Perhaps a Bigot to the learned page,
No modern custom can his thoughts engage;
His little farm by GEORGICK rules he ploughs,
And prunes by metre the luxuriant boughs,
Still from ARATUS' fphere or MA RO's figns,
The future calm or tempeft he divines,
And fears if the prognostick Raven's found
a Expatiating alone along the dreary round.
What scanty precepts! studies how confin'd!
Too mean to fill your comprehenfive mind :
Unfatisfy'd with knowing when or where
Some Roman Bigot rais'd a Fane to FEAR;
On what green medal VIRTUE ftands exprefs'd,
How CONCORD's pictur'd, LIBERTY how drefs'd;
Or with wife KEN judiciously define,
When Pius marks the honorary coin
Of CARACALLA, or of ANTONINE.
Thirsting for knowledge, but to know the right,
Thro' judgment's optick guide th' illufive fight,
To let in rays on Reason's darkling cell,
And Prejudice's lagging mifts difpel;
For this you turn the Greek and Roman page,
Weigh the contemplative and active Sage,
And cull fome useful flow'r from each heroick Age.
Thence teach the Youth the necessary art,
To know the Judge's from the Critick's part;
a Et fola in ficca fecum fpatiatur arena.
Show how ignoble is the paffion, FEAR,
And place fome patriot Roman's model near;
Their bright examples to his foul inftil,
Who knew no Fear, but that of doing ill.
Tell him, 'tis all a cant, a trifle all,
To know the folds that from the TOGA fall,
The CLAVUS' breadth, the BULLA's golden round,
And ev'ry leaf that ev'ry VIRTUE crown'd;
But fhew how brighter in each honeft breast
Than in her shrine, the Goddess stood confess'd.
Tell him, it is not the fantastick Boy,
Elate with pow'r and swell'd with frantick joy,
'Tis not a flavish Senate, fawning, bafe,
Can ftamp with honest fame a worthless race;
Tho' the falfe Coin proclaim him great and wise,
The tyrant's life fhall tell that Coin, it lies.
But when your early Care shall have design'd
To plan the Soul and mould the waxen Mind;
When you fhall pour upon his tender Breaft
Ideas that must stand an Age's teft,
Oh! there imprint with strongest deepest dye
The lovely form of Goddefs LIBERTY!
For her in Senates be he train❜d to plead,
For her in Battles be he taught to bleed.
Lead him where Dover's rugged cliff refounds
With dafhing feas, fair Freedom's honeft bounds,
Point to yon azure Carr bedrop'd with gold,
Whose weight the necks of Gallia's fons uphold;
Where proudly fits an iron-scepter'd Queen,
And fondly triumphs o'er the proftrate scene,
Cry, That is Empire! fhun her baleful path,
Her Words are Slavery, and her Touch is Death!
Thro' wounds and blood the Fury drives her way,
And murthers half, to make the reft her prey.
Thus fpoke each Spartan matron, as she dress'd
With the bright cuirass her young foldier's breaft;
On the new warrior's tender-finew'd thigh,
Girt Fear of Shame and Love of Liberty.
Steel'd with fuch precepts, for a cause so good,
What fcanty bands the Persian hoft withstood!
Before the fons of Greece let Afia tell
How fled her Monarch, how her Millions fell!
When arm'd for LIBERTY, a Few how brave!
How weak a Multitude, where each a Slave!
No welcome Falchion fill'd their fainting hand,
No Voice infpir'd of favourite Command:
No Peafant fought for wealthy lands poffefs'd,
No fond remembrance warm'd the Parent's breast:
They faw their lands for royal riot groan,
And toil in vain for banquets, not their own;
They saw their infant Race to bondage rise,
And frequent heard the ravish'd Virgin's cries,
Dishonour'd but to cool a tranfient guft
Of fome luxurious Satrap's barb'rous luft.
The greatest curfes any Age has known,
Have iffued from the Temple or the Throne ;
Extent of ill from Kings at first begins,
But Priests must aid, and confecrate their fins.
The tortur'd Subject might be heard complain,
When finking under a new weight of chain,
Or more rebellious might perhaps repine,
When tax'd to dow'r a titled Concubine,
But the Priest christens all a Right Divine.
When at the altar a new Monarch kneels,
What conjur'd awe upon the people steals!
The chofen He adores the precious oil,
Meekly receives the folemn charm, and while
The Priest some bleffed nothings mutters o'er,
Sucks in the facred grease at ev'ry pore:
He seems at once to shed his mortal skin,
And feels Divinity transfus'd within.
The trembling Vulgar dread the royal Nod,
And worship God's anointed more than God.
Such Sanction gives the Prelate to fuch Kings!
So Mischief from thofe hallow'd fountains springs.
But bend your eye to yonder harrass'd plains,
Where King and Priest in one united reigns;
See fair Italia mourn her holy state,
And droop opprefs'd beneath a papal weight:
Where fat Celibacy ufurps the foil,
And facred Sloth confumes the peasant's toil :
The holy Drones monopolize the sky,
And plunder by a vow of Poverty.
The Chriftian Caufe their lewd profeffion taints,
Unlearn'd, unchafte, uncharitable Saints.
Oppreffion takes Religion's hallow'd name,
And Priest-craft knows to play the fpecious game.
Behold how each enthusiastic fool
Of ductile piety, becomes their tool:
Obferve with how much art, what fine pretence,
They hallow Foppery and combat Sense:
Some hoary Hypocrite, grown old in fin,
Whofe thoughts of heav'n with his laft hours begin,
Counting a chaplet with a bigot care,
And mumbling fomewhat 'twixt a charm and pray'r,
Hugs a dawb'd image of his injur'd Lord,
And squeezes out on the dull idol-board
A fore-ey'd gum of tears; the flannel Crew
With cunning joy the fond repentance view,
Pronounce Him blefs'd, his miracles proclaim,
Teach the flight crowd t'adore his hallow'd name,
Exalt his praise above the Saints of old,
And coin his finking confcience into Gold.
Or when fome Pontiff with imperious hand
Sends forth his edict to excife the land,
The tortur'd Hind unwillingly obeys,
And mutters curfes as his mite he pays!
The fubtle Prieft th' invidious name forbears,
Afks it for holy use or venal prayʼrs;
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