed and hungry, returned full,
Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul,
A despot big with power obtained by wealth,
And that obtained by rapine and by stealth?
With Asiatic vices stored thy mind,

But left their virtues and thine own behind;

And, having trucked thy soul, brought home the fee, To tempt the poor to sell himself to thee?

Hast thou by statute showed from its design The Saviour's feast his own blest bread and wine,

And made the symbols of atoning grace An office key, a picklock to a place, That infidels may prove their title good By an oath dipped in sacramental 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 stain, He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain. And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er looked within? Hast thou, when heaven has clothed thee with disgrace, And long provoked, repaid thee to thy face, (For thou hast known eclipses, and endured Dimness and anguish, all thy beams obscured, When sin has shed dishonour on thy brow; And never of a sabler hue than now)

Hast thou, with heart perverse and conscience seared, Despising all rebuke, still persevered,

And having chosen evil, scorned the voice

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

Thy fastings, when calamity at last

Suggests th' expedient of a yearly fast,

What mean they? Canst thou dream there is a power

In lighter diet at a later hour,

To charm to sleep the threatening of the skies,

And hide past folly from all-seeing eyes?

The past, that wins deliverance, and suspends
The stroke, that a vindictive God intends,
Is to renounce hypocrisy; to draw
Thy life upon the pattern of the law;
To war with pleasure idolized before;
To vanquish lust, and wear its yoke no more.
All fasting else, whate'er be the pretence,
Is wooing mercy by renewed offence.

Hast thou within thee sin, that in old time
Brought fire from heaven, the sex-abusing crime,
Whose horrid perpetration stamps disgrace,
Baboons are free from, upon human race?
Think on the fruitful and well-watered spot,
That fed the flocks and herds of wealthy Lot,
Where Paradise seemed still vouchsafed on earth,
Burning and scorched into perpetual dearth,
Or, in his words who damned the base desire,
Suffering the vengeance of eternal fire :
Then nature injured, scandalized, defiled,
Unveiled her blushing cheek, looked on, and smiled;
Beheld with joy the lovely scene defaced,
And praised the wrath, that laid her beauties waste.
Far be the thought from any verse of mine,
And further still the formed and fixed design,
To thrust the charge of deeds, that I detest,
Against. an innocent unconscious breast:
The man that dares traduce, because he can
With safety to himself, is not a man:
An individual is a sacred mark,

Not to be pierced 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, sincere,
From mean self-interest and ambition clear,
Their hope in Heaven, servility their scorn,
Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn,
Their wisdom pure, and given them from above,
Their usefulness ensured by zeal and love,
As meek as the man Moses, and withal
As bold as in Agrippa's presence Paul,
Should fly the world's contaminating touch,
Holy and unpolluted :—are thine such?
Except a few with Eli's spirit blest,
Hophni and Phineas may describe the rest.

Where shall a teacher look in days like these,
For ears and hearts that he can hope to please?
Look to the poor-the simple and the plain
Will hear perhaps thy salutary strain :
Humility is gentle, apt to learn,

Speak but the word, will listen and return.
Alas, not so! the poorest of the flock
Are proud, and set their faces as a rock;
Denied that earthly opulence they choose,
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 inquiry! they without remorse
Are altogether gone a devious course:

Where beckoning pleasure leads them, wildly stray;
Have burst the bands, and cast the yoke away.
Now borne upon the wings of truth sublime,
Review thy dim original and prime.

This island, spot of unreclaimed rude earth,
The cradle that received thee at thy birth,
Was rocked by many a rough Norwegian blast,
And Danish howlings scared thee as they passed;
For thou wast born amid the din of arms,
And sucked a breast that panted with alarms,
While yet thou wast a groveling puling chit,
Thy bones not fashioned, and thy joints not knit,
The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow,
Though twice a Cæsar could not bend thee now :
His victory was that of orient light,

When the sun's shafts disperse the gloom of night.
Thy language at this distant moment shows
How much the country to the conqueror owes ;
Expressive, energetic, and refined,

It sparkles with the gems he left behind :
He brought thy land a blessing when he came,
He found thee savage, and he left thee tame;

Taught thee to clothe thy pinked and painted hide,
And grace thy figure with a soldier's pride;
He sowed the seeds of order where he went,
Improved thee far beyond his own intent,
And, while he ruled thee by the sword alone,
Made thee at last a warrior like his own.
Religion, if in heavenly truths attired,
Needs only to be seen to be admired;

But thine, as dark as witcheries of the night,
Was formed to harden hearts and shock the sight;
Thy Druids struck the well-hung harps they bore
With fingers deeply dyed in human gore;
And, while the victim slowly bled to death,
Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath.
Who brought the lamp that with awaking beams
Dispelled thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams,
Tradition, now decrepit and worn out,

Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt:

But still light reached thee; and those gods of thine Woden and Thor, each tottering in his shrine,

Fell broken and defaced at his own door,

As Dagon in Philista long before.

But Rome with sorceries and magic wand
Soon raised a cloud, that darkened every land;
And thine was smothered in the stench and fog
Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog,

Then priests with bulls and briefs, and shaven crowns,
And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns,
Legates and delegates with powers from hell,
Though heavenly in pretension, fleeced thee well:
And to this hour to keep it fresh in mind,
Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind *.
Thy soldiery, the pope's well-managed pack,
Were trained beneath his lash, and knew the smack,

* Which may be found at Doctors' Commons.