The Methodist

by Evan Lloyd

Rome, city of imperial worth,
The mighty mistress of the earth;
Rome, that gave law to all the world,
Is now to blank Destruction hurl’d!—
Is now a sepulchre, a tomb,
To tell the stranger, “Here was Rome.”—

View the West Abbey! there we see
How frail a thing is royalty!
Where crowns and sceptres worms supply,
And kings and queens, like lumber lie.
The Tombs themselves are worn away,
And own the empire of Decay,
Mouldering like the royal dust,
Which to preserve they have in trust.
Nor has the Marble more withstood
The rage of Time, than Flesh and Blood!
The King of Stone is worn away,
As well as is the King of Clay—
Here lies a King without a Nose,
And there a Prince without his Toes;
Here on her back a Royal Fair
Lies, but a little worse for wear;
Those lips, whose touch cou’d almost turn
Old age to youth, and make it burn;
To which young kings were proud to kneel,
Are kick’d by every Schoolboy’s heel;
Struck rudely by the Showman’s Wand,
And crush’d by every callous Hand:
Here a puissant Monarch frowns
In menace high to rival Crowns;
He threatens—but will do no harm—
Our Monarch has not left an arm.
Thus all Things feel the gen’ral curse,
That all Things must with Time grow worse.

But your Philosophers will say,
Best Things grow worst when they decay.
And many facts they have at hand
To prove it, shou’d you proofs demand.
As if Corruption shut her jaw,
And scorn’d to cram her filthy maw,
With aught but dainties rich and rare,
And morsels of the choicest fare;
As garden Birds are led to bite,
Where’er the fairest fruits invite.
If Phœbus’ rays too fiercely burn,
The richest Wines to sourest turn:
And they who living highly fed,
Will breed a Pestilence when dead.
Thus Aldermen, who at each Feast,
Cram Tons of Spices from the East,
Whose leading wish, and only plan,
Is to learn how to pickle Man;
Who more than vie with Ægypt’s art,
And make themselves a human Tart,
A walking Pastry-Shop, a Gut,
Shambles by Wholesale to inglut;
And gorge each high-concocted Mess
The art of Cookery can dress:
Yet spite of all, when Death thinks fit
To take them off, lest t’ other bit
Shou’d burst these living Mummies, able
Neither to eat, nor quit the Table;
Whether He Dropsy sends or Gout,
To fetch them by the Shoulders out;
Tho’ living they were Salt and Spice,
The carcase is not over nice;
And all may find, who have a Nose,
Dead Aldermen are not a rose.

This reas’ning only serves to shew,
The world call’d Natural, is so.
But various instances proclaim,
’Tis in the moral World the same.
Thus Woman, Nature’s chastest work,
Lust-struck, out-paramours the Turk;
Tho’ gentle as the suckling Child,
Enrag’d, than famish’d Wolves more wild;
A more fell minister of Death—
Rime gives the instance in Mackbeth.

Reason herself, that sober Dame,
So mild, so temperate, so tame,
Her head once turn’d, and giddy grown,
Raving with phrenzy not her own,
Plays madder pranks, more full of spleen
Than any Hoyden of sixteen.
Whether she burns with Love or Hate,
Or grows with baseless Hopes elate,
With Desperation is forlorn,
Or with imagin’d horrors torn,
If on Ambition’s swelling tide,
Her crazy bark from side to side,
Reels like a drunkard, tempest-tost,
Or in the Gulph of Pride is lost;
Whate’er the leading Passion be,
That works the Soul’s anxiety,
In each Extreme th’ effect is bad,
Sense grows diseas’d, and Reason mad.

Why shou’d the Muse of Angels tell
Turn’d into Devils when they fell?
Why search the Chronicles of Hell,
While Earth examples it as well?
Why talk of Satan, while we see
Each day some new Apostacy?
Tories to Whigs convert, and Whigs,
Mere Ministerial Whirlegigs,
Turn’d by the hand of Int’rest, take
The Tory-part, for Lucre’s sake.
Patriots turn Placemen, and support
Against their Country’s good the Court;
Are bought with Pensions to retire,
When drooping Kingdoms most require
Their aid——Tho’ here the Muse wou’d fain
Except ONE of the pension’d Train,
(One meritorious ’bove the rest,
A patriot Minister, confest)
Yet strictest honour can’t acquit
That Pensioner, who once was P——.
Instance on instance to my view
Come rushing, of the changeling crew,
That I could quarrel with my Nature,
To think that Man is such a Creature—
And are we all a fickle tribe,
Venal to ev’ry golden bribe?
Is there not one of honour found,
In all the List of Placemen found?
Yes—one there is, in perils tried,
Yet never known to change his Side,
Or Principles—nor think it strange,
He ne’er had Principles to change,
And for a Side (the proof is new)
He’s none, because that he has two.
Throw him from Party’s giddy heights,
A Cat in Politics he lights
Ever upon his feet; his heart
Clings both to Whig and Tory-part;
Is this, is that, is both, or neither,
And still keeps shifting with the Weather.
Who does not know that T—s—d’s he,
That reads the Book of Ministry?

Thus let us turn where’er we will,
Each Machiavel’s a Changeling still.
But tho’ among all Nature’s works
The seed of foul Corruption lurks,
Yet no where is it known to bear
So vile a Crop on Ground so fair,
As when upon Religion’s root
It raises Diabolic Fruit.

When the Almighty Father’s Love
Call’d Things to Being, from above
Millions of winged Blessings flew,
Sent from his right hand, to bedew
The new-born Earth, and from their wings
Shed good on all created Things.
Precious and various tho’ the store
Which down to Earth these Legates bore,
That Heav’nly Spark we Reason call,
Was far the richest boon of all.

By this we find th’ Almighty Cause
From whom the World its Being draws;
By whom Earth’s plenteous Table’s spread,
At which each living Creature’s fed;
Who gave the Breath of Life, and whence
This fine Variety of Sense;
Whose Hands unfold the azure sky,
Sublimely pleasing to the Eye;
Who tun’d the feather’d Songster’s throat,
Giving such softness to his note,
To fill the Ear with dulcet sound,
And pour sweet Music all around;
Who on the teeming Branches plac’d
Such various Fruit to please the Taste;
What bounteous Hand perfum’d the Rose,
And ev’ry scented Flow’r that blows,
And wafts its fragrance thro’ the Vale,
Courting the Smell in ev’ry gale,
To whom it is we owe so much
Substantial pleasure in the Touch;
And whence, superior to the whole,
Those raptures that transport the Soul;
This gives our Gratitude to glow
To him, from whom such Blessings flow;
This teaches Man his moral Part,
And grafts Religion in the Heart.

Glory to God, good Will to Man,
And Peace on Earth, compos’d the plan,
For which Religion first came down,
And brought to Earth a heav’nly Crown.
Better her Purpose to complete,
And Satan’s Malice to defeat,
A Troop of holy Genii came,
Co-workers in the glorious Scheme.
To each a scroll the Goddess gave,
On which these lines She did engrave:
“Go, teach the sons of Men to raise
Their voice unto their Maker’s praise.
Go, call forth Charity to meet
Distress that seeks her in the Street;
Bid her the lame with Legs supply,
And be unto the blind an Eye;
A Mantle o’er the naked throw,
And reach a healing hand to Woe;
Visit the bed where Sickness lies,
And wipe the tears from Orphans eyes;
Bid her Affliction’s hour beguile,
And teach the tear-worn Cheek to smile;
Bid her send Comfort to expell
Grief from the lonely Widow’s Cell;
Make blunt the arrows of Mischance,
And ope the eyes of Ignorance;
To those lost Pilgrims point the Way,
Who in Sin’s tenfold Darkness stray,
Recall them from Hell’s thickest night,
And shew Salvation’s glorious Light;
For thus the World that Peace shall find,
For which it was by God design’d.”—