Protestant Popery: Or, The Convocation - Canto V Poem by Nicholas Amhurst

While the fierce Contest rages from afar,
And hostile Pamphlets breathe alternate War:
The carnal Priests at ev'ry Shock o'erthrown,
Now trust to pungent Calumny alone:
Repuls'd in mad Confusion they retreat,
And rallying still th'unequal Fight repeat.
Ceaseless they labour by insidious Arts,
To taint and prepossess the People's Hearts:
The strongest Ties of Conscience they forego,
And load with Slander the victorious Foe.

As S---pe involv'd in thoughtful Malice lay,
Thro' all the Wilds of Vision snatch'd away,
A gloomy Form stood present to his Sight,
Of black Tartarean Hue, that Scandal hight;
A Monstrous Fiend, of such prodigious Size,
Her Feet on Earth, her Head was hid in Skies:
On thousand Wings up--born she soars sublime,
From Pole to Pole, and ev'ry distant Clime:
With Thousand searching Eyes and list'ning Ears,
All secret Slanders she both sees and hears;
And what she sees and hears, each blasting Sound
She trumpets with a thousand Tongues around.
Her sallow Cheeks ne'er felt the circling Blood,
And on her Head the Snakes erected stood:
The circling Blood her shrivel'd Veins forsook,
And all the Fury open'd in her Look:
Distorted was her Brow, and in her Hand
She wav'd aloft to Sight a flaming Brand:
Thrice with the burning Torch she gently press'd,
And sped the livid Poison to his Breast.

The wrathful Priest indulg'd the pleasing Scene,
And waking burn'd with more than native Spleen:
Invention quicken'd in his Gothick Brain,
And Lies spontaneous crown'd his fruitful Pain;
His throbbing Veins with double Fury swell,
And rose in all the Energy of Hell.

And now he meditates the fatal Blow,
And clad in Scandal--Armour meets the Foe;
No more his Doctrines, but his Person wounds,
And with decisive Calumny confounds:
With frequent Disappointments sorely pain'd,
Impatient to revenge and unrestrain'd,
He guides his Weapon to the tend'rest Part,
And with Detraction stabs him to the Heart:
The tedious Work of Argument lays down,
And dubs himself the Pasquin of the Town,
From Coffee--House to Coffee--House he flies,
Unwearied in the Search of solemn Lies;
With Hear--say Calumnies he fills the Scale,
With Trash of School--Boys and a Gossip's Tale;
Trepans each heedless Passenger he meets,
And violent arrests him in the Streets:
In private Talk th'unwary Tongue insnares,
While each rash Accent his own Comment bears.

The Press malignant breathes obdurate Hate,
And groans with controversial Billingsgate.
Ev'n Bangor proves a Jesuit in Disguise;
Such mighty Force in bare--fac'd Scandal lies.
Bangor, the Champion of the Whiggish Cause,
So oft with Conquest crown'd, and with Applause;
Bangor, the boasted Protestant Divine,
Whose Triumphs in recording Annals shine.
Immortal Snape the great Discovery made,
And to the World the subtle Cheat betray'd:
Nor flatter'd him in Words of modern Vogue,
But spoke his Mind--My Lord, you are a Rogue,
A cunning, canting Traytor, void of Grace;
And call'd him perjur'd Rascal to his Face.

Vain, impious Wish! to taint such spotless Fame,
And stop the useful Influence of his Name!
What Fiend, what Devil has inspir'd thy Mind,
To laugh at all the Ties of Human Kind;
Each strong Impulse of Nature to deny,
And give thy Conscience and thy God the Lie?

The injur'd Prelate, of unbounded Love,
Wise as the Serpent, harmless as the Dove,
Undaunted rises in his just Defence,
And to the World appeals for Innocence:
To God and Man submitting ev'ry Part;
To Man his Actions, and to God his Heart.
He looks with Scorn on a censorious Age,
And pities each mad Sally of their Rage;
Ungovern'd, envious Tongues conspire in vain;
His shining Virtues mock their impious Pain;
Thro' a whole Series of deserving Years,
No Stain, no Blemish in his Fame appears:
The Tenor of his Life all glorious Bright,
Pure and unspotted as the Morning Light.
The Mists of Slander fly before his Name,
And serve to brighten, not obscure his Fame.

O! Nicholson, by what blind Passions led,
What wild Capricio's hurry'd round thy Head?--
But curb thy Satire, Muse, nor dare reprove,
Whom Brunswick and whom Hoadly deign to love.
O! stop, rash Muse, the too ill--natur'd Tale,
And o'er this Blemish cast a friendly Veil.
He err'd, by disingenuous Arts betray'd,
And undesigning from his Conscience stray'd:
Nor let this Failing blast his better Days,
And stop the Progress of his future Praise:
Long live to latest Times his deathless Fame,
Long live the Honours that adorn'd his Name,
When whilom he espous'd his Sov'reign's Cause,
And labour'd for our Liberties and Laws:
Bangor and Kennet in his Favour plead;
Bangor and Kennet have forgiv'n the Deed.

Here close, my faithful Muse, the shocking Scene,
Here cease thy Labours and suppress thy Spleen,
Nor tell how Proteus still new Shapes puts on,
And labours to compleat what Snape begun:
The tedious Clue of Calumny lay down,
Nor wade through all the Kennels of the Town:
Triumphant o'er the vanquish'd Foe rejoice,
And to the Victor lift thy grateful Voice.

Hail! great Supporter of your Countrey's Laws!
Hail! great Supporter of the Christian Cause!
Whose Zeal alike to Church and State shines forth,
And speaks the Prelate's and the Patriot's Worth;
To thee th'officious Muse directs her Flight,
And tow'rs ambitious the un--bounded Height.
The British Muse no Dangers can dismay,
If Justice prompt, and You inspire the Lay.

Thus would I tell to future Worlds your Fame,
How from Reproach you save your envy'd Name:
From ev'ry Part ward off redoubled Blows,
Whole Hosts repelling of invidious Foes,
Who view you posted in an Orb too bright,
Turn pale and sicken with superior Light:
Distinguish'd Worth ferments their jaundic'd Blood,
And Emulation rolls the spleenful Flood.
Calm and serene you see the Tempest rise,
Nor dread the ruffled Deeps and angry Skies:
In your own artless Innocence secure,
You teach us what a Christian can endure;
Wrongs unprovok'd with Candor you requite,
And in the midst of Wars in Peace delight.

Thus the great Founder of the Christian Name,
Subdu'd his Foes, and stubborn Crowds o'ercame:
Unmov'd himself, their thickest Darts re--press'd,
The bitter Taunt, and the licentious Jest.
Benevolence and Love each Action sway'd,
And Virulence with Meekness he repaid.

Thro' many a shining Year I trace thy Name,
To the first glorious Dawnings of thy Fame:
Wrestling with Error from thy early Youth,
And crown'd with Lawrels in the Wars of Truth.
From impious Pens you vindicate the Word,
And rescue Conscience from the Penal Sword;
Thro' ev'ry Page what lovely Truths appear,
Thy Reas'nings strong, and thy Expressions clear?
From human Creeds you free the Christian Mind,
And gain the publick Thanks of Lay--Mankind.

The Protestant is written in thy Face,
And Candor opens with an honest Grace;
Thy Aspect speaks abundant in thy Praise,
And still we love the more, the more we gaze.
Wrapt in thy Name, my Heart in Triumph beats,
And my warm Pulse exults with living Heats.
Transports divine within my Bosom roll,
And in each Line I pour out half my Soul.

Late, very late may'st thou from Earth remove
To those eternal blissful Scenes above,
Where choral Angels sing their Maker's Praise,
And Tenison breaks forth in heav'nly Lays:
O! late may'st thou partake the Joys Divine,
And with thy kindred Stars in Glory shine.

Meanwhile, my Lord, persue this glorious Cause,
And save whole Nations from Tyrannic Laws:
Dispel each Cloud of superstitious Fears,
And with the Sound of Freedom charm our Ears:
Remotest Christendom shall hear your Fame,
And future Tyrants tremble at your Name.
See! on his Hoadly from yon' Worlds of Light,
The mighty Nassau bends his grateful Sight!
Ev'n Brunswick owes his Sceptre to thy Hand,
And rules a restless discontented Land.
For see! the Jacobite, to Madness wrought,
Plans the gross Treason in his murd'rous Thought;
Full gallantly he plays the Traytor's Part,
And dies with Royal Bloodshed at his Heart:
Madding he bids each sanguine Hope good--night,
And disappointed, hangs for very Spight:
Bursting with Envy he resigns his Breath,
And mutters Treason in the Pangs of Death.

Accept, my Lord, this tributary Praise,
And deign to pardon my presumptuous Lays:
In your own Works you Live, secure of Fame,
And through all Ages shall descend your Name,
'Till Nature and her Elements decay,
And all the frail Creation fades away.