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Near to the dome a magick pair refide,

Prompt to deceive, and practis'd to confound; Here hoodwink'd 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,

And haunt his soul with visionary fears ;
Or when hoarse winds incavern'd murmur round,
And babbling echo wakes, and iterates the sound.


Where boughs entwining form an artful shade,

And in faint glimm’rings just admit the light, There Error fits in borrow'd white array'd,

And in Truth's form deceives the transient fight. A thousand glories wait her op'ning day,

Her beaining lustre when fair Truth imparts :
Thus Error would pour forth a spurious ray,

And cheat thr unpractis'd mind with mimick arts;
She cleaves with magick wand the līquid skies,
Bids airy forms appear, and scenes fantastick rife.


A porter deaf, decrepid, old, and blind,

Sits at the gate, and lifts a lib'ral bowl
With wine of wond'rous pow'r to lull the mind,

And check each' vig'rous effort of the foul :
Who'er un'wares shall ply his thirsty lip,

And drink in gulps the luscious liquor down,
Shall hapless from the cup delusion fip,

And objects fee in features not their own.
Each way-worn traveller that hither came,
He lav'd with copious draughts, and Prejudice his name.

VI. Within

Within a various race are seen to wonne,

Props of her age, and pillars of her state,
Which erst were nurtur'd by the wither'd crone,

And born to Tyranny, her grilly 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 proftrate there (ah ! fight unmeet!)
The crowned head would bow, and lick his dusty feet.


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With bended arm he on a book reclin'd,

Faft lock'd with iron clasps from vulgar eyes; Heav'n's gracious gift to light the wand'ring mind,

To lift fall'n 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 Limbus' prison'd shades, and purgatory fire.

There meagre Penance fate, in fackcloth clad,

And to his breast close hugg'd the viper, Sin;
Yet oft, with brandish'd whip would gaul, as mad,

With voluntary stripes his shrivell'd skin. Counting large heaps of o’er-abounding good

Of faints 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 fold,
And treason would absolve, and murder purge with gold!

IX. With IX.

With shaven crown, in a sequeker'd cell,

A lazy lubbard there was seen to lay ;
No work bad he, fave some few beads to tell,

And indolently snore the hours away,
The nameless joys that bless the nuptial bed,

The mystick rites of Hymen's hallow'd tye,
Impure he deems, and from them starts with dread,

As crimes of fouleft stain, the deepest dye:
No social hopes hath he, no social fears,
But spends in lethargy devout the ling'ring years.

Gnashing his teeth in mood of furious ire,

Fierce Persecution sate, and with strong breath
Wakes into living flame large heaps of fire,

And feasts on murders, massacres, and death.
Near him was plac'd Procraftes' iron bed

To stretch or mangle to a certain fize :
To see their writhing pains each heart muft bleed,

To hear their doleful shrieks and piercing cries ;
Yet he beholds them with unmoisten'd eye,
Their writhing pains his sport, their moans his melody


A gradual light diffusing o'er the gloom,

And slow approaching with majestick pace, A lovely maid appears in beauty's bloom,

With native charms and unaffected grace : Her hand a clear reflecting mirrour shows,

In which all objects their true features wear;
And on her cheek a bluth indignant glows

To see the horrid forc’ries practis'd there :
She snatch'd the volume from the tyrant's rage,
Unlock'd it's iron clasps, and op'd the heav'nly page.

XII. - My

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* My name is Trụth, and you, each holy seer,

"That all my steps with ardent gaze pursue,
Unveil,' she said, the facred myft'ries here,

• Give the celestial boon to publick view,
^ Tho' blatant Obloquy, with lep'rous mouth,

• Shall blot your fame, and blast the generous deed, . Yet in revolving years fome lib'ral 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 fhine thro' ev'ry age !

With furious hate, tho' ħerce relentless pow'r

• Exert of torment all her horrid skill ;
: Tho' your lives meet too soon the fatal hour,

Scorching in flames, or writhing on the wheel; ? Yet when the dragon + in the deep abyss

• Shall lie, faft bound in adamantine chain, ç Ye with the Lamb shall rise to ceaseless bliss,

• First-fruits of death, and partners of his reign ; & Then shall



momentary tear, The great fabbatick reft, the Millennary Year!'

• The Rev. Mr. William Gilpin, author of the Lives of Bernard Gilpin and Bishop Latimer, and of the Lives of Wickliffe and the principal of his followers.

+ See Rev. chap. xx. and the learned and ingenious Bihop of Bristol's comment upon it, in the third volume of his Differtation on the Prophecies.



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UNNOTTER's ruin'd pride, and falling towers,

I fing, O Walker * ! and the fong is yours.
With you I wander'd o'er the moss-grown domes;
Still o'er the scene with you my fancy roams;
Still the idea rises to my view,
With gloomy grandeur, pleasure ever new!
The rolling main, the rock's stupendous height,
A striking prospect ! swim before my fight.
In flowing verse now be the scene display'd,
Muse, Fancy, Memory, I crave your aid !

High on a rock, projecting from the land,
The castle stood, and still it's ruins stand;
Wide o'er the German main the prospect bent,
Steep is the path, and rugged the ascent;
And when with labour climb'd the narrow way,
Long sounding-vaults receive you from the day.
There hung the huge port-cullis, there the bar,
Drawn on the iron-gåte, defy'd the war.
Ah, great Dunnotter ! once of strength the seat !
Once deem'd impregnable ! thou yield'st to Fate !
Nor rocks, nor fi is, nor arms, thy gates

defend ;
Thy pride is fallen, thy ancient glories end!
Up from the gate we climb the flipp'ry way,
Still falling turrets, mould'ring towers, survey ;
The walls and caves with various mofs o'ergrown,
And threat'ning nods on high the loofen'd stone.
Slowly we mount, thro' broken arches creep,
And gain at last the summit of the steep;

The Bev. Mr. Walker, minister of the parish of Dunnotter,


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