As when fair morning dries her pearly tears, In tongue unknown, when morn bedews the plain, Near to the dome a magick pair reside Prompt to deceive, and practised to confound; Here hood-winkt Ignorance is seen to bide Stretching in darksome cave along the ground. No object e'er awakes his stupid eyes, Nor voice articulate arrests his ears, Save when beneath the moon pale spectres rise, Where boughs entwining form an artful shade, And in faint glimmerings just admit the light, There Errour sits in borrow'd white array'd, And in Truth's form deceives the transient sight. A thousand glories wait her opening day, Her beaming lustre when fair Truth imparts; Thus Error would pour forth a spurious ray, And cheat the unpractised mind with mimic arts: She cleaves with magic wand the liquid skies, Bids airy forms appear, and scenes fantastick rise. A porter deaf, decrepid, old, and blind And objects see in features not their own ; name. Within a various race are seen to wonne, Props of her age, and pillars of her state, Which erst were nurtured by the wither'd crone, And born to Tyranny, her griesly mate; The first appear'd in pomp of purple pride, With triple crown erect, and throned high; Two golden keys hang dangling by his side To lock or ope the portals of the sky; Crouching and prostrate there, ah sight unmeet! The crowned head would bow, and lick his dusty feet. With bended arm he on a book reclined, Fast lock'd with iron clasps from vulgar eyes; Heaven's gracious gift to light the wandering mind, To lift fallen man, and guide him to the skies! A man no more, a God he would be thought, And 'mazed mortals blindly must obey: With slight of hand he lying wonders wrought, And near him loathsome heaps of reliques lay: Strange legends would he read, and figments dire Of Limbos' prison'd shades, and purgatory fire. There meagre Penance sat, in sackcloth clad, And to his breast close hugg'd the viper, Sin ; Yet oft with brandish'd whip would gall, as mad, With voluntary stripes his shrivel'd skin. . Counting large heaps of o'er-abounding good Of saints that dy'd within the church's pale; With gentler aspect there Indulgence stood, And to the needy culprit would retail; There too, strange merchandize! he pardons sold, And treason would absolve, and murder purge with gold. With shaven crown in a sequester'd cell Gnashing his teeth in mood of furious ire Fierce Persecution sat, and with strong breath Wakes into living flame large heaps of fire, And feasts on murders, massacres, and death. Near him was placed Procrustes' iron bed To stretch or mangle to a certain size; To see their writhing pains each heart must bleed, A gradual light diffusing o'er the gloom, Her hand a clear reflecting mirror shows, To see the horrid sorceries practised there; She snatch'd the volume from the tyrant's rage, Unlock'd its iron clasps,and ope'd the heavenly page. 'My name is Truth, and you, each holy seer, "That all my steps with ardent gaze pursue, "Unveil, she said, the sacred mysteries here, "Give the celestial boon to public view. "Tho' blatant Obloquy with leperous mouth "Shall blot your fame, and blast the generous deed, "Yet in revolving years some generous youth "Shall crown your virtuous act with glory's meed. "Your names adorn'd in *Gilpin's polish'd page, "With each historick grace, shall shine thro' every age. “With furious hate the fierce relentless power ་་ Scorching in flames, or writhing on the wheel; The Rev. Mr. William Gilpin, author of the lives of Bernard Gilpin, Bishop Latimer, Wickliff, and the principal of his followers. |