Classic Poem

A Satire against Persecution

How easy 'tis to sail with wind and tide!
Small force will serve upon the stronger side;
Power serves for law, the wrong too oft's made right,
And they are damned who against Power dare fight.
Wit rides triumphant, in Power's chariot borne,
And depressed opposites beholds with scorn.
This well the author of The Medal knew,
When Oliver he for an hero drew.
He then swam with the tide, appeared a saint,
Garnished the devil with poetic paint.
When the tide turned, then straight about he veers,
And for the stronger side he still appears,
Then in heroics courts the great and high,
And at th' oppressed he lets his satyrs fly.
But he who stems the tide, if ground he gains,
Each stroke he makes must be with wond'rous pains:
If he bears up against the current still,
He shows at least he has some art and skill,
When against tide, wind, billows he does strive
And comes at last unto the shore alive.
Huzza, my friends! let us our way pursue,
And try what our poetic arms can do.
This latter age with wonders does abound;
Our prince of poets has a medal found,
From whence his pregnant fancy rears a piece
Esteemed to equal those of Rome and Greece.
With piercing eyes he does the medal view,
And there he finds, as he has told to you,
The hag Sedition, to the life displayed,
Under a statesman's gown (fancied or made,
That is all one, he doth it so apply);
At it th' artillery of his wit lets fly,
Lets go his satyr at the medal straight,
Worries the Whigs, and doth Sedition bait.
Let him go on, the Whigs the hag forsake;
Her cause they never yet would undertake,
But laugh to see the poet's fond mistake.
But we will turn the medal; there we see
Another hag, I think as bad as she;
If I am not mistaken, 'tis the same,
Christians of old did Persecution name;
That's still her name; though now, grown old and wise,
She has new names as well as new disguise.
Let then his satyr with Sedition fight,
And ours the whilst shall Persecution bite.
Two hags they are, who parties seem to make;
'Tis time for satyrs them to undertake.

See her true badge, a prison or the Tower;
For Persecution ever sides with power.
Our satyr dares not worry those he should;
But there are some felt, heard, and understood,
Who, substantives of power, stand alone,
And by all seeing men are too well known —
What steps they tread and whither 'tis they drive,
What measures take and by what arts they thrive.
But were these little tyrants underfoot,
How bravely o'er them could our satyr strut!
What characters, and justly, could he give,
Of men who scarcely do deserve to live!
Yet these are they some flatterers can court,
Who now are Persecution's great support.
We on the medal see the fatal Tower;
Truth must be silent, for we know their power:
Whilst they, without control, can show their hate,
And whom they please, with grinning satyrs bait.
This puts our satyr into fume and chafe;
He could bite sorely could he do it safe.
Since against such he dares not spend his breath,
Th'hag Persecution he will bait to death.

Old as the world almost, as old as Cain,
For by this hag was righteous Abel slain;
In tyrant's courts she ever doth abide,
Accompanied with Power, with Lust and Pride.
What she has done is to the world well known;
She always made the best of men to groan.
Her bloody arts are registered of old,
And all her cruel policies are told.
All that is past, our Muse shall let alone,
Pass foreign, and speak only of our own;
Our own a dear ugly hag, who now has power
To send to Tyburn, Newgate, or the Tower.

If power be in the multitude, not few,
They show that they have faith and reason too,
Leap not their bounds, nor do their power betray,
Since they to laws and government obey.
If other power they exercise, 'tis force,
Or rage, that seen in a wild headstrong horse,
The more he's spurred or reined, the more doth bound,
And leaves not till the rider's on the ground.
But far it seems from our almighty crowd
To boast their strength or be of power proud.
Their power they of old had fruitless tried
And therefore now take reason for their guide.
Nay, faith they have in their own juster cause,
In their dread sovereign, and his righteous laws;
This makes them thus submit, all power lay by;
For right, for law, for peace they only cry.
For this, by some, they are accounted fools;
So generous horses are mistook for mules,
And some court jockeys mount them in their pride
And with a satyr's heel spur-gall their hide;
Dull asses they suppose the people are,
Made for their burdens, and not fit for war.

All with the forewind of religious sail;
It to all parties is the common stale.
I know you'll grant the devil is no fool;
He can disguise in surplice, cloak, or cowl;
But still he may be known without dispute
By Persecution; 'tis his cloven foot.
Let him be Christian, Pagan, Turk, or Jew,
Pretends religious zeal, it can't be true
If't Persecution raises, or maintains,
Or makes a market of ungodly gains.
When Rome had power here and sat enchaired,
How cruel and how bloody she appeared!
Our Church Dissenters then did feel the same;
Their bodies served for fuel to the flame:
And can this church now got into the chair,
A cruel tyrant like to Rome appear?
For bare opinion do their brothers harm,
Plague and imprison, 'cause they can't conform!
— But stay; our church has law upon its side:
And so had Rome, that cannot be denied.
And if these Jehus, who so fiercely drive,
In their sinister arts proceed and thrive,
We soon shall see our church receive its doom
And feel again the tyranny of Rome.
To bar succession is th' ungodly sin,
So often broke, so often pieced ag'in:
O may it here in England never cease,
Could we but hope it would secure our peace!
But men with different thoughts possessed are;
We dread th' effects of a new civil war.
We dread Rome's yoke, to us 'tis hateful grown,
And Rome will seem a monster in our throne.

How rarely will a cope the throne bedeck?
A bishop's head set on a prince's neck?
Th' inherent right lies in the sovereign's sway,
But then the monarch must Rome's laws obey.
Head of the church he must no longer be,
But give that place unto Rome's Holy See.
Both of the church, and him, Rome will take care;
The throne must truckle under papal chair.

Kings can't do wrong, so does the maxim say,
But ministers of state, their servants, may.
Though kings themselves do sit above the law,
Justice still keeps their ministers in awe;
For if they do not make the law their guide,
Great as they are, by law they may be tried;
Else we should subject be to every ill,
And be made slaves to arbitrary will.
O happy isle where each man justice craves!
Kings can't be tyrants, nor the subjects slaves.
The laws some great ones fear, who rule the state;
When they can't new unto their wills create,
They to their minds, with cunning, try to mold,
And, with new images, to stamp the old:
What 'gainst dissenting Papists first was bent,
For Protestants now proves a punishment.
Law! Law! they cry, and then their brother smite,
As well upon the left side as the right;
To every jail the Protestants they draw,
And Persecution still is masked with law;
We do not know but Rome may have its turn,
And then it will be also law to burn.

This is not all; for some ill men there be,
Who would the laws use in a worse degree:
Treason and traitors, plots against the state,
To reach their foes, they cunningly create.
To prison then the innocent they draw,
And if they could, their heads would take by law;
But law is just, and Englishmen are good,
And do not love to dip their hands in blood
Of innocents. But this has raised the rage
Of some politic actors on our stage,
And, spite of justice, law, and reason too,
Their wicked ends by other means pursue.
Those men whom they can neither hang nor draw,
Freed by their country, justice, and the law,
They try to murder with an hireling's pen,
By making them the very worst of men.
They've orators and poets at their will,
Who, with their venom, strive their fames to kill.
These rack the laws and Holy Scriptures too,
And fain would make all the old treasons new.
They will not let the graves and tombs alone,
But conjure up the ghost of Forty-one.
With this they try the ignorant to scare,
For men are apt the worst of things to fear;
Though that ghost is no liker Eighty-two,
Than a good Christian like a Turk or Jew.

London, the happy bulwark of our isle,
No smooth and oily words can thee beguile;
Thou know'st thy int'rest, that will never lie;
Eternal as thyself, the men do die.
'Tis truth and justice do thee uphold,
And richer in religion than in gold;
Thy piety has built thy turrets higher
Than e'er, in spite of plague, of war, and fire.
Without a sigh, we can't think on the flame,
Nor by what hands, and from what heads, it came.
With envious eyes, they do thy riches view;
When old ways fail, to spoil thee they find new:
No art's untried which may thy coffers drain,
For which the subtle lawyer racks his brain.
Thy too old charters they will new arraign.
Thou must not think thou canst in safety stand
Whilst the false Canaanite swarms in the land.
Some state-physicians cry that thou art sick,
And on thee they would try some quacking trick;
As yet their poisonous drugs thou dost not need,
Nor does thy body want to purge or bleed.
Thy head, we hope, with loyalty is crowned,
Thy heart and entrails we do know are sound:
Thy hands are open, honest, free, and straight,
And all thy members pliable and neat.
All think you well in health, and sound within;
Though some few spots appear upon your skin,
They're but the purgings of the sounder part
And are at a great distance from the heart.
The wealthy love to thrive the surest way;
For gain perhaps they will like slaves obey,
Give up their charters, bend their necks, now free,
To servile yokes, and stoop to that degree
As to submit to Rome's cursed tyranny.
But sure the wise, and the religious too,
Will all the just and lawful ways pursue
To keep that freedom unto which they're born
And which so well doth Englishmen adorn;
Which our forefathers did preserve with care
And which we, next our souls, do hold most dear.
Let the hot Tories, and their poet, curse!
They spend in vain, and you are ne'er the worse.
Alas! they seem as only made to damn,
And then curse most when they have lost their sham;
They are true Shimeis, or the sons of Cham.
Their mouths are open sepulchers; their tongue,
With venom full, is ever speaking wrong.
With oaths and cursings, and with looking big,
They seek to fright some harmless, peaceful Whig;
Then boast the conquest, hector, rant, and tear,
And cry, " God-damn 'em! Protestants they are!
All the fanatics are a cursed crew,
Worse than the Papists, or the Moor, or Jew!
The City is a laystall full of mire,
And ought again to be new purged with fire! "
All honesty, all godliness they hate,
Love strife and war, contention and debate.
These are the men from whom much mischief springs,
Whilst their bad cause they falsely make the king's.
These wrong the king, and then to make amends,
With oaths declare they are his only friends;
But these are they who Coleman would outdo,
Blow up both kings and kingly power too.

For why is all this contest and this strife,
This struggling in the state, as 'twere for life,
When all men owned their enjoyed happiness,
And daily did their beloved monarch bless?
But these ill men all common roads forsake;
O'er hedges and through standing corn they break;
Though ill success they have, they will not cease
Till they have spoiled the nation's happy peace.
They see none to rebellion are inclined,
Yet plots they make, where plots they cannot find.
But their designs they did so idly frame,
The evil on their heads returned with shame;
And though they find their evil projects cursed,
They keep the impudence they had at first;
'Gainst honesty, law, reason, then they fight,
And falsely cry, the king can have no right.
The people of their judgment they bereave,
No proof, no circumstance will they believe,
Rebels and traitors they will still create,
And are men-catchers of the highest rate.
With regal rights, these men keep much ado;
But, with that stale, their own game they pursue.
Their monarch's safety, honor, fame, renown,
The great supports and jewels of the crown;
The people's love, their freedom, liberties,
Those they neglect, and these they do despise.
What e'er these men pretend, the juggling feat
Is plainly seen: 'tis to grow rich and great,
To rule, to sway, to govern as they please:
The people's grievance, and the land's disease.
All men that would oppose their pow'r and sway
And will not them, like galley-slaves, obey,
They brand with odious names — although they spring
From fathers ever loyal to their king;
Though they themselves sons of the church are known,
Would with their blood defend their monarch's throne,
And ready are their lives to sacrifice
For all their king's just rights, which much they prize.
But O the change that's now in England seen!
They who are loyal, and so e'er have been,
Because they will not serve sinister ends,
Are rebels called, at least called traitors' friends.
Thou wicked hag that now art armed with pow'r,
That wouldst men's souls and bodies both devour,
That now dost show thy bloody armed paws,
With malice armed, and with too rigid laws;
With what poetic curse shall I thee paint,
Who art a devil, yet appear'st a saint?
But vengeance for thee still in Heav'n there's store;
Though many bless and thee the Beast adore,
Thou'rt dyed with blood and art the Scarlet Whore.
O Persecution! thou'rt a goddess blind,
That never sparest any human kind;
In every country thou dost footing gain,
In all religions thou desir'st to reign,
But never wast admitted in the true.
Hence grow our tears, that here thou shouldst renew
Thy strength and power in this happy realm,
Our quiet and our peace to overwhelm;
When for some years thou hast been banished,
And Protestants believed thou hadst been dead;
Or that at least, we never more should fear
That thou shouldst live to show thy power here,
Unless (which Heav'n avert) that thou shouldst come
By force, brought in by the cursed power of Rome.
But grieved we are to see it in our age,
And fear it may a greater ill presage.
Prisons and fines the punishments are now,
But who knows what at last it may come to?
For this damned hag longs still for human food,
Ne'er satisfied till she is gorged with blood.
Well may the Papists, when they have their turn,
Rack and imprison, torture, hang, and burn;
When Protestants to Protestants do show
That, had they pow'r, themselves as much would do.
But let the busy ministers take care,
They do but vengeance for themselves prepare;
For in all ages it was ever known,
That God His vengeance on their heads poured down.

All but mere fools may easily foresee
What will the fatal end of these things be:
If one bigoted in the Romish way
Should once again the English scepter sway,
Then those who in the pulpit are so loud,
Preaching succession to the vulgar crowd,
Must change their croaking notes, their coats must turn;
Or, if prove honest, fly the land, or burn.
Whom benefit or ignorance engage
Now to the party, then shall feel the rage
Of those fierce tyrants, who now undermine
And, hidden, carry on their cursed design.
The proud usurping priest and popish knaves
Shall be your lords, and all the English slaves;
The nobles then must wear the Romish yoke,
Or heads submit unto the fatal stroke.
Oppression will grow bold, the tadpole priests
Shall lift above the lords their priestly crests.
T'attempt or struggle then will be in vain,
For Persecution will a tyrant reign;
Her fatal pow'r will then be understood,
And she will glut herself with martyr's blood.
The pope's supremacy shall then be shown,
No other head in England will be known.
Then shall a general curse flow through the land,
Lord against lord, friend against friend shall stand;
Till at the last, the crowd, in their defence,
Provoked to rage, arm 'gainst their popish prince.
With words no longer, but with arms they'll jar,
And England will be spoiled with civil war;
True peace and happiness so long shall want
Till she shall get a monarch Protestant.
Thus factious men to civil broils engage,
And with their ferment, make the crowd to rage.
Their madness they in others would increase,
Yet wipe their mouths and cry they are for peace;
For king, for regal rights, and true succession,
They in the people's ears still make profession;
Yet for one man, such friends they are, so civil,
They'd send almost three nations to the devil.
But there's no way these mischiefs to prevent,
Unless we have a healing parliament.
Of that these faulty men love not to hear;
They've much transgressed and much they have to fear.
Until that day, England will find no rest,
Though now she slumbers on her monarch's breast;
But then the nation will be truly blessed.