Let not thy mother be a whore and beast. Great was her pride indeed in ancient times; 120 Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes? Exalted high above all earthly things, She placed her foot upon the neck of kings; But some have deeply since avenged the crown, And thrown her glory and her honours down; Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command, Nor place a foot upon her own fair land. Among her sons, with us a quiet few, Obscure themselves, her ancient state review; And fond and melancholy glances cast 130 On power insulted, and on triumph pass'd: They look, they can but look, with many a sigh, On sacred buildings doom'd in dust to lie; "On seats," they tell, "where priests 'mid tapers dim Breathed the warm prayer, or tuned the midnight hymn; Where trembling penitents their guilt confess'd; Where want had succour, and contrition rest. There weary men from trouble found relief, There men in sorrow found repose from grief; To scenes like these the fainting soul retired; 140 Revenge and anger in these cells expired; By pity soothed, remorse lost half her fears, And soften'd pride dropp'd penitential tears. Then convent-walls and nunnery-spires arose, In pleasant spots which monk or abbot chose; When counts and barons saints devoted fed, And, making cheap exchange, had pray'r for bread. Now all is lost; the earth where abbeys stood Is layman's land, the glebe, the stream, the wood; His oxen low where monks retired to eat; 150 His cows repose upon the prior's seat; And wanton doves within the cloisters bill, Where the chaste votary warr'd with wanton will." Such is the change they mourn, but they restrain The rage of grief, and passively complain. We've Baptists old and new; forbear to ask What the distinction--I decline the task. This I perceive, that, when a sect grows old, Converts are few, and the converted cold: First comes the hot-bed heat, and, while it glows, 160 The plants spring up, and each with vigour grows; Then comes the cooler day, and, though awhile The verdure prospers and the blossoms smile, Yet poor the fruit, and form'd by long delay, Nor will the profits for the culture pay; The skilful gard'ner then no longer stops, But turns to other beds for bearing crops. Some Swedenborgians in our streets are found, Those wandering walkers on enchanted ground; Who in our world can other worlds survey, 170 And speak with spirits, though confined in clay: Of Bible-mysteries they the keys possess, Assured themselves, where wiser men but guess: 'Tis theirs to see--around, about, above-- How spirits mingle thoughts, and angels move; Those whom our grosser views from us exclude, To them appear a heavenly multitude; While the dark sayings, seal'd to men like us,