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Have left this caution, tho' too late,
That all events are known to fate.
'Tis nonsense from our fate to fly,
Those sons of plunder are below my pen,
By signals of distress they talk;
Off to the shatter'd ships they go,
They spare no hazard, or no pain,
As if they'd mock their dying fear.
If I had any Satire left to write,
Could I with suited spleen indite,
No footsteps of it should appear,
Or be a term of infamy ;
A just reproach to all the land.
The ships come next to be my theme,
For had they perish'd e'er they went,
THE STORM: AN ESSAY.
The ships might ha' been built again, And we had sav'd the money and the mèn.
There the mighty wrecks appear,
lie too late.
To Chatham, Portsmouth, and the Nore,
Since 'tis supposed the men-of-war
The dreadful desolation ;
And ruffl'd all the nation,
The universal fright
His harden'd soul began to doubt,
Flaming meteors fill'd the air,
Recall’d his black blaspheming breath,
Terror appear'd in every face,
Began to fear,
He should at last be in the wrong.
Some power he plainly saw, (And seeing, felt a strange unusual awe ;)
Some secret hand he plainly found,
Was bringing some strange thing to pass, And he that neither God nor devil own'd,
Must needs be at a loss to guess.
Fain he would not ha' guest the worst, But guilt will always be with terror curst.
Hell shook, for devils dread Almighty power, At every shock they fear`d the fatal hour,
T'he adamantine pillars mov'd, And Satan's pandemonium trembl’d too ;
The tottering seraphs wildly rov'd, Doubtful what the Almighty meant to do; For in the darkest of the black abode There's not a devil but believes a God.
Old Lucifer has sometimes tried
To have himself be deifi'd ; But devils nor men the being of God denied, Till men of late found out new ways to sin, And turn'd the devil out to let the Atheist in. But when t'ie inighty element began,
And storms the weighty truth explain, Almighty power upon the whirlwind rode,
And every blast proclaim'd aloud There is, there is, there is, a God.
Plague, famine, pestilence, and war,
Are in their causes seen,
Before the effects begin :
Here our philosophers are fools.
From whence, nor how they blow.
'Tis all resolv'd to power supreme;
From this first cause our tempest came, And let the Atheists 'spite of sense blaspheme,
They can no room for banter find, Till they produce another father for the wind.
Satire, thy sense of sovereign being declare,
He made the mighty prince o' th' air, And devils recognize him by their fear.
Ancient as time, and elder than the light, E’re the first day, or antecedent night,
THE STORM: AN ESSAY.
E're matter into settl'd form became,
At whose great sound,
But call it what we will,
If then it should fall out, as who can tell,
But that there is a heaven and hell,
Such may in vain reform,
They tell us Scotland ’scaped the blast;
All Europe sure have felt the mighty shock,
"T has been a universal stroke.
As poverty and plots.
I plainly heard it, though I'm dead.
The dangerous sound has rais'd me from my sleep,
I can no longer silence keep;
Prelatic power with Popish join,
This is enough to wake the dead,
The lazy Satire slept too long,
Rise Satire from thy sleep of legal death,
And reassume satiric breath; What though to seven years' sleep thou art confin'd,
Thou well may'st wake with such a wind.
Such blasts as these can seldom blow, But they're both form’d above and heard below. Then wake and warn us now the storm is past, Lest heaven return with a severer blast.
Wake and inform mankind
Of storms that still remain behind.
A speaking satire cannot fail.
There'll ne'er be peace and union here.
But let those hasty people know,
And 'tis too often known;
They say this was a high church storm,
Sent out the nation to reform;
From whence we now inform the people,
From pinnacle and weather-cock ;
The time will come when all the town,