Are we quite ruin'd! No, mistaken Doom, Still the great Day, yes that great Day shall come, (Oh, rouse our fainting Sons, and droop no more.) A Day, whose Luster, our long Clouds blown o're, Not all the Rage of _Israel_ shall annoy, No, nor denouncing Sanedrims destroy. See yon North-Pole, and mark _Booetes Carr_: Oh! we have those Influencing Aspects there, Those Friendly pow'rs that drive in that bright _Wain_, Shall redeem All, and our lost Ground regain. Whilst to our Glory their kind Aid stands fast, But one Plot more, our Greatest and our Last. Now for a Product of that subtle kind, As far above their former Births refin'd, As Firmamental Fires t'a Tapers ray, Or Prodigies to Natures common Clay. Empires in Blood, or Cities in a Flame, Are work for vulgar Hands, scarce worth a Name. A Cake of _Shew-bread_ from an Altar ta'ne, Mixt but with some Levitical King-bane, Has sent a Martyr'd Monarch to his Grave. Nay, a poor Mendicant Church-Rake-hell slave Has stab'd Crown'd Heads; slight Work to hands well-skill'd, Slight as the Pebble that _Goliah_ kill'd. But to make Plots no Plots, to clear all Taints, Traitors transform to Innocents, Fiends to Saints, Reason to Nonsence, Truth to Perjury; Nay, make their own attesting Records lye, And even the gaping Wounds of Murder whole: If this last Masterpiece requires a Soul. Guilt to unmake, and Plots annihilate, Is much a greater work than to create. Nay both at once to be, and not to be, Is such a Task would pose a Deity. Let _Baal_ do this, and be a God indeed: Yes, this Immortal Honour 'tis decreed, His Sanguine Robe though dipt in reeking Gore, With purity and Innocence all o're, Shall dry, and spotless from the purple hue, The Miracle of _Gideons_ Fleece outdo. Yes, they're resolv'd, in all their foes despight, To wash their more than _Ethiop_ Treason White. But now for Heads to manage the Design, Fit Engineers to labour in this Mine. For their own hands 'twere fatal to employ: Should _Baal_ appear, it would _Baals_ Cause destroy. Alas, should onely their own Trumpets sound Their Innocence, the jealous Ears around All Infidels would the loath'd Charmer fly, And through the Angels voice the Fiend descry. No, this last game wants a new plotting Set, And _Israel_ only now can _Israel_ cheat. In this Machine their profest Foes must move, Whilst _Baal_ absconding sits in Clouds above, From whence unseen he guides their bidden way: For he may prompt, although he must not play. This to effect a sort of Tools they find, Devotion-Rovers, an Amphibious Kind, Of no Religion, yet like Walls of Steel Strong for the Altars where their Princes kneel. Imperial not Celestial is their Test, The Uppermost, indisputably Best. They always in the golden Chariot rod, Honour their Heav'n, and Interest their God.