WAR.

A

POEM.

IN

BLANK VERSE.

—O, quis, quis volet impias
Cædes, et rabiem tollere?—      Hor.

LONDON:
Printed for J. ROBERTS, in Warwick-Lane.
M.DCC.XLV.

WAR.

A

POEM.

Ah! my blest Teacher, spare; my Strength is spent,
And was at best a Child's. Some younger Voice
Excite; whose Song un-disappointed Hope
May help to heighten—Must I not refuse?
Dictate.—Howe'er discourag'd, lo! I speak
Once more, and trust in thy Almighty Pow'r.

    WAR, Man-destroying, City-wasting WAR,
Fell, horrid, hellish, execrable WAR,
In rough, discordant Notes I mean to curse,
Not sing. Can Harmony, and tuneful Sounds,
Agree with WAR'S mad Deeds, and hideous Din?
Willing, to others I resign the Praise
Of pleasing, while their Art its Horrors paints.
I seek to move Abhorrence of its Cause,
And Fears, while Indignation forms the Verse,
That should be writ with human Gore, not Ink;
Or with a Dagger's Point on human Bones,
In Mars's Temples, Demon-God of War,
Pil'd, as in Charnels. O! could I recount
The Numbers that his Flesh-devouring Sword
And Weapons have destroy'd, my Breath and Tongue
Would fail me to pronounce it: Could I show
Their Bones, on Piles assembled, they would make
Huge Mountains, scarce inferior to the Alps.

    Curst be the Man, that first his Hands imbrew'd
In Blood fraternal! That dire Wretch was Cain:
He first, so early, shew'd, the human Soul
Could bear to hurt its Like, its second Self;
Which had not he, or some such Wretch, essay'd,
Could scarce have entred human Thought. But Sin
Was the first Mover; Eve's and Adam's Sin
Slew Abel, All, whose Blood has since been shed.
From that dire bitter Root, sprang Murder, WAR,
And all our Evils: All had else been Peace,
And Love, and Joy, and everlasting Health:
O Fall from Love to WAR, from Heav'n to Hell!

    Curst too be he, some genuine Son of Cain,
Whose mischievous Invention hammer'd first
Rude Swords and Weapons! Taught by whom, the rest
Apt Scholars all at Evil, dull for Good,
Study'd, and soon improv'd the hellish Art
Of hurting and destroying human Race!
While he most Praise obtain'd, who most advanc'd
The Mischief, and his Brethren most could hurt.
Offensive and defensive Arms were now
Their chief Delight, and all their Thoughts engross'd:
WAR'S murd'rous Implements increas'd apace:
Now the bent Bow was practis'd to dispatch
Wounds unforeseen, and sudden Hurt from far:
Now Death and Enmity see speedy Work
Were furnish'd: Now in Companies unite
The Sons of Belial, bent to spoil or slay
Their mild and peaceful Brethren; Men from Men
Appear'd not safe, unless completely cloath'd
In Steel, from Head to Foot: Amazing Change!
From naked Majesty to Skins of Beasts,
And now to Steel; yet horrider Disguise,
And monstrous! How could Adam now have known
His Sons?——But Steel itself too feeble prov'd
To fence from human Cruelty, and Thirst
Of Blood fraternal: And yet what more firm?
What could they use, when Steel appear'd too weak?

    Now Troop encounter'd Troop, and Hundreds fell;
These, then, were counted many to be slain
At once, and made a lamentable Tale!
Now mournful Families were all in Tears;
For her Espous'd the Virgin wept; her Son
The Mother wail'd; the Husband's Loss bemoan'd
His Widow, and her Children, destitute
And helpless, and without Resource but Heav'n!

    What thought the while their primitive Sire, what said,
When he beheld his Offspring warring thus
In hostile Crouds, engag'd with mutual Rage
And Rancour in outrageous Deeds, and bent
To die, or to destroy, as if contriv'd,
By Nature's Will, of worst Antipathy?
How must his Love and Grief have interpos'd
Between their cruel Swords, and wildly cry'd,
'Sons!—Children!—why so furious, why this Rage
'And Thirst of Blood.' What Madness urges you,
'Misrepresenting Objects? They are all
'Your Brethren, your own Flesh, the Sons of Eve
'And Adam; them, and not wild Beasts, ye hurt;
'Them, and sweet Charity, that on all Sides bleeds.
'I thought our Crime had introduc'd enough
'Of Death, and Evil; and ye, mad, contend
'Which shall increase it most, and do Death's Work
'Faster and better than himself, as hir'd
'By Satan, who beholds with great Delight
'Your Deeds, rejoic'd that Man is now become
'To Man, as fierce and sworn a Foe, as he.
'O, worse than me! unthinking I did Hurt
'To you: Ye study Malice, and can act
'Murder propense, and glory in the Deed!'

    Little, may we suppose, did they regard
Their Sire's Reproof, who GOD'S Commands despis'd,
And Nature's Voice, which manifestly spake
Them Brethren, all from the fame Stock deriv'd;
All of one Blood and Flesh, so similar,
That each in each beheld another Self;
With plain Design, that nat'ral Sympathy,
And ev'ry thing, should draw them to unite;
Their very Form, like that of Doves, contriv'd
For Love and Friendship, not for Deeds of Hate;
And fitter to embrace, than hurt or kill;
Most other Creatures ready arm'd for Fight
With Horns, Hoofs, Claws, or Teeth, or Stings, or Beaks:
But Man was naked and defenceless left,
A Picture sweet of perfect Innocence,
By the rever'd Similitude of GOD
Impress'd, and native Majesty secur'd.

    All Grounds of Peace, all Reason, thrown behind,
Dire Love of WAR, like a Contagion, spread:
Those, that, so lately were but spoiling Bands,
Now to such num'rous Hosts increas'd, that Men
In social Multitudes, and Cities large,
Seem'd not secure, unless inclos'd in Walls.
Prodigious Heaps of pond'rous Stones were dug,
And brought with Labour vast: All Hands unite
For common Safety; All, industrious, urge
The necessary Work, till Walls were rais'd
Of Height and Thickness vast, esteem'd of Strength
Impregnable, insup'rable by Man;
Their heavy Gates of solid Brass, so firm,
As not to yield to less than Pow'r divine.
They now hop'd fearless to enjoy their own,
And sleep secure from Spoilers Swords: Vain, Hope!
The Murd'rers, to a mighty Host increas'd,
Approach, and with close Siege their Walls begirt.
*As an half-famish'd Troop of Midnight Wolves,
Pinch'd by bleak Winds, and chilling Rains, surround
A Flock of Sheep, safe-fenc'd; secure the Lambs
Bleat by their Mothers; they, excluded, rage,
To be debarr'd: Keen Hunger, and their Jaws
Long dry from Blood, to utmost Fury urge:
So these, prohibited Access, and foil'd,
Vexation, Rage, and foaming Spite consume;
Their cruel Ire could eat them all alive.
With resolute Patience long they wait, and hope
By Famine dire to conquer, whom their Swords
And Spears can't reach: Nor idle they the while;
But batt'ring Engines vast, and moving Tow'rs,
Their dev'lish Ingenuity, invents.
Mean time, streight Penury, and dismal Pine,
Hard presses the Besieg'd; forlorn Dismay
Sits on their meagre Faces; Bread is now
Than Gold more precious; Meat obscene, a Feast:
Yet they endure. So dear is Liberty
To gen'rous Souls, than Life itself more priz'd!

* Virgil.

    All now prepar'd for gen'ral fierce Assault,
Dreadful approaches the blood-thirsty Foe.
By Penthouse cover'd, some, with Hammers large,
And massy Bars, their Gates attempt to break,
In vain: Some shake the bounding Wall with Beams
Of mighty Force and Weight, in hopes to cause
A Breach, while these at the Foundation try:
Others the crouded Battlements approach
In wooden, tott'ring Tow'rs, of equal Height,
Hoping by Bridges laid to pass from thence
To the near hostile Wall. These Ladders fix,
And, cover'd with their Shields; to Death devote;
With desp'rate Valour mount; and with their Hands
Seize on the Summits; maugre all th' Efforts
Of the Defendants to prevent, repel,
And back precipitate with huge Stones, and Beams,
Torrents of boiling Pitch, and molten Lead,
Darts, Arrows, Spears, and Swords. What dismal Work!
Horror stands horror-struck; Fiend Mars exults;
Yet wonders at his Sons!—And what the Prize
Of all this desp'rate Intrepidity?
Immortal Life?—It cannot be on Earth.
The Glories, and Felicity of Heav'n?
That would indeed be worth all they could risk,
Or suffer: But, alas! Hell's only like
To be the Meed of such most hellish Hate,
Such dev'lish Cruelty, and Thirst of Blood.
Ill would such Creatures suit with Heav'n; the Seat
Of Peace, and Love perpetual: Such as they
Would soon convert its Glories to a Hell.
For hard'ned Clay, Dominion, Fame; for these
Without which Man may be as blest; they this
Endure; and hazard horrid Wounds, and Death,
Yea, Hell, if Hell there be; a Fable deem'd!

    The Wall is gain'd: They conquer: Now they mount
With eager Joy and Haste, no more restrain'd:
Now all is Slaughter, all infuriate Rage,
That neither sees, nor hears: The Sword devours
All in its Way; and spares nor Sex, nor Age.
The hoary Head, and little Infant, lie
Welt'ring in Blood; by whom the Mother bleeds,
Glad to die with it; wounded most in that.
If the fair Virgin 'scapes, she 'scapes for worse;
And shrieking begs for Death: In ev'ry Place,
Horror, Confusion, Cries, and Bloodshed reign:
Horrid Effects of wicked, wicked WAR!
The Carnage ended, and their Fury tir'd;
Their Heart reproves them not; they call themselves
Still Men; nor are asham'd to look at Heav'n.

    The few that 'scape the Sword's devouring Rage;
More wretched still, for worse reserv'd, are doom'd
To drudge in servile Works; rememb'ring oft,
With daily Sighs and Tears, their former Wealth;
Held vile as Beasts, and like them fed and us'd.

    Ev'n on the Town, the Victors wreak their Rage,
And burn its Gates and Palaces with Fire:
Now a vast Heap of Ruins: In its Rooms,
Once ceil'd with Cedar, soon wild Beasts will couch;
And Owls and Bitterns in its Windows roost.

    Such were Mankind, from old primeval Time:
Giants, for Prowess fam'd, and mighty Deeds;
Whose Names and Fame have perish'd with themselves:
Indulgent Heav'n to these a longer Space
Allow'd; they might have Life enjoy'd in Peace
For Centuries, to near a thousand Years:
Yet chose in sanguinary Love of War,
To hazard losing such a noble Space;
Sev'n times as long as human Life is now.
For these, and other Crimes, the Race of Man
Was quite destroy'd (good Noah, and his Sons,
Except); and Earth from its Pollutions dire
Of ev'ry Sort, by gen'ral Deluge, wash'd.

    Heav'n now abridg'd the Term of mortal Life,
And to a Handful small our Days reduc'd,
To try, if when Existence was so short,
They would be chary of it; but in vain:
The dwindling Progeny of Noah's Sons,
No better prov'd; but plunder'd, warr'd, and slew
As eagerly, as if they meant t' exceed
Their Fathers Sins; and hasten, by their own,
The last Purgation that's design'd, by Fire.

    Nimrod, the famous Hunter, first began
New Conquests' tir'd, at last, of hunting Beasts,
He turn'd his Cruelty to hunt Mankind,
As Beasts regarded; odious thence to God.
O let me Life support with Morsels begg'd;
A crippled Lazar, blotch'd with nauseous Sores,
Beheld with Pity by my MAKER'S Eye;
Rather than rule the Empire of the World
For Crimes and Cruelty, by HIM abhorr'd!

    When Death had taught proud Nimrod, and Mankind,
How weak a Wretch the mighty Conqu'ror was;
Belus, his Son, not taught, inherited
His Empire, and his Cruelty and Pride:
By WAR'S perpetual, sought t'inlarge his Sire's
Extensive Conquests; nor could Limits set
To his Desires, insatiable as Death.

    Down from victorious Belus, deify'd;
And not esteem'd a Fiend, as he deserv'd;
Time's Archives with attentive Care evolve;
You hear of nought but WAR, accursed WAR,
In Act or Rumour, or its dire Effects;
Of the abhorrent Earth, with human Blood
Polluted; Cities fair and large, destroy'd;
To ruinous Heaps reduc'd; and Countries rich,
To Defarts alter'd; now by prowling Wolves
Possess'd instead of Men, whose wretched Race,
Curst, sanguinary Brutes, in Form of Men,
Have quite extirpated. O Scenes of Grief
And Horror; odious, or to Sight or Thought!

    Improving fast, this Second Race outvy'd
Ante-diluvian Cruelty: How much
Did these (tho' dressing hideous WAR in Pomp,
To hide its foul Deformity) increase
Its Horrors dire, and multiply its Woes?
These barb'd their dreadful Arrow-Heads; and dipp'd
In Juices venomous: A simple Wound
Too small a Mischief seem'd to satisfy
Their deadly Malice: These invented first
Scyth'd Chariots; as if Men were Grass indeed!
How many horrid Internments of Death
And Engines terrible, did these contrive,
Unknown to former Ages! How improve
The Trade of killing Men!—The lib'ral Art,
I should have said; for WAR was now an Art;
And none in greater Credit; none esteem'd
Fitter for such as boasted noble Birth.

    And, as this wicked World is now become,
None is more fit for such who should excel
In Magnanimity, as well as Wealth:
When WAR is unavoidable; I mean,
In Self-defence against invading Foes;
Then GEORGE, then Cumberland, by Heav'n approv'd,
Intrepid lead their animated Troops;
Then Marlbro', then a hundred Heroes more,
Follow their glorious Chief; with Him resolv'd
To live or die: Yet, gen'rous, pity Those
They conquer; and had rather do them Good.

    But these esteem'd WAR glorious, tho' unjust;
Were Satan's Volunteers; and wilfully
Created, fought, abominable War;
And chose it for their Business, and Delight.
With these, all Arts, all useful Sciences,
All moral Excellence, Man's Glory, true
And only Heroism, were mean, compar'd
To the superior Praise of killing Man.
This was heroic Virtue deem'd; this thought
The noblest Way to gain immortal Fame;
This, their Historians celebrate, as Worth
Divine; this, flatt'ring Poets to the Skies,
To Heav'n itself exalt; and deify
Their Heroes false, more fitly, by themselves,
Sometimes compar'd to rav'nous Beasts of Prey.
Rapt, by the magic Sweetness of their Verse,
From due Reflection, Men with Pleasure hear
Of horrid Wounds and Death; which Souls humane
Should with Abhorrence think of, tho' deserv'd.

    This brutal Fierceness, by a vile Abuse
Of Words, was Fortitude and Manhood call'd,
As most becoming Man; tho' his chief Shame;
Contrariant quite to true Humanity:
For Man was in GOD'S Image made; and GOD
Is Love; which therefore suits with Manhood best.
O! had their Heroes equal Courage shewn,
Protecting Innocence and Right, from Wrong,
And cruel Violence; in Defence of Truth
Oppress'd; in bearing the worst Ills of Life
With Fortitude heroic; had they, wise,
Rather subdu'd to Reason's Sway whate'er
Was vicious in their Souls; they then had Praise
In Truth deserv'd, and well been Heroes styl'd:
More truly, now, dire, bloody Murderers,
Who multiply ten-hundred-thousand-fold
The Sin of Cain: He but one Brother slew.

    In horrid, barbarous, destructive WAR,
In one brief Day, has the voracious Sword
Devour'd a Hundred-thousand five times told!
Like the vast Herds, at Sion's solemn Feasts,
They fell, a pompous Sacrifice to Mars:
What Appetite to kill! What Industry
Untir'd! What Rage and Fury prompted on!

    Let lively Fancy picture in your Mind,
How grand a Spectacle such Host must yield
At first; all rang'd in Bands, and due Array,
With order'd Spear and Shield, and burnish'd Arms.
Suppose them now encount'ring: What Le Brun
The Horrors and Confusion of the Fight
Can paint? O human Souls! O Madness dire!
*When did ten thousand Tigers, Lions, Bulls,
Ten thousand of their Species meet, and thus
Engage with all their Fury? Men alone
Act thus; this, this is the superior Fruit
Of Reason: Savage Creatures spare their Kind,
Or but enconter single, or by Hap.

*Bruyere.

    Victory gain'd, and Slaughter glutted now;
Walk o'er the Field of Battle, soak'd with Blood,
As after plenteous Rain; and if thy Soul
Sustains the shocking Sight, the Carnage view;
Their maim'd, and mangled Corpses, horrid Wounds,
Surprising Postures, Countenances grim,
Convuls'd by Rage and Death, and threat'ning still:
But if thy Heart be Flesh, and loves Mankind,
Soon, with Abhorrence, wilt thou turn away,
And, weeping; curse abominable WAR.

    Assemble, all ye Beasts, and Birds of Prey,
Lo, what a Feast the Cruelty of Man,
And WAR, provides you: Fill yourselves, devour;
But wonder, while ye feed, that Men should prove
More cruel, and more foolish Brutes than you.
Help ye to bury those whom no Man will:
No pitying Tobit these are like to find:
But ye, however willing, are too few:
Your Leavings, their half-eaten Carcases,
Abhorr'd by you, at last will putrefy;
And by their nauseous Stench endanger more
The Conquerors, than Living, by their Arms.

    On yonder Hill, see little Rome arise,
Unpromising, despis'd, and bold, to hope
Ev'n short Duration: That ere long will prove
The Queen of Cities; Martial Rome; as if
Its Founder were in Truth the Progeny
Of Mars; and spread its Conquests o'er the Earth.
A Race as bloody, as tho' all had fuck'd
Wolves, like their Founder; all, like him, been doom'd
To raise their City on their Brethrens Blood.
Fit Omen; well by the Event explain'd!
Woe to the East, and West, and North, and South,
Whose Sons That Rome shall sacrifice to Mars!
Yet the pugnacious Brood, between themselves
Engag'd, shall oft revenge the injur'd World.

    The LORD could strike with various Plagues: But He
Abhorrence feels, in Mercy: HE could send
His Angels; they obey, not love the Task,
And pity while they strike: HE could employ
Foul Fiends for Executioners; but finds
Yet fitter Instrument; and sends a Man;
He loves it, and will do the odious Work
With Pleasure, and not tire; not nauseate Blood
At last; but like the Leech, still thirst for more:
An Alexander, Cæsar, Kouli-Kan;
Compared to these, a Fiend would be a Fool.

    KNOW, ye dire Pests, and Butchers of Mankind,
The greatest Conquest will be that of Death,
The glorious Crown of the MESSIAH'S Acts;
And this, by shedding his own precious Blood,
Without a Drop of other, will be won.
There, there, will be a Victor stain'd all o'er
With truly glorious Blood, the Blood of Love,
Of Godlike Love; not hellish Rage and Hate:
There will ye see a Hero, that all Praise,
Glory, and Altars, will indeed deserve,
For Millions sav'd, and not destroy'd: His Praise
From public Good, not public Hurt, will spring:
Who ne'er will take away a single Life,
Not one make wretched; but to Millions such,
To Myriads of such Millions, by his own
Sore Suff'rings, and free Off'ring of his Life,
Forfeited Happiness and Life restore.
You, Ammon, wept, that you had but one World
To conquer: He had wish'd more Worlds to save.

    HE, comes, long needed by a wicked World:
A nobler Flight of Ages now begins:
The promis'd Virgin with the Prince of Peace
Is pregnant: This will be the Golden Age.
O come, be born, sweet Babe, the World's Desire,
In Hour auspicious, blest! End, end your Wars,
Ye Nations, let no Clarions Sound disturb
The slumb'ring Infant's Visions: Hush, be still;
And know, that He is GOD, who maketh WARS
To cease at Will; to Ploughshares turn your Swords;
Forgotten, let your needless Armour rust;
And break your useless Spears to feed the Fire.
Now the chang'd Lion with the Ox shall feed
At the same Crib; the little Child shall stroak
The Tiger; Scorpions, Cockatrices, Asps,
Be harmless Things; henceforth let nothing hurt,
But all be Peace, and Innocence, and Love!
Sweet Age! Yet such the World had always been,
If sinless; such should be, now He is come.

    At least, we might have hop'd for such a State
In His, who should be like their peaceful Lord,
A People all of Innocence and Love.
But, ah! Mankind continue still the same,
And we must wait for this, till He returns
To raise us to immortal Life, and Bliss
More perfect than our first; Then this shall be,
And more: At present Sin's Corruption works,
So strong in all, but in his chosen Few,
That, oh! instead of better, they are worse;
They war like Heathens, and like Heathens live;
Yet Christians they will be, in spite of Heav'n,
Instead of Hell; for this such Saints approves,
While that abhors, and utterly disowns:
Far diff'rent should have been the Wars of these;
Their Sword, the Spirit; perfect Righteousness,
Their Panoply divine; and Faith, their Shield;
The Cross, their Banner, Universal Love
Their Motive to subdue the World to Christ
And Happiness; their Aim, to bless their Foes
With Life eternal, not deprive of this.
But these, too, lust; these, likewise, carnal Arms
Assume, and all the same dire Scenes ensue.

    Lo, Spring, fair Maid, in fragrant Blossoms clad,
And deck'd with Flow'rs, preserving some Remains
Of our First State in Paradise, invites
T'enjoy its Sweets, forgetful of our Cares
And Misery! For Mischief rather made
And Horror, than Enjoyment, forth they march,
In Arms, as if their War was with the Spring,
Yea, Heav'n itself, and its most gracious Gifts,
No less than with their Brethren; all they mar,
Relentless, till the Land a Defart seems,
That, crown'd with Plenty, late like Eden smil'd.

    Subject to Mis'ry, in Ten thousand Shapes,
Thro' GOD'S just Ire and Doom, we drop apace,
Like blasted Fruit; and thence should pity, help,
And comfort each his Neighbour, and unite
To pacify, by Pray'r, the Wrath Divine:
But they, possess'd by Furies, multiply
Our Woes innumerable; and, of their own
Contrivance, add as many more, and worse.

    Thanks to thee, hoary Father, Winter, Thanks
To thy bleak Winds, and Rains, and Frosts severe,
That check awhile their Thirst of human Blood,
And force them Warmth to seek beneath the Roofs
Of Towns and Cities; yet not always thou
Vacation gain'st us, oft they will endure
Thy worst, and rather die, than not destroy;
And never once think to whom! O eloquent Paul,
Or ye styl'd Thunder's Sons, to Earth descend,
And thus, with elevated Voice and Hands,
And Zeal inflam'd, attempt to stop their Rage:

    "Stay, stay your Hands, ye Madmen, know ye not,
"That Blood is Christ's, and from his Members flows?
"He that wounds them, wounds Him; will ye, too, kill
"Your Lord, and use Him like the murd'rous Jews?
"Throw down those horrid Arms, and, chang'd, embrace
"His Brother each; and, with repentant Tears,
"Mutual Forgiveness ask, or name not Christ."

    Not Paul himself could stop them, no, nor Christ,
Unless, array'd in Glory, he should come
To judge them instantly:——And may he not?
What if he should? Silence the thund'rous Guns
And Cannons, and suspend the horrid fray?
How well prepar'd for Hell, how ill for Heav'n,
Would they before his dread Tribunal stand?

    Men, Christians, the same Language, Customs, Laws,
And Country, Kindred, Blood, Affinity,
What farther Ties of Union can be fram'd?
Yet will their dire Propensity to War
Break thro' all these, and feel no more Restraint,
Than Hornets from the Spider's feeble Web.
The more strong Bands oblige them to be Friends,
Worse Foes they are, encounter with more Rage,
And with their Teeth each other's Flesh could tear.
What shall we do to keep Mankind from War,
When, ev'n Religion, too, has prov'd its Cause?
——-Religion makes us war! The Turkish, sure?
Nay, but the Christian—Where, or how does that
Encourage WAR, or bid us fight for Heav'n?
Did Jesus save us by the Sword? Did He,
Or his, resist the Pow'rs that were? Do more
Than suffer patiently, and conquer so?
Pull off the Mask, Religion's vain Pretence;
WAR, WAR, is thy Religion; Gold, thy God;
Thy Sacrifices, Hecatombs of Men!
At least, of Jesu's Spirit talking much,
You know not what it is, but are impell'd
By carnal Passions, all inflam'd by Fiends.

    A Sword, a Sword is born, a bloody Sword!
Strange Birth!——Or thus, I ween, his Mother dream'd,
Ere Mahomet was born, or such a Sword,
Stamp'd on his Breast, with liveliest Signature,
Did, or else should have mark'd the nascent Babe;
A Sword, indeed, to punish Earth, chastize
Christians, a Scandal to the Name, that lov'd!
The Sword, and War, and Bloodshed, Sons of Mars,
Not GOD'S; vile Cain's Disciples, and not Christ's.
What Havock will it make of human Race!
With what Effusion dire of Christian Blood
Pollute the Earth, and half the World o'er-run!
All this a despicable Slave will cause!
Dread smallest Things: The smallest in the Hand
Of GOD, and his o'er-ruling Providence,
Is much too strong for greatest human Strength!

    Trillions cut off, near half the peopled Globe
A Defart made by thy unblunted Edge,
Sword of the Lord, now to thy Sheath return
At length, and rest: How can it rest, injoin'd,
To flay? How can it rest, when Christians war?
When those, who should be Sons of Peace and Love
Unanimous, are to each other, Turks?

Nor, oh, do Christians only war as much
As Turks or Heathens, but their Wars are worse.
Such, and so many Instruments of Death
Invented; one might now have hop'd, that Man,
Howe'er blood-thirsty, would have been content,
And not have fought for new ones; or, at least,
That Christ's Disciples, far from making new,
Would have destroy'd the old ones; when a Monk,
(Who would have thought a Monk would have supply'd
Man's Cruelty with direr Arms?) a Monk,
Who should have been at Pray'rs, beseeching Peace
For wretched Mortals, he experienc'd first
The hellish Fury of that thund'rous Grain,
That since, with greater Ease, and more Dispatch,
Has done WAR'S bloody Work; Invention dire!
And not, I think, to be outdone on Earth,
If ev'n in Hell! New Scenes of War arise,
With doubled Horrors; now its Rage appear'd
Dreadful indeed, with Thunders arm'd, and Bolts,
That mimic those of Heav'n, all-patient Heav'n!
Which direct, matchless Thunderbolts would else
Conglomerate, and drive them down to Hell,
To fight and thunder; there the fittest Place!

    O could thy Eyes behold a modern Siege,
Or I describe the Horrors of the Place,
An antique Siege would seem a harmless Thing!
A hundred Cannons from their hellish Mouths
Belch Fire and Smoke, and level Thunderbolts
Against the shatter'd Walls, that at each Stroke
Tremble; a hundred pregnant Bombs, the while
Their cursed Globes, with Death and Mischief fraught,
Discharge, that drop like Comets from the Sky;
Too little all, without the Aid of Hell
In Mines beneath, that, like an Earthquake, Walls,
And Castles, from their strong Foundations throw;
Hell from beneath, Heav'n threatens from above!

    Go, bomb Vesuvius, with thy dev'lish Tubes!
And let its Fires, to tenfold Rage inflam'd,
Whirl red-hot, rocky Fragments on thy Head,
And Hell encounter Hell; nor thus destroy
Women, and harmless Babes, as well as Men,
Ev'n those thy Brethren, and the Flock of Christ!

    Sands, Tempests, Rocks, and Waves, are Dangers few:
'Tis a small Thing to fail within a Foot
Of Death, and scorn the Monsters of the Main,
That open their prodigious Jaws, like Hell,
And soon expect them all; but Man is now
The direst Monster of the watry World,
And makes worse Perils in it than he finds.
Lo, from their floating Arks, to save Mankind
Invented, not destroy, in Fire and Smoke
Invelop'd, volly'd Thunders they discharge,
And on each others Heads hail Wounds and Death.
What worse has the just Ire of Heav'n denounc'd
Than Fire and Brimstone, Storm, and thund'rous Bolts?
All this, as if it were in Scorn, they forge
By Art; and, mad, anticipate their Hell;
Complete, if the curst Grain of one takes Fire;
With dire Displosion, all involv'd in Flame,
Aloft they mount, with broken Planks commixt;
Thence, scorch'd, like Pha'tons, fall into the Sea.
The other, bor'd, perhaps, with many a Wound,
Founders, and sinks apace into the Deep,
While, o'er their Heads, the Billows booming close.

    Thus Christians war, who should not war at all,
But, as they are one Body, have one Soul,
One Spirit, Breath of mutual Love and Peace.
If Christians thus encounter, what the Wars
Of Fiends? Or, more to shame us, have they none!
Should peaceful Flocks of Sheep, with rabid Jaws,
Assault and tear each other, could it be
More monstrous, than for Christians thus to fight?
Jesus, Exemplar of consummate Love
And Meekness; Jesus, God and King of Peace!
Such Strangers to thy Spirit thou wilt hold
Strangers to thee, I fear; but where their Sin
To some ambitious Monarch must be charg'd,
Who, as Aggressor, must account for all
This Spilth of human, if not Christian Blood.

    If Christians make no better Use than this
Of their Religion, Sciences, and Arts,
What Angel will convey a Son of Peace
To some Philippine fruitful Isle, unknown
To the Sea-roving Tribe, where, all at Peace,
In poor, half-naked Innocence and Love,
The Heav'n-taught, uncorrupted Nations dwell,
Dove-like; and think that Man can't murder Man?
We are the Savages. The Christians, These,
In Love, at least; well-fitted to receive
The Gospel's Seed divine, and bring forth Fruit.
But, ah! what Isle so secret to escape
These Christian Murderers, with eager Scent,
Hunting for Gold all o'er the spacious Main?
When once they find us out, our peaceful Minds
Will nought avail us; Spoiling, Chains, or Death,
Must be our Lot; while they, profane, presume
To name the GOD of Love, and talk of CHRIST.

    Tho' in these sinful Regions Christian Love
And Peace secure are not to be attain'd;
Jesus, great Judge of Spirits, when thy Will
Calls mine before thee, and thy righteous Voice
Appoints my Portion, O in Mercy grant,
Grant me a Mansion, where will be no War:
Assign my Soul to some sweet Land of Peace,
There, gracious, place in Station low, but blest,
Thy Poet, Peace's Advocate, though mean
In both Respects, and all: But thou the Will
Regarded; lov'st the Heart before the Head.

    These God, Man, Hell-contemning Warriors, sure,
All to one Place will be consign'd and doom'd,
There with each other to wage endless Wars,
To hack, and thrust, and wound, and vainly strive
To kill their Foes immortal, or, by Death,
End their own Misery; with Earth's dire Grain,
Or worse, to thunder there, and mine, and bomb:
Or are they rather doom'd to live in Peace,
And mutual Love, for ever? Sad Estate!
That, that may be the greater Hell to them!

    But why despair I yet of Peace on Earth?
Great Shepherds of the Nations, O be wise!
At length, awake to Reason's Use, from Dreams
Of vain Ambition: Let the hideous Din
Of your own Cannons, and disploding Bombs,
Wake you to due Reflection: Ask yourselves,
Unprejudic'd, if neither Heav'n nor Earth
Can you accuse of these unchristian Wars.
O give us Peace; compassionate the World:
Compare th' Advantages and Sweets of Peace
With all the Woes and Miseries of War:
And can ye not desire and love the one,?
The other not abhor as much as Death
What? What your Gain? Behold, your People, peel'd,
Impoverish'd, curse your Wars, and wicked Schemes!
Be truly Sires, and your dear People view
With all the Yearnings of paternal Love:
How glorious is a wife and peaceful King?
To make such Numbers blest, is Praise indeed.
View Antonine, a Pagan Prince: What Wars,
What Victories will render you so great?
Which of you will renew that glorious Scheme,
A Heathen Prince could frame, to put an End
To human Wars; and Peace, sweet Peace, confirm
Between the Nations, while the Work endures;
He, he shall be Fame's Minion in the Years
To come, and Conqu'rors be admir'd no more.

    GEORGE, great in War, but to defend thy own,
To help the Weak, by wicked Pow'r oppress'd,
Not to oppress them; not for wide Domain,
Or Fame disgraceful; Monarch, good as great,
Whose Wisdom scorns to conquer, but for Peace;
O may this mighty Praise be also thine!
O may thy Counsels, or thy Arms succeed,
And bless the groaning World with endless Peace!

    Tremble, ye Sceptred Sons of the Most High,
Tremble! The Lord of Lords, and King of Kings,
Looks down displeas'd: The solar Splendors fade,
And Planets shrink with Horror; chiefly Earth,
With Wickedness, and human Blood, defil'd.
Dearth, Murrain, Pestilence, await his Beck,
To visit Men, who well deserve them all;
While Mercy humbly sues for longer Space
Of Patience, Piety for her Children pleads,
Tho' few. O Judges of the Earth, appease
His Ire, while yet ye may: If He be Wroth,
What is a King? Or will the Pest revere
Your Sceptres? Will your Gems and Diadems prove
Sure Amulets? Or Gold secure your Lives?
Ah, save us from the Judgments that impend,
Ah, save yourselves! Reflect how Virtue fails,
How little Piety our Age can boast.
Will War amend our Ways? Is War a School
Where Christ is taught, and his Commands inforc'd?
Far from it; they proceed from Sin to Sin,
Till Turks and Heathens have much more of Christ.
O Sires, consider that your Hosts make War
On Christ, and on His Brethren, and your own,
On Virtue, Piety, and Plenty too.
Peace to all these concede: Be truly great,
Delight in Justice, Virtue, Goodness, Love:
This is the only Way to be like GOD.

FINIS.