Methinks I see, and sicken at the Sight, Spirits of Spleen from yonder Pile alight; Spirits who prompted every damning Page, With Pontiff Pride and still-increasing Rage: Lo! how they stretch their gloomy Wings around, And lash with furious strokes the trembling Ground! They prey, they fight, they murder, and they weep, Wolves in their Vengeance, in their Manners Sheep. Too well they act the Prophet’s fatal Part, Denouncing Evil with a zealous Heart; And each, like Jonas, is displeas’d if God Repent His Anger, or withhold His Rod. But here, the dormant Fury rests unsought, And Zeal sleeps soundly by the Foes she fought; Here all the Rage of Controversy ends, And rival Zealots rest like Bosom-Friends; An Athanasian here in deep repose, Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian Foes; Socinians here with Calvinists abide, And thin Partitions angry Chiefs divide; Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet, And _Bellarmine_ has rest at _Luther_’s feet. Great Authors for the Church’s glory fir’d, Are for the Church’s peace, to rest retir’d; And close beside, a mystic, maudlin Race, Lie, “Crumbs of Comfort, for the Babes of Grace.” Against her Foes, Religion well defends Her sacred Truths, but often fears her Friends; If learn’d, their Pride, if weak, their Zeal she dreads, And their Hearts’ weakness, who have soundest Heads; But most she fears the controversial Pen, The holy Strife of disputatious Men; Who the blest Gospel’s peaceful Page explore, Only to fight against its Precepts more. Near to these Seats, behold yon slender Frames, All closely fill’d and mark’d with modern Names; Where no fair Science ever shews her Face, Few sparks of Genius and no spark of Grace; There Sceptics rest, a still-increasing Throng, And stretch their widening Wings ten-thousand strong; Some in close fight their dubious Claims maintain; Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again; Coldly profane and impiously gay, Their End the same, though various in their Way. When first Religion came to bless the Land, Her Friends were then a firm believing Band; To doubt was, then, to plunge in Guilt extreme, And all was Gospel that a Monk could dream; Insulted Reason fled the grov’ling Soul, For Fear to guide and Visions to controul: But now, when Reason has assum’d her Throne, She, in her turn, demands to reign alone; Rejecting all that lies beyond her View, And, being Judge, will be a Witness too; Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful Mind, To seek for Truth, without a power to find: Ah! when will both in friendly Beams unite, And pour on erring Man resistless Light?