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Thy towring Glorie’s levell’d to the ground; A stroke does all thy Tongues of Fame confound, And, Traitor, now is all the Voice they sound. | } |
True, thou hadst Law; that even thy Foes allow;
But to thy Advocates, as damn’d as Thou,
’Twas Death to plead it. Artless Absolon
The Bloody Banner to display so soon:
Such killing Beams from thy young Day-break shot;
What will the Noon be, if the Morn’s so hot?
Yes, dreadful Heir, the Coward Hebron awe.
So the young Lion tries his tender Paw.
At a poor Herd of feeble Heifers flies,
Ere the rough Bear, tusk’d Boar, or spotted Leopard dies.
Thus flusht, great Sir, thy strength in Israel try:
When their Cow’d Sanedrims shall prostrate lye,
And to thy feet their slavish Necks shall yield;
Then raign the Princely Savage of the Field.
29 Yes, Israels Sanedrin, ’twas they alone
That set too high a Value on a Throne;
Thought they had a God was Worthy to be serv’d;
A Faith maintain’d, and Liberty preserv’d.
And therefore judg’d, for Safety and Renown
Of Israels People, Altars, Laws and Crown,
Th’Anointing Drops on Royal Temples shed
Too precious Showrs for an Apostates Head.
Then was that great Deliberate Councel giv’n,
An Act of Justice both to Man and Heav’n,
Israels conspiring Foes to overthrow,
That Absolon should th’Hopes of Crowns forego.
Debarr’d Succession! oh that dismal sound!
A sound, at which Baal stagger’d, and Hell groan’d;
A sound that with such dreadful Thunder falls,
’Twas heard even to Semiramis trembling Walls.
But hold! is this the Plots last Murd’ring Blow,
The dire divorce of Soul and Body? No.
The mangled Snake, yet warm, to Life they’ll bring,
And each disjoynted Limb together cling.
Then thus Baals wise consulting Prophets cheer’d
Their pensive Sons, and call’d the scatter’d Herd.
Are we quite ruin’d! No, mistaken Doom,
Still the great Day, yes that great Day shall come,
(Oh, rouse our fainting Sons, and droop no more.)
A Day, whose Luster, our long Clouds blown o’re,
Not all the Rage of Israel shall annoy,
No, nor denouncing Sanedrims destroy.
See yon North-Pole, and mark Boötes Carr:
Oh! we have those Influencing Aspects there,
Those Friendly pow’rs that drive in that bright Wain,
Shall redeem All, and our lost Ground regain.
Whilst to our Glory their kind Aid stands fast,
But one Plot more, our Greatest and our Last.
Now for a Product of that subtle kind,
As far above their former Births refin’d,
As Firmamental Fires t’a Tapers ray,
Or Prodigies to Natures common Clay.
30 Empires in Blood, or Cities in a Flame,
Are work for vulgar Hands, scarce worth a Name.
A Cake of Shew-bread from an Altar ta’ne,
Mixt but with some Levitical King-bane,
Has sent a Martyr’d Monarch to his Grave.
Nay, a poor Mendicant Church-Rake-hell slave
Has stab’d Crown’d Heads; slight Work to hands well-skill’d,
Slight as the Pebble that Goliah kill’d.
But to make Plots no Plots, to clear all Taints,
Traitors transform to Innocents, Fiends to Saints,
Reason to Nonsence, Truth to Perjury;
Nay, make their own attesting Records lye,
And even the gaping Wounds of Murder whole:
If this last Masterpiece requires a Soul.
Guilt to unmake, and Plots annihilate,
Is much a greater work than to create.
Nay both at once to be, and not to be,
Is such a Task would pose a Deity.
Let Baal do this, and be a God indeed:
Yes, this Immortal Honour ’tis decreed,
His Sanguine Robe though dipt in reeking Gore,
With purity and Innocence all o’re,
Shall dry, and spotless from the purple hue,
The Miracle of Gideons Fleece outdo.
Yes, they’re resolv’d, in all their foes despight,
To wash their more than Ethiop Treason White.
But now for Heads to manage the Design,
Fit Engineers to labour in this Mine.
For their own hands ’twere fatal to employ:
Should Baal appear, it would Baals Cause destroy.
Alas, should onely their own Trumpets sound
Their Innocence, the jealous Ears around
All Infidels would the loath’d Charmer fly,
And through the Angels voice the Fiend descry.
No, this last game wants a new plotting Set,
And Israel only now can Israel cheat.
In this Machine their profest Foes must move,
Whilst Baal absconding sits in Clouds above,
From whence unseen he guides their bidden way:
For he may prompt, although he must not play.
31 This to effect a sort of Tools they find,
Devotion-Rovers, an Amphibious Kind,
Of no Religion, yet like Walls of Steel
Strong for the Altars where their Princes kneel.
Imperial not Celestial is their Test,
The Uppermost, indisputably Best.
They always in the golden Chariot rod,
Honour their Heav’n, and Interest their God.
Of these then subtil Caleb none more Great,
Caleb who shines where his lost Father set;
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Got by that sire, who not content alone, To shade the brightest Jewel in a Crown, Preaching Ingratitude t’a Court and Throne; | } |
But made his Politicks the baneful Root
From whence the springing Woes of Israel shoot,
When his Great Masters fatal Gordian tyed,
He lai’d the barren Michal by his side;
That the ador’d Absolons immortal Line
Might on Judeas Throne for ever shine.