Materials rich, though rude, inflamed with thought, Though more by Fancy than by Judgment wrought Take, use them as your own, a work begin Which suits your genius well, and weave them in, 230 Framed for the critic loom, with critic art, Till, thread on thread depending, part on part, Colour with colour mingling, light with shade, To your dull taste a formal work is made, And, having wrought them into one grand piece, Swear it surpasses Rome, and rivals Greece. Nor think this much, for at one single word, Soon as the mighty critic fiat's heard, Science attends their call; their power is own'd; Order takes place, and Genius is dethroned: 240 Letters dance into books, defiance hurl'd At means, as atoms danced into a world. Me higher business calls, a greater plan, Worthy man's whole employ, the good of man, The good of man committed to my charge: If idle Fancy rambles forth at large, Careless of such a trust, these harmless lays May Friendship envy, and may Folly praise. The crown of Gotham may some Scot assume, And vagrant Stuarts reign in Churchill's room! 250 O my poor People! O thou wretched Earth! To whose dear love, though not engaged by birth, My heart is fix'd, my service deeply sworn, How, (by thy father can that thought be borne?-- For monarchs, would they all but think like me, Are only fathers in the best degree) How must thy glories fade, in every land Thy name be laugh'd to scorn, thy mighty hand Be shorten'd, and thy zeal, by foes confess'd, Bless'd in thyself, to make thy neighbours bless'd, 260 Be robb'd of vigour; how must Freedom's pile, The boast of ages, which adorns the isle And makes it great and glorious, fear'd abroad, Happy at home, secure from force and fraud; How must that pile, by ancient Wisdom raised On a firm rock, by friends admired and praised, Envied by foes, and wonder'd at by all, In one short moment into ruins fall, Should any slip of Stuart's tyrant race, Or bastard or legitimate, disgrace 270 Thy royal seat of empire! But what care, What sorrow must be mine, what deep despair And self-reproaches, should that hated line Admittance gain through any fault of mine! Cursed be the cause whence Gotham's evils spring, Though that cursed cause be found in Gotham's king. Let War, with all his needy ruffian band, In pomp of horror stalk through Gotham's land Knee-deep in blood; let all her stately towers Sink in the dust; that court which now is ours 280 Become a den, where beasts may, if they can, A lodging find, nor fear rebuke from man; Where yellow harvests rise, be brambles found; Where vines now creep, let thistles curse the ground; Dry in her thousand valleys be the rills; Barren the cattle on her thousand hills; Where Power is placed, let tigers prowl for prey; Where Justice lodges, let wild asses bray; Let cormorants in churches make their nest,