Strongly reflecting the pale lunar ray)
By fate's own iron pen I saw it writ,
And thus the title ran:
THE STATESMAN'S CREED.
"Ye ftates! and empires! nor of empires least, "Though leaft in fize; hear, Britain! thou whose lot, "Whose final lot, is in the balance laid! "Irrefolutely play the doubtful fcales,
"Nor know'st thou which will win.-Know then
"As govern'd well or ill, states fink or rise :
"State-minifters, as upright or corrupt,
"Are balm or poifon in a nation's veins ;
"Health or diftemper; hasten or retard
"The period of her pride, her day of doom:
"And though, for reasons obvious to the wife,
"Juft Providence deals otherwise with men,
"Yet believe, Britons! nor too late believe,
"'Tis fix'd! by Fate irrevocably fix'd!
"Virtue and Vice are empire's life and death.”
Thus it is written -Heard you not a groan?
Is Britain on her death bed?—No, that groan
Was utter'd by her foes.-But foon the scale,
If this divine monition is despis'd,
May turn against us. Read it, ye who rule!
With reverence read; with stedfastness believe;
With courage act as such belief inspires ;
Thea fhall your glory stand like Fate's decree;
Then fhall your name in adamant be writ,
In records that defy the tooth of time,
By nations fav'd, refounding your applaufe.
While deep beyond your monument's proud bafe,
In black Oblivion's kennel, fhall be trod
Their execrable names, who, high in power,
And deep in guilt, moft ominously shine,
(The meteors of the state!) give Vice her head,
To license lewd let loose the public rein;
Quench every spark of confcience in the land,
And triumph in the profligate's applause :
Or who to the firft bidder fell their fouls,
Their country fell, fell all their fathers bought
With funds exhausted and exhaufted veins,
To demons, by his Holiness. ordain'd
To propagate the gospel-penn'd at Rome;
Hawk'd through the world by confecrated bulls ;
And how illuftrated?-by Smithfield flames:
Who plunge (but not like Curtius) down the gulf,
Down narrow-minded self's voracious gulf,
Which gapes, and swallows all they swore to fave:
Hate all that lifted heroes into gods,
And hug the horrors of a victor's chain :
Of bodies politic that deftin'd hell,
Inflicted here, fince here their beings end;
And fall from foes detefted and despis'd,
On difbelievers-of the Satefman's Creed.
Note, here, my Lord (unnoted yet it lies
By moft, or all) thefe truths political
Serve more than public ends: this Creed of States.
Seconds, and irresistibly supports,
The Christian Creed. Are you furpriz'd ?—Attend ;
And on the statesman's build a nobler name.
This punctual justice exercis'd on states,
With which authentic chronicle abounds,
As all men know, and therefore muft believe;
This vengeance pour'd on nations ripe in guilt,
Pour'd on them here, where only they exift,
What is it but an argument of sense,
Or rather demonftration, to fupport
Our feeble faith-" That they who states compose, "That men who ftand not bounded by the grave, "Shall meet like measure at their proper hour?"
For God is equal, fimilarly deals
With ftates and perfons, or he were not God;
What means a rectitude immutable?
A pattern fure of univerfal right.
What, then, fhall rescue an abandon'd man?
Nothing, it is reply'd. Reply'd, by whom?
Reply'd by politicians well as priests:
Writ facred fet aside, mankind's own writ,
The whole world's annals; these pronounce his doom.
Thus (what might feem a daring paradox)
Ev'n politics advance divinity:
True mafters there are better scholars here.
Who travel history in quest of schemes
To govern nations, or perhaps oppress,
May there start truths that other aims inspire,
And, like Candace's eunuch, as they read,
By Providence turn Christians on their road:
Digging for filver, they may ftrike on gold;
May be furpriz❜d with better than they fought,
And entertain an angel unawares.
Nor is Divinity ungrateful found.
As politics advance divinity,
Thus, in return, divinity promotes
True politics, and crowns the statesman's praise.
All wifdoms are but branches of the chief,
And statesmen found but fhoots of honeft men.
Are this world's witchcrafts pleaded in excufe
For deviations in our moral line?
This, and the next world, view'd with such an eye
As fuits a statesman, fuch as keeps in view
His own exalted fcience, both confpire
To recommend and fix us in the right.
If we reward the politics of heaven,
The grand adminiftration of the whole,
What's the next world? A fupplement of this: 485. Without it, Justice is defective here;
Just as to ftates, defective as to men :
If fo, what is this world? as fure as Right
Sits in heaven's throne, a prophet of the next.
Prize you the prophet? then believe him too :
His prophecy more precious than his smile.
How comes it then to pass, with most on earth,
That this fhould charm us, that should difcompofe?
Long as the statesman finds this cafe his own,
So long his politics are uncomplete;
In danger he; nor is the nation fafe,
But foon muft rue his inauspicious power.
What hence refults? a truth that should refound
For ever awful in Britannia's ear:
"Religion crowns the statesman and the man,
"Sole fource of public and of private peace.”
This truth all men must own, and therefore will,
And praife and preach it too:-and when that's done,
Their compliment is paid, and 'tis forgot.
What highland pole-a
e-axe half fo deep can wound? 505
But how dare I, fo mean, prefume so far?
Affume my feat in the Dictator's chair?
Pronounce, predict (as if indeed inspir'd),
Promulge my cenfures, lay out all my throat,
Till hoarfe in clamour on enormous crimes?
Two mighty columns rife in my support;
In their more awful and authentic voice,
Record profane and facred, drown the Muse,
Though loud, and far out-threat her threatening fong. Still farther, Holles! fuffer me to plead
That I fpeak freely, as I fpeak to thee.
Guilt only ftartles at the name of guilt;
And truth, plain truth, is welcome to the wife.
Thus what feem'd my prefumption is thy praise.
Praife, and immortal praife, is Virtue's claim; 520
And Virtue's sphere is action: yet we grant
Some merit to the trumpet's loud alarm,
Whofe clangor kindles cowards into men.
Nor fhall the verfe, perhaps, be quite forgot,
Which talks of immortality, and bids,
In every British breast, true glory rise,
As now the warbling lark awakes the morn.
To clofe, my Lord! with that which all should clofe And all begin, and strike us every hour,
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