This hellish Ethnick Plot the Court alarms;
The Traytors seventy thousand strong in Arms,
Near Endor Town lay ready at a Call,
And garrison’d in Airy Castles all.
These Warriours on a sort of Coursers rid,
Ne’r log’d in Stables, or by Man bestrid.
What though the steele with which the Rebels fought,
No Forge e’re felt, or Anvile ever wrought?
Yet this Magnetick Plot, for black Designs,
Can raise cold Iron from the very Mines.
To this were twenty Under-plots, contriv’d
By Malice, and by Ignorance believ’d,
Till Shamms met Shamms, and Plots with Plots so crost,
That the True Plot amongst the False was lost.
Of all the much-wrong’d Worthies of the Land
Whom this Contagious Infamy profan’d,
In the first Rank the youthful Ithream stood,
His Princely Veins fill’d with great Davids Blood.
With so much Manly Beauty in his Face,
Scarce his High Birth could lend a Nobler Grace.
And for a Mind fit for this shrine of Gold
Heaven cast his Soul in the same Beauteous Mould;
With all the sweets of Prideless Greatness blest,
As Affable as Abrahams Angel-Guest.
But when in Wars his glittering Steel he drew,
No Chief more Bold with fiercer Lightning flew:
45 Witness his tryal of an Arm Divine,
Passing the Ordeal of a Burning Mine:
Such forward Courage did his Bosome fill,
Starting from nothing, but from doing ill.
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Still with such Heat in Honours Race he run, Such Wonders by his early Valour done, Enough to charm a second Joshua’s Sun. | } |
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But he has Foes; his fatal Enemies To a strange Monster his Fair Truth disguise; And shew the Gorgon even to Royal Eyes. | } |
To their false perspectives his Fate he owes,
The spots i’th’ Glass, not in the Star it shows.
Yet when by the Imperial Sentence doom’d,
The Royal Hand the Princely Youth unplum’d,
He his hard Fate without a Murmur took,
And stood with that Calm, Duteous, Humble look.
Of all his shining Honours unarray’d,
Like Isaac’s Head on Abrahams Altar lay’d.
Yes, Absolom, thou hast him in the Toyl,
Rifled, and lost; now Triumph in the Spoyl.
His Zeal too high for Israels Temples soar’d,
His God-like Youth by prostrate Hearts ador’d,
Till thy Revenge from Spight and Fear began,
And too near Heaven took Care to make him Man.
Though Israels King, God, Laws, share all his Soul,
Adorn’d with all that Heroes can enrol,
Yet Vow’d Successions cruel Sacrifice,
Great Judah’s Son like Jeptha’s Daughter dies.
Yes, like a Monument of Wrath he stands;
Such Ruine Absolons Revenge demands;
His Curiosity his Doom assign’d:
For ’twas a Crime of as destructive Kind,
To pry how Babylons Burning Zeal aspires,
As to look back on Sodoms blazing Fires.
But spoyl’d, and rob’d, his drossier Glories gone,
His Virtue and his Truth are still his own.
No rifling Hands can that bright Treasure take,
Nor all his Foes that Royal Charter shake.
The dreadful’st Foe their Engines must subdue,
The strongest Rock through which their Arts must hew,
Was great Barzillai: could they reach his Head,
Their Fears all husht, they had strook Danger dead.
46 That second Moses-Guide resolv’d to free
Our Israel from her threatning Slavery,
Idolatry and Chains; both from the Rods
Of Pharoh-Masters, and Egyptian Gods:
And from that Wilderness of Errour freed,
Where Dogstars scorch, and killing Serpents breed:
That Israels Liberty and Truth may grow,
The Canaan whence our Milk and Honey flow.
Such our Barzillai; but Barzillai too,
With Moses Fate does Moses Zeal pursue:
Leads to that Bliss which his own Silver Hairs
Shall never reach, Rich onely to his Heirs.
Kind Patriot, who to plant us Banks of Flow’rs,
With purling Streams, cool Shades, and Summer Bow’rs,
His Ages needful Rest away does fling,
Exhausts his Autumn to adorn our Spring:
Whilst his last hours in Toyls and Storms are hurl’d,
And onely to enrich th’inheriting World.
Thus prodigally throws his Lifes short span,
To play his Countries generous Pelican.
But oh, that all-be-devill’d Paper, fram’d
No doubt, in Hell; that Mass of Treason damn’d;
By Esau’s Hands, and Jacobs Voice disclos’d;
And timely to th’ Abhorring World expos’d.
Nay, what’s more wondrous, this wast-paper Tool,
A nameless, unsubscrib’d, and useless scrowl,
Was, by a Politician great in Fame,
(His Chains foreseen a Month before they came)
Preserv’d on purpose, by his prudent care,
To brand his Soul, and ev’n his Life ensnare.
But then the Geshuritish Troop, well-Oath’d,
And for the sprucer Face, well-fed, and Cloath’d.
These to the Bar Obedient Swearers go,
With all the Wind their manag’d Lungs can blow.
So have I seen from Bellows brazen Snout,
The Breath drawn in, and by th’same Hand squeez’d out.
But helping Oaths may innocently fly,
When in a Faith where dying Vows can lye.
Were Treason and Democracie his Ends,
Why was’t not prov’d by his Revolting Friends?
Why did not th’ Oaths of his once-great Colleagues,
Achitophel and the rest prove his Intreagues?
47 Why at the Bar appear’d such sordid scum,
And all those Nobler Tongues of Honour dumb?
Could he his Plots t’his great Allies conceal,
He durst to leaky Starving Wretches tell;
Such Ignorant Princes, and such knowing Slaves;
His Babel building Tools from such poor Knaves.
Were he that Monster his new Foes would make
Th’unreasoning World beleive, his Soul so black,
That they in Conscience did his Side forego,
Knowing him guilty they could prove him so.
Then ’twas not Conscience made ’em change their side.
Or if they knew, yet did his Treasons hide;
In not exposing his detested Crime,
They’re greater Monsters than they dare think Him.
Are these the Proselites renown’d so high,
Converts to Duty, Honour, Loyalty?
Poorly they change, who in their change stand mute:
Converts to Truth ought Falsehood to confute.
To conquering Truth, they but small glory give,
Who turn to God, yet let the Dagon live.
But who can Amiels charming Wit withstand,
The great State-pillar of the Muses Land.
For lawless and ungovern’d, had the Age
The Nine wild Sisters seen run mad with Rage,
Debaucht to Savages, till his keen Pen
Brought their long banisht Reason back again,
Driven by his Satyres into Natures Fence,
And lasht the idle Rovers into Sense.
Nay, his sly Muse, in Style Prophetick, wrot
The whole Intrigue of Israels Ethnick Plot;
Form’d strange Battalions, in stupendious-wise,
Whole Camps in Masquerade, and Armies in disguise.
Amiel, whose generous Gallantry, whilst Fame
Shall have a Tongue, shall never want a Name.
Who, whilst his Pomp his lavish Gold consumes,
Moulted his Wings to lend a Throne his Plumes,
Whilst an Ungrateful Court he did attend,
Too poor to pay, what it had pride to spend.
But, Amiel has, alas, the fate to hear,
An angry Poet play his Chronicler;
48 A Poet rais’d above Oblivions Shade,
By his Recorded Verse Immortal made.
But, Sir, his livelier Figure to engrave,
With Branches added to the Bays you gave:
No Muse could more Heroick Feats rehearse,
Had with an equal all-applauding Verse,
Great Davids Scepter, and Sauls Javelin prais’d:
A Pyramide to his Saint, Interest, rais’d.
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For which Religiously no Change he mist, From Common-wealths-man up to Royalist: Nay, would have been his own loath’d thing call’d Priest. | } |
Priest, whom with so much Gall he does describe,
’Cause once unworthy thought of Levies Tribe.