Whither, oh! whither must the Christian turn?
From whom in this momentous Crisis learn?
When shall the Church from worldly Pomps be freed?
What Champion equal to the Godlike Deed?
Oh! when shall we shake off the Papal Chain,
If William fought, and Smithfield blaz'd in vain?

On you, my Lord, we fix our ardent Eyes,
And Christendom to you for Succour flies;
To you the Church Her tow'ry Head inclines,
And begs Protection from your nervous Lines:
Fondly she glories in so warm a Son,
While half her Tribe to Idol--Altars run;
With Christian Zeal You lop the Hydra--Beast,
And from the Church divide the Selfish Priest:
Firm in Her Cause sustain Herculean Toils,
And save Her from Her own intestine Broils:
By GEORGE and You with silent Joy she sees,
Her Turrets thicken, and Her Foes decrease;
Alike all hostile Cunning she disdains,
Whilst or a Hoadly writes, or Brunswick Reigns.

The stiff Nonjuror in thy Mirrour Page,
Surveys His Image with impatient Rage,
Whose pious Outside, sanctify'd with Art,
Conceals the lurking Viper at His Heart;
Good--Will to all, the Villain--Saint pretends,
While ranc'rous Hate His vengeful Bosom rends.
Swoln and elated with Religious Pride,
He views as Atheists all the World beside:
His ostentatious Conscience he displays,
He fasts in Publick, and in Publick prays;
He bears a secret Grudge to human Race,
And insolently scants unmeasur'd Grace:
His Laymen--Victims in such Numbers fall,
Scarce Hell's wide Dungeons will contain them all.

The Wretch our fulsome Liberty disdains,
And swaggers in Hereditary Chains;
Demure of Aspect, with uplifted Hand,
He calls down Vengeance on his Native Land;
The Thought of Brunswick sets his Soul on Flame,
And his Breast swells with Madness at the Name.

Well didst thou, Cibber, show him on the Stage,
A Traytor, lustful, impotent of Rage,
Whom not one real Virtue does commend,
False to his Prince, ungrateful to his Friend;
The Specious Veil of Conscience you withdrew,
And sent the Monster forth to Publick View.

See! the rouz'd Genius of the Church arise!
See! Vengeance quicken in her glaring Eyes!
Around her Head she throws the twisting Snakes,
Her Welsh Blood kindles, and her Soul awakes,
Malignant Poison swells her Vip'rous Breast,
And all the Sacred Fury stands confess'd.

Across the Main in that Elysian Soil,
Where lavish Nature crowns the Farmer's Toil,
Where tow'ring Alps and Appennines are seen;
And Iusty Verdure cloaths the Plains between;
Deep in the silent Womb of Ancient Night,
Unknown for ever to the Dawn of Light;
The Goddess Priestcraft rules in Purple State,
And to the Neighb'ring Realms awards their Fate:
Sublime she sits upon a Throne of Gold,
And Reigns an Holy Tyrant uncontroul'd;
The Regal Scepter in one Hand she bears,
In one a pompous wavy Scroll appears;
Where Subject--Princes their Allegiance plight,
And Trent in Golden Cyphers greets the Sight;
From down her Shoulders to her Rev'rend Feet,
A Length of Consecrated Vestments meet:
Her Brow is Circled with a Triple Crown,
Kings court her Smile, and Europe dreads her Frown.

Around the Goddess waits a num'rous Band
Of bloody Fiends, and haste on each Command.

Here Inquisition sits, of monstrous Size,
And darts around her Pestilential Eyes;
With her foul Breath she taints the Sick'ning Air,
And wreaths in noisome Curls her Snaky Hair.
Her op'ning Jaws, arrang'd in Iron Rows,
A frightful Armory of Teeth disclose:
Her Robe is colour'd with a Crimson Flood,
And her huge Belly swags with Christian Blood;
Daggers and Whips her impious Hands sustain,
And all th'ingenious Instruments of Pain:
With Unity the Vocal Walls resound,
And Heresy lies grov'ling on the Ground.

Nearest to Her in all the spacious Cell,
Sits Bigotry, the Second--born of Hell;
Her Breast with a distemper'd Zeal is rent,
And rooted Pride, and pining Discontent:
Her scanty, narrow Soul disdains to see
Our Wills like our Complexions disagree;
In the same Track of Thought would goad Mankind,
And on the World impose one common Mind:
Wrapt in herself, and drunk with fond Conceit,
Nor knowing from Opinion to retreat.
To Argument she shuts her partial Sight,
And Demonstration sheds too dim a Light:
No Reason can her darkling Mind controul,
And intellectual Error shades her Soul.

Here Superstition, deck'd with gaudy Pride,
Attends the Goddess, like an Eastern Bride.
Her Robes with gorgeous Pageantry are wrought;
But fancy'd Terrors haunt her boding Thought.
Sham Miracles beyond what Poets feign;
And legendary Fables crowd her Brain.
Fantastick Visions rise before her Sight,
And all the empty Phantoms of the Night.
On meritorious Baubles she depends,
Of Sainted Ruffians, and departed Friends.
To Idol--Saints she lifts her earnest Eyes,
And on Ten Thousand Advocates relies.

Next in her Place Implicit Faith attends,
And solemnly before the Goddess bends.
Devoid of Eyes the monster--Fiend appears;
But well is that Defect supply'd with Thousand Ears:
To them she trusts with sanguine Confidence,
And yields to them each other passive Sense.
Absurdities for Gospel she receives,
And ev'n Impossibilities believes.

Hard by, her Sister Ignorance is seen,
With stupid Gaze, and indolent of Mien:
Her hoodwink'd Eyes are veil'd with solid Night,
And her Blood boils with Rancour and with Spight.
The greasy Beads she plies with restless Hands,
And mutters what herself not understands:

These, and a Thousand more of various Mien,
And various Aspect, wait the Fury QUEEN:
Hypocrisy assumes her awkard Guise,
She smites her Breast, and rolls her Saintly Eyes:
Pride, Avarice, Ambition, Rage, Deceit,
And tame Submission crouch beneath her Feet.
The Goddess casts around her haughty Look,
And on her Head the hissing Vipers shook:
Then thus began, in a distemper'd Tone,
Most venerably rising from her Throne.

''Still shall this Northern Heresy succeed,
''Nor Sword, nor Poison kill the baleful Weed?
''Still shall the hated Hoadly rise in Fame,
''And propagate his Doctrines with his Name?
''Still shall he Lord it with victorious Pride,
''And still in Triumph o'er our Barriers ride?
''Unpunish'd still shall he molest our Reign;
''Shall Hickes and Howell join their Force in vain:
''In vain shall Brett assert our dying Laws;
''In vain shall Johnson labour in our Cause?
''Johnson for us each human Cunning tries,
''Dispenses Oaths, and breaks thro' strongest Ties?
''English his Habit, but his Heart is mine;
''A Catholick and Orthodox Divine.
''Nor these alone in Albion's Isle confess
''Our ghostly Throne from Pulpit and the Press
''Unnumber'd Chieftains, at the Signal Word,
''Will shine in Armour, and unsheath the Sword:
''From the remotest Distances will come,
''To curb this haughty Prelate, Foe to Rome.

''Soon as To--Morrow's Dawn restores the Light,
''The English Synod summon all their Might;
''In close Debate to spend th'important Hours,
''And vindicate their sacred injur'd Powers.
''Thus then I purpose;--at Return of Day,
''Er'e the full Light has chas'd the Shades away,
''A chosen Spirit, turbulent, and loud,
''Shall wait and mingle in the Learned Crowd;
''Inflame their Councils with revengeful Ire,
''And with the Danger of the Church inspire.
''This Task, O Inquisition! shall be thine,
''The glorious Province I to thee assign:
''In the warm Junto bear no vulgar Part,
''Breath Rancour and Revenge in ev'ry Heart.
''Against the Prelate, with uncommon Zeal,
''Go bawl and thunder out the Sacred Weal;
''Awake to Vengeance each attentive Seer,
''And check his bold exorbitant Career:
''Call forth to Mind their glorious Actions past,
''When Laud or Bonner at the Helm were plac'd:
''Say how their ancient Liberties decay,
''Their Absolute Command and Priestly--Sway:
''Say how a Bishop has attack'd their Rights,
''And in his SAVIOUR's Cause unpunish'd fights;
''The Sov'reign Empire of the Keys reviles,
''And at their Charter of Damnation smiles:
''And how the contumacious Layman--Elf,
''Usurps a Power of Judging for himself.

''If Reason fail, let Censures be apply'd,
''And let him feel those Powers he half decry'd:
''Strike boldly, and with one decisive Blow,
''The Popular Arch--Heretick o'erthrow;
''But strike with Caution, and dissembled Love,
''And change awhile the Scorpion for the Dove.
''Alone his vicious Principles arraign,
''Respect and Honour for his Person feign:
''With seeming Grief the fatal Cause bewail;
''And, surer to betray, first Kiss and Hail.
''Stripp'd of his Lawn, in vain shall he relent,
''And of his Daring, when too late, repent.

She spoke; and smiling like old Chaos seem'd,
When the first Spark thro' sullen Darkness gleam'd:
The future Mischief sparkles in her Eyes,
And savage Transports in her Breast arise:
When Inquisition rose, with Vengeance stung,
The Snakes in Curls a--down her Shoulders hung:
On Daemon--Wings she reach'd the Coasts of Day,
And shap'd to Albion's chalky Cliffs her Way.