37 For this Design no Head nor Tongue so well,
As that of the profound Achitophel.
How, great Achitophel! his Hand, his Tongue!
Babylons Mortal Foe; he who so long
With haughty Sullenness, and scornful Lowr,
Had loath’d false Gods, and Arbitrary pow’r.
’Gainst Baal no Combatant more fierce than he;
For Israels asserted Liberty,
No Man more bold; with generous Rage enflam’d,
Against the old ensnaring Test declaim’d.
Beside, he bore a most peculiar Hate
To sleeping Pilots, all Earth-clods of State.
None more abhorr’d the Sycophant Buffoon,
And Parasite, th’excrescence of a Throne;
Creatures who their creating Sun disgrace,
A Brood more abject than Niles Slime-born Race.
Such was the Brave Achitophel; a Mind,
(If but the Heart and Face were of a kind)
So far from being by one base Thought deprav’d,
That sure half ten such Souls had Sodom sav’d.
Here Baals Cabal Achitophel survey’d,
And dasht with wonder, half despairing said,
Is this the Hand that Absolon must Crown,
The Founder of his Temples, Palace, Throne?
This, This the mighty Convert we must make?
Gods, h’has a Soul not all our Arts can shake.
At this a nicer graver Head stept out,
And with this Language chid their groundless Doubt:
For shame, no more; what is’t that frights you thus?
Is it his Hatred of our God, and us,
Makes him so formidable in your Eye?
Or is’t his Wit, Sense, Honour, Bravery?
Give him a thousand Virtues more, and plant
Them round him like a Wall of Adamant,
Strong as the Gates of Heaven; we’ll reach his Heart:
Cheer, cheer, my Friends, I’ve found one Mortal part.
For he has Pride, a vast insatiate Pride,
Kind Stark, he’s vulnerable on that side.
Pride that made Angels fall, and pride that hurl’d
Entayl’d Destruction through a ruin’d World.
38 Adam from Pride to Disobedience ran:
To be like Gods, made a lost wretched Man.
There, there, my Sons, let our pour’d strength all fly:
For some bold Tempter now to rap him high,
From Pinnacles to Mountain Top, and show
The gaudy Glories of the World below.
At which the Consult came to this Design,
To work him by a kind of Touch Divine.
To raise some holy Spright to do the Feat.
Nothing like Dreams and Visions to the Great.
Did not a little Witch of Endor bring
A Visionary Seer t’a cheated King?
And shall their greater Magick want Success,
Their more Illustrious Sorceries do less!
This final Resolution made, at last
Some Mystick words, and invocations past,
They call’d the Spirit of a late Court-Scribe;
Once a true Servant of the Plotting Tribe:
When both with Forreign and Domestick Cost,
He plaid the feasted Sanedrims kind Host.
H’had scribbled much, and like a Patriot bold,
Bid high for Israels Peace with Egypts Gold.
But since a Martyr. (Why! as Writers think,
His Masters Hand had over-gall’d his Ink.)
And by protesting Absoloms wise care,
Popt into Brimstone ere he was aware.
Him from the Grave they rais’d, in ample kind,
His sever’d Head to his seer Quarters joyn’d;
Then cas’d his Chin in a false Beard so well,
As made him pass for Father Samuel.
Him thus equipt in a Religious Cloak,
They thus his new-made Reverence bespoke.
Go, awful Spright, hast to Achitophel,
Rouze his great Soul, use every Art, Charm, Spell:
For Absolom thy utmost Rhetorick try,
Preach him Succession, roar’d Succession cry,
Succession drest in all her glorious pride,
Succession Worshipt, Sainted, Deify’d.
39 Conjure him by Divine and Humane Pow’rs,
Convince, Convert, Confound, make him but ours,
That Absolon may mount on Judahs Throne,
Whilst all the World before us is our own.
The forward Spright but few Instructions lackt,
Strait by the Moons pale light away he packt,
And in a trice, his Curtains open’d wide,
He sate him by Achitophels Bed-side.
And in this style his artful Accents ran.
Hear Israels Hope, thou more than happy Man,
Beloved on high, witness this Honour done
By Father Samuel, and believe me, Son,
’Tis by no common Mandate of a God,
A Soul beatifyed, the blest Abode
Thus low deserting, quits Immortal Thrones,
And from his Grave resumes his sleeping Bones.
But Heavn’s the Guide, and wondrous is the way,
Divine the Embassie: hear, and obey.
How long, Achitophel, and how profound
A Mist of Hell has thy lost Reason drown’d?
Can the Apostacy from Israels Faith,
In Israels Heir, deserve a murmuring Breath?
Or to preserve Religion, Liberty,
Peace, Nations, Souls, is that a Cause so high,
As the Right Heir from Empire to debar?
Forbid it Heav’n, and guard him every Star.
Alas, what if an Heir of Royal Race,
Gods Glory and his Temples will deface,
And make a prey of your Estates, Lives, Laws;
Nay, give your Sons to Molocks burning paws;
Shall you exclude him? hold that Impious Hand.
As Abraham gave his Son at Gods Command,
Think still he does by Divine Right succeed:
God bids Him Reign, and you should bid Them Bleed.
’Tis true, as Heav’ns Elected Flock, you may
For his Conversion, and your Safety pray
But Pray’rs are all. To Disinherit him,
The very Thought, nay, Word it self’s a Crime.
For that’s the MEANS of Safety: but forbear,
For Means are Impious in the Sons of Pray’r.
40 To Miracles alone your Safety owe;
And Abrahams Angel wait to stop the Blow.
Yes, what if his polluted Throne be strowd
With Sacriledge, Idolatry, and Blood;
And ’tis you mount him there; you’re innocent still:
For he’s a King, and Kings can do no ill.
Oh Royal Birthright, ’tis a Sacred Name:
Rowze then Achitophel, rowze up for shame:
Let not this Lethargy thy Soul benum;
But wake, and save the Godlike Absolom.
And to reward thee for a Deed so great
Glut thy Desires, thy full-crown’d wishes meet,
Be with accumulated Honours blest,
And grasp a STAR t’adorn thy shining Crest.
Achitophel before his Eyes could ope,
Dreamt of an Ephod, Mitre, and a Cope.
Those visionary Robes t’his Eyes appear’d:
For Priestly all was the great Sense he heard.
But Priest or Prophet, Right Divine, or all
Together; ’twas not at their feebler call,
’Twas at the Star he wak’d; the Star but nam’d,
Flasht in his Eyes, and his rowz’d Soul enflam’d.
A Star, whose Influence had more powerful Light,
Then that Miraculous Wanderer of the Night,
Decreed to guide the Eastern Sages way:
Their’s to adore a God, his to betray.
Here the new Convert more than half inspir’d,
Strait to his Closet and his Books retir’d.
There for all needful Arts in this extreme,
For knotty Sophistry t’a limber Theme,
Long brooding ere the Mass to Shape was brought,
And after many a tugging heaving Thought,
Together a well-orderd Speech he draws,
With ponderous Sounds for his much-labour’d Cause.
Then the astonisht Sanedrim he storm’d,
And with such doughty strength the Tug perform’d:
Fate did the Work with so much Conquest bless,
Wondrous the Champion, Glorious the Success.
So powerful Eloquence, so strong was Wit;
And with such Force the easie Wind-falls hit.
41 But the entirest Hearts his Cause could steal,
Were the Levitick Chiefs of Israel.
None with more Rage the Impious Thought run down
Of barring Absolon, Pow’r, Wishes, Crown.
With so much vehemence, such fiery Zeal!
Oh, poor unhappy Church of Israel!
Thou feelst the Fate of the Arch-angels Wars,
The Dragons Tayl sweeps down thy Falling Stars.
Nay, the black Vote ’gainst Absolon appear’d
So monstrous, that they damn’d it ere ’twas heard.
For Prelates ne’r in Sanedrims debate,
They argue in the Church, but not i’th’ State;
And when their Thoughts aslant towards Heav’n they turn,
They weigh each Grain of Incense that they burn,
But t’Heavens Vice-gerents, Soul, Sense, Reason, all,
Or right or wrong, like Hecatombs must fall.
And when State-business calls their Thoughts below,
Then like their own Church-Organ-Pipes they go.
Not Davids Lyre could more his Touch obey:
For as their Princes breathe and strike, they play.