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Have left this caution, tho' too late,

That all events are known to fate.
Cowards avoid no danger when they run,
And courage 'scapes the death it would not shun;

'Tis nonsense from our fate to fly,
All men must have heart enough to die.

Those sons of plunder are below my pen,
BO use they are bel the names of men ;
Who from the shores presenting to their eyes
The fatal Goodwin, where the wreck of navies lies,
A thousand dying sailors talking to the skies.
From the sad shores they saw the wretches walk,

By signals of distress they talk;
There with one tide of life they're vext,
For all were sure to die the next.
The barbarous shores with men and boats abound,
The men more barbarous than the shores are found;

Off to the shatter'd ships they go,
And for the floating purchase row.

They spare no hazard, or no pain,
But 'tis to save the goods, and not the men,
Within the sinking suppliants reach appear,

As if they'd mock their dying fear.
Then for some trifle all their hopes supplant,
With cruelty would make a Turk relent.

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If I had any Satire left to write,

Could I with suited spleen indite,
My verse should blast that fatal town,
And drown'd sailors' widows pull it down;

No footsteps of it should appear,
And ships no more cast anchor there.
The barbarous hated name of Deal shou'd die,

Or be a term of infamy ;
And till that's done, the town will stand

A just reproach to all the land.

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The ships come next to be my theme,
The men's the loss, I'm not concern'd for them ;

For had they perish'd e'er they went,
Where to no purpose they were sent,

THE STORM: AN ESSAY.

417

The ships might ha' been built again, And we had sav'd the money and the mèn.

There the mighty wrecks appear,
Hic jacent, useless things of war.
Graves of men, and tools of state,
There

you
lie too soon, there you

lie too late.
But O ye mighty ships of war!
What in winter did

you

there?
Wild November should our ships restore

To Chatham, Portsmouth, and the Nore,
So it was always heretofore;
For heaven itself is not unkind,
If winter storms he'll sometimes send,

Since 'tis supposed the men-of-war
Are all laid up and left secure.
Nor did our navy feel alone

The dreadful desolation ;
It shook the walls of flesh as well as stone,

And ruffl'd all the nation,

The universal fright
Made guilty How expect his fatal night;

His harden'd soul began to doubt,
And storms grew high within as they grew high without.

Flaming meteors fill'd the air,
But Afgil miss'd his fiery chariot there;

Recall’d his black blaspheming breath,
And trembling paid his homage unto death.

Terror appear'd in every face,
Even vile Blackbourn felt some shocks of grace;
Began to feel the hated truth appear,

Began to fear,
After he had burlesqued a God so long,

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.

VOL. v.

E E

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,
The true original appear

Before the effects begin :
But storms and tempests are above our rules,

Here our philosophers are fools.
The Stagirite himself could never show,

From whence, nor how they blow.
'Tis all sublime, 'tis all a mystery,
They see no manner how, nor reason why;
All Sovereign Being is our amazing theme,

'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.

419

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E're matter into settl'd form became,
And long before existence had a name;
Before th' expanse of indigested space,
While the vast no-where filled the room of place.
Liv'd the First Cause, the first great Where and Why,
Existing to and from eternity,
Of his great Self, and of necessity.
This I call God, that one great word of fear,

At whose great sound,
When from his mighty breath 'tis echo'd round,
Nature pays homage with a trembling bow,
And conscious man would faintly disallow;
The secret trepidation racks the soul,
And while he says, No God, replies, Thou fool.

But call it what we will,
First being it had, does space and substance fill.
Eternal self-existing power enjoy'd,
And whatso'er is so, that same is God.

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If then it should fall out, as who can tell,

But that there is a heaven and hell,
Mankind had best consider well for fear
'T should be too late when their mistakes appear ;

Such may in vain reform,
Unless they do't before another storm.

They tell us Scotland ’scaped the blast;
No nation else have been without a taste :

All Europe sure have felt the mighty shock,

"T has been a universal stroke.
But heaven has other ways to plague the Scots,

As poverty and plots.
Her majesty confirms it, what she said,

I plainly heard it, though I'm dead.

The dangerous sound has rais'd me from my sleep,

I can no longer silence keep;
Here satire's thy deliverance,
A plot in Scotland, hatch'd in France,
And liberty the old pretence.

Prelatic power with Popish join,
The queen's just government to undermine;

}

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This is enough to wake the dead,
The call 's too loud, it never shall be said

The lazy Satire slept too long,
When all the nation's danger claim'd his song;

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.
If from this grave thou lift thy head,
They'll surely mind one risen from the dead.
Though Moses and the prophets can't prevail,

A speaking satire cannot fail.
Tell 'em while secret discontents appear,

There'll ne'er be peace and union here.
They that for trifles so contend,
Have something farther in their end ;

But let those hasty people know,
The storms above reprove the storms below.

And 'tis too often known;
That storms below do storms above fore-run;

They say this was a high church storm,

Sent out the nation to reform;
But th' emblem left the moral in the lurch,
For 't blew the steeple down upon the church.

From whence we now inform the people,
The danger of the church is from the steeple.
And we've had many a bitter stroke,

From pinnacle and weather-cock ;
From whence the learned do relate,
That to secure the church and state,

The time will come when all the town,
To save the church, will pull the steeple down.

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