While in fuch Numbers you, in such a strain
Inflame their courage, and reward their pain.
Let falfe Achitophel the rout engage,
Talk eafie Abfalom to rebel rage;

Let frugal Shimei curfe in holy Zeal,
Or modeft Corah more new Plots reveal;
Whilft conftant to himself, fecure of fate,
Good David ftill maintains the Royal State;
Tho' cach in vain fuch various ills employs,
Firmly he ftands, and even those ills enjoys;
Firm as fair Albion midft the raging Main
Surveys encircling danger with disdain.

In vain the Waves affault the unmov'd fhore,
In vain the Winds with mingled fury rore,
Fair Albion's beauteous Cliffs fhine whiter than
before.

Nor fhalt thou move, tho' Hell thy fall confpire,
Tho' the worse rage of Zeal's Fanatick Fire;
Thou beft, thou greateft of the British Race,
Thou only fit to fill Great Charles's Place.

Ah wretched Britains! ah too ftubborn Isle!
Ah ftiff-neck'd Ifrael on bleft Canaan's Soil!
Are those dear Proofs of Heaven's Indulgence vain,
Reftoring David and his gentle Reign?

Is it in vain thou all the Goods doft know
Aufpicious Stars on Mortals fhed below,

While all thy Streams with Milk, thy Lands with

Honey flow?

with S

No more, fond, Ifle! no more thy self engage,
In civil Fury, and inteftine Rage:

No rebel Zeal thy duteous Land moleft;
But a smooth Calm footh every peaceful Breaft,
While in fuch charming Notes divinely fings,
The beat of Poets, of the best of Kings.

J. ADANG

THE

MEDAL L ASATYR against SEDITION.

F all our Antick Sights, and Pageantry

fee,

The Polish Medal bears the prize alone:
A Monster, more the Favourite of the Town
Than either Fairs or Theatres have shown.
Never did Art fo well with Nature ftrive;
Nor ever Idol feem'd fo much alive :
So like the Man; fo golden to the fight,
So bafe within, so counterfeit and light.
One fide is fill'd with Title and with Face;
And, left the King shou'd want a regal Place,
On the Reverse, a Tow'r the Town furveys;
O'er which our mounting Sun his Beams difplays.
The Word, pronounc'd aloud by Shrieval Voice,
Latamur, which, in Polish, is rejoice.

The Day, Month, Year, to the great A&t are join'd:
And a new Canting Holiday defign'd.

Five days he fate, for every caft and look;
Four more than God to finish Adam took.
But who can tell what Effence Angels are,
Or how long Heav'n was making Lucifer
O, cou'd the Stile that copy'd every grace,
And plough'd fuch Furrows for an Eunuch Face,
Cou'd it have form'd his ever-changing Will,
The various Piece had tir'd the Graver's Skill!
A Martial Heroe firft, with early Care,
Blown, like a Pigmee by the Winds, to War.

A beardless Chief, a Rebel, e'er a Man:
(So young his hatred to his Prince began.)
Next this, (How wildly will Ambition fteer!)
A Vermin, wriggling in th' Ufurper's Ear.
Bart'ring his venal Wit for fums of Gold,
He caft himself into the Saint-like Mould;
Groan'd, figh'd and pray'd,while Godliness was gain
The lowdeft Bagpipe of the squeaking Train.
But, as 'tis hard to cheat a Juggler's Eyes,
His open lewdnefs he cou'd ne'er disguise,
There fplit the Saint: For Hypocritick Zeal
Allows no Sins but thofe it can conceal.
Whoring to Scandal gives too large a scope:
Saints must not trade; but they may interlope.
Th'ungodly Principle was all the fame;
But a grofs Cheat betrays his Partner's Game.
Befides, their pace was formal, grave and flack ::
His nimble Wit outran the heavy Pack.
Yet ftill he found his Fortune at a stay; :
Whole droves of Blockheads choaking up his way
They took, but not rewarded, his Advice;
Villain and Wit exact a double price. -

Pow'r was his Aim: but, thrown from that pretence,
The Wretch turn'd Loyal in his own Defence;
And Malice reconcil'd him to his Prince.
Him, in the anguish of his Soul he ferv'd;
Rewarded fafter ftill than he deferv'd.
Behold him now exalted into truft;
His Counsel's oft convenient, feldom juft.
Ev'n in the moft fincere Advice he gave
He had a grudging still to be a Knave.
The Frauds he learnt in his Fanatick Years,
Made him uneafie in his lawful Gears.
At beft as little honeft as he cou'd:

And, like white Witches, mifchievously Good.
To his firft Biafs, longingly he leans;
And rather wou'd be great by wicked Means.
Thus, fram'd for ill, he loos'd our Triple hold;
(Advice unfafe, precipitous, and bold.)

From hence thofe Tears! that Ilium of our woe!
Who helps a pow'rful Friend, fore-arms a Foe.
What wonder if the Waves prevail fo far,
When he cut down the Banks that made the Bar?
Seas follow but their Nature to invade ;
But he by Art our native Strength betray'd.
So Sampson to his Foe his force confeft;
And, to be fhorn, lay flumb'ring on her Breast.
But, when this fatal Counsel, found too late,
Expos'd its Author to the publick Hate;
When his juft Sovereign, by no impious way,
Cou'd be feduc'd to arbitrary Sway;
Forfaken of that hope, he shifts the Sail;
Drives down the Current with a pop'lar gale;
And fhews the Fiend confefs'd, without a Vail.
He Preaches to the Crowd, that Pow'r is lent,
But not convey'd to Kingly Government;
That Claims fucceffive bear no binding force;
That Coronation Oaths are things of course;
Maintains the Multitude can never err;
And fets the People in the Papal Chair.
The reason's obvious; Int'reft never lyes;
The most have ftill their Int' reft in their Eyes;
The Pow'r is always theirs, and Pow'r is ever wife.
Almighty Crowd, thou fhorten'ft all difpute;
Pow'r is thy Effence; wit thy Attribute!

}

1

Nor Faith nor Reafon make thee at a ftay, [way!
Thou leap'ft o'er all eternal Truths, in thy Pindarick
Athens, no doubt, did righteously decide,
When Phocion and when Socrates were try'd:
As righteously they did thofe dooms repent;
Still they were wife, what ever way they went.
Crowds err not, though to both extreams they run ;
To kill the Father, and recall the Son.

Some think the Fools were moft, as times went then;
But now the World's o'er-ftock'd with prudent Men.
The common Cry is ev'n Religion's Teft;
The Turk's is, at Conftantinople, beft;

Idols in India, Popery at Rome;

And our own Worship only true at home.
And true, but for the time, 'tis hard to know
How long we please it fhall continue fo.
This fide to day, and that to morrow burns ;
So all are God-a'mighties in their Turns.
A tempting Do&trine, plaufible and new:
What Fools our Fathers were, if this be true!
Who, to deftroy the Seeds of Civil War,
Inherent Right in Monarchs did declare :
And, that a lawful Pow'r might never ceafe,
Secur'd Succeffion, to fecure our Peace.
Thus, Property and Sovereign Sway, at last
In equal Balances were juftly caft:

But this new Jehu fpurs the hot-mouth'd Horfe;
Inftructs the Beaft to know his native Force;
To take the Bit between his Teeth, and fly
To the next headlong Steep of Anarchy.
Too happy England, if our good we knew ;
Wou'd we poffefs the Freedom we purfue!
The lavish Government can give no more:
Yet we repine; and plenty makes us poor.
God try'd us once; our Rebel-Fathers fought;
He glutted 'em with all the Pow'r they fought:
Till, mafter'd by their own ufurping Brave,
The free-born Subject funk into a Slaye.
We loath our Manna, and we long for Quails;
Ah, what is Man, when his own with prevails!
How rash, how swift to plunge himself in ill;
Proud of his Pow'r, and boundless in his Will!
That Kings can do no wrong we must believe:
None can they do, and must they all receive?
Help Heaven! or fadly we fhall fee an hour,
When neither wrong nor right are in their Pow'r!
Already they have loft their best Defence,
The Benefit of Laws, which they difpence.
No juftice to their righteous Caufe allow'd;
But baffled by an Arbitrary Crowd.