Where sins to sacred silence are convey'd,
And not for fear or love to be betray'd:
But he, uncall'd, his patron to control,
Divulg❜d the secret whispers of his soul;
Stood forth the' accusing Satan of his crimes,
And offer'd to the Moloch of the times.
Prompt to assail, and careless of defence,
Invulnerable in his impudence,
He dares the world; and, eager of a name,
He thrusts about, and justles into fame.
Frontless, and satire-proof, he scowers the streets,
And runs an Indian-muck at all he meets:
So fond of loud report, that not to miss
Of being known, (his last and utmost bliss)
He rather would be known for what he is.
"Such was, and is, the captain of the Test,
Though half his virtues are not here express'd;
The modesty of Fame conceals the rest.
The spleenful Pigeons never could create
A prince more proper to revenge their hate:
Indeed, more proper to revenge than save;
A king, whom in his wrath the' Almighty gave;
For all the grace the landlord had allow'd,
But made the Buzzard and the Pigeons proud; Gave time to fix their friends, and to seduce the crowd.
They long their fellow-subjects to entral,
Their patron's promise into question call, [all.
And vainly think he meant to make 'em lords of.
"False fears their leaders fail'd not to suggest,
As if the Doves were to be dispossess'd;
Nor sighs, nor groans, nor goggling eyes did want;
For now the Pigeons too had learn'd to cant.
The house of prayer is stock'd with large increase,
or doors nor windows can contain the press:
For birds of every feather fill the' abode;
E'en atheists, out of envy, own a God;
Aeking from the stews, adulterers come,
oths and Vandals, to demolish Rome.
at Conscience, which to all their crimes was mute,
Now calls aloud, and cries to persecute;
No rigour of the laws to be releas'd,
And much the less, because it was their lord's request;
They thought it great their sovereign to control, And nam'd their pride-Nobility of soul.
""Tis true, the Pigeons, and their prince-elect, Were short of power their purpose to effect; But with their quills did all the hurt they could, And cuff'd the tender chickens from their food; And much the Buzzard in their cause did stir, Though naming not the patron, to infer, . With all respect, he was a gross idolater.
"But when the' imperial owner did espy That thus they turn'd his grace to villany, Not suffering wrath to discompose his mind, He strove a temper for the' extremes to find, So to be just, as he might still be kind; Then, all maturely weigh'd, pronounc'd a doom Of sacred strength for every age to come. By this the Doves their wealth and state possess, No rights infring'd, but license to oppress: Such power have they as factious lawyers long To crowns ascrib'd, that kings can do no wrong : But since his own domestic birds have tried The dire effects of their destructive pride, He deems that proof a measure to the rest, Concluding well within his kingly breast, His fowls of Nature too unjustly were opprest.
He therefore makes all birds of every sect
Free of his farm, with promise to respect
Their several kinds alike, and equally protect.
His gracious edict the same franchise yields
To all the wild increase of woods and fields,
And who in rocks aloof, and who in steeples
builds:
To Crows the like impartial grace affords,
And Choughs and Daws, and such republic birds:
Secur'd with ample privilege to feed,
Each has his district and his bounds decreed;
Combin'd in common interest with his own,
But not to pass the Pigeon's Rubicon.
"Here ends the reign of his pretended Dove,
All prophecies accomplish'd from above;
For Shiloh comes the sceptre to remove.
Reduc'd from her imperial high abode,
Like Dionysius to a private rod,*
The passive church, that with pretended grace
Did her distinctive mark in duty place,
Now touch'd, reviles her Maker to his face.
"What after happen'd is not hard to guess:
The small beginnings had a large increase,
And arts and wealth succeed, the sacred spoils of
peace.
"Tis said the Doves repented, though too late,
Become the smiths of their own foolish fate;
Nor did their owner hasten their ill hour,
But, sunk in credit, they decreas'd in pow'r:
Like snows in warmth, that mildly pass away,
Dissolving in the silence of decay.
"The Buzzard, not content with equal place, Invites the feather'd Nimrods of his race
Dionysius the younger, being expelled from Syracuse, became a schoolmaster at Corinth.
To hide the thinness of their flock from sight,
And all together make a seeming goodly flight.
But each have separate interests of their own;
Two Czars are one too many for a throne:
Nor can the' usurper long abstain from food;
Already he has tasted Pigeons' blood,
And may be tempted to his former fare,
When this indulgent lord shall late to Heaveħ re-
Bare-benting times, and moulting months may come,
When, lagging late, they cannot reach their home;
Or rent in schism (for so their fate decrees)
Like the tumultuous college of the bees,
They fight their quarrel, by themselves oppress'd,
The tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling feast."
Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end,
Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend;
But, with affected yawnings at the close,
Seem'd to require her natural repose:
For now the streaky light began to peep,
And setting stars admonish'd both to sleep.
The Dame withdrew, and wishing to her guest
The peace of Heaven, betook herself to rest.
Ten thousand angels on her slumbers wait,
With glorious visions of her future state.
OUR Vows are heard by times, and Heav'n takes
To grant, before we can conclude, the pray'r;
Preventing angels met it half the way,
And sent us back to praise who came to pray.
Just on the day, when the high-mounted sun
Did farthest in its northern progress run,
He bended forward, and ev'n stretch'd the sphere
Beyond the limits of the lengthen'd year,
To view a brighter sun in Britain born;
That was the business of his longest morn;
The glorious object seen, 'twas time to turn.
Departing Spring could only stay to shed
Her gloomy beauties on the genial bed,
But left the manly summer in her stead,
With timely fruit the longing land to cheer,
And to fulfil the promise of the year.
Betwixt two seasons comes the' auspicious heir,
This age to blossom, and the next to bear.
Last solemn Sabbath saw the church attend,
The Paraclete in fiery pomp descend;
But when his wondrous octave* roll'd again,
He brought a royal infant in his train.
So great a blessing to so good a King
None but the' eternal Comforter could bring.
* Trinity-Sunday is the octave of Whit-Sunday.
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