Faction Display'd/Faction Display'd
FACTION
DISPLAY'D.
SAY, Goddess Muse, for thy All-searching Eyes
Can Traytors trace thro' ev'ry dark Disguise,
Can penetrate Intriguing Statesmen's Hearts,
Their deepest Plots, and all their wily Arts.
Say, how a Fierce Cabal, Combin'd of late,
Imploy their anxious Thoughts t' embroil the State;
What angry Pow'r inspires 'em to Complain
In Anna's Gentle and Propitious Reign.
Faction, a restless and repining Fiend,
Curdles their Blood, and gnaws upon their Mind.
Off-spring of Chaos, Enemy to Form,
Who raging swells the World into a Storm.
She taught the Giants to attempt the Sky,
And Jove's avenging Thunder to defy.
She rais’d the Hand, that struck the Fatal Blow,
Which Martyr’d Jove's Vicegerent here below;
She still pursues him with relentless Hate,
Arraigns his Mem'ry, and Insults his Fate.
'Tis She, that wou’d, on ev’ry vain pretence,
Depose a True Hereditary Prince;
That would Usurpers for their Treason Crown,
Till Time and Vengeance drag them headlong down,
And Exil’d Monarchs Reassert their rightful Throne.
Just is the Model of our English Frame,
That might forever Flourish still the same,
But for this envious Fiend, who thus prepares
To Sow the Seeds of long intestine Wars.
Here is maintain'd a mixt Monarchic sway,
Which Freeborn Nations willingly obey.
For in the due Proportion of the State
The Subject's happy as the Monarch Great.
In equal Distance from Extremes we move,
Nor Tyranny, nor Commonwealth approve.
Nor Tyranny, that Savage Brutal Pow'r,
Which not protects Mankind, but does devour.
Nor Commonwealth, a Monster, Hydra-State,
Whose many Heads attempt each others Fate,
And load their Body with unweildy Weight.
Near the Imperial Palace's Remains,
Where nothing now but Desolation Reigns;
(Fatal Presage of Monarchy's decline,
And Extirpation of the Regal Line!)
There stands an Antique Venerable Pile,
Whose Lords were once the Glories of our Isle:
But now it Mourns that Race of Heroe's Dead,
And droops, and hangs its Melancholy Head.
This Pile (howe'er for better Ends design'd,
An Emblem of the Noble Founder's Mind)
Is Faction's Refuge; where she keeps her Court,
Where all her darling Votaries Resort.
Here, when their glorious N——— fell, they met
On new Resolves and Measures to Debate.
Say then, my Muse, their secret Thoughts display,
Expose their dark Designs to Open Day.
This Grand Cabal was held-at dead of Night,
(For Ghosts and Furies always shun the Light)
Despair, and Rage, and Sorrow kept 'em Dumb,
Till Moro rose (the Master of the Dome.)
A Stamm'ring, Hot, Conceited, Laughing L———,
Who prov'd his want of Sense in ev'ry word,
When thus at length his Fetter'd Tongue broke loose;
I take it as an Honour that you've Chose
For this Debate, your humble Servant's House.
The House henceforward shall Recorded stand,
As the Palladium of the sinking Land;
And I to future Ages be renown'd,
The Party's Bullwark, and the Nation's Mound.
Now, N———, the immortal N———'s gone,
We justly his untimely Herse Bemoan.
O that I could restore his Life again!
My Manly Spirit spurns a Woman's Chain.
Full of such Nonsence lisping on he went,
Till Ario interpos'd his Spleen to Vent.
A Scotch, Seditious, Unbelieving Priest,
The Brawny Chaplain of the Calves-Head-Feast;
Who first his Patron, then his Prince Betray'd,
And does that Church, he's Sworn to guard, Invade.
Warm with Rebellious Rage, he thus began;
To talk of calling Life agen is vain.
Peace to the Glorious Dead. We justly Mourn
His Ashes, ever Sacred be his Urn:
But here, my L———s, we are together met,
To vow to A———'s Sceptre endless Hate.
For since my hope of W—ton is expir'd,
With just Revenge and Indignation fir'd,
I'll boldly Write, and Preach her Title down,
My thund'ring Voice shall shake her in the throne;
Do you the Sword, and I'll engage the Gown.
A Pause ensu'd, till Patriarcho's Grace,
Was pleas'd to rear his Huge unweildy Mass;
A Mass unacted with a Reas'ning Soul,
Else would he ne'er be made so vile a Tool;
Would ne'er his Apostolick Charge profane,
And Atheists, and [1]Fanaticks Caufe maintain.
At length, as from the Hollow of an Oak,
The Bulky Primate Yawn'd, and Silence broke.
I much approve my Brother's Zealous Heat,
Such is the Noble Ardour of the Great,
On which Success and Praise will ever wait.
But I'm untaught in Politician's Schools,
Unpractis'd in their Arts and studied Rules.
The Task be therefore yours, to Forge some Plot,
And I'll be ready with my trusty Vote.
Tho' I were Mute, you must confess I've stood,
Fixt as a Rock, amidst the beating Flood;
Witness a Conscience drench'd in Fenwick's Blood.
Witness St. A———ph's, and St. D———d's Caufe,
Where obstinately I transgress'd the Laws,
And did in either Case Injustice show,
Here sav'd a Friend, there Triumph'd o'er a Foe.
Then Old Mysterio shook his Silver Hairs,
Loaded with Learning, Prophecy, and Years,
Whom Factious Zeal to fierce Unchristian Strife,
Had hurry'd in the last Extream of Life.
Strange Dotage! thus to sacrifice his Ease,
When Nature whispers Men to Crown their Days
With sweet Retirement and Religious Peace!
Fore-knowledge struggled in his heaving Breast,
E'er he in these dark Terms his Fears exprest.
The Stars rowl adverse, and malignant shine,
Some dire Portent! Some Comet I divine!
I plainly in the Revelations find,
That A———to the Beast will be inclin'd.
Howe'er, tho' She and all her Senate frown,
I'll wage eternal War with P———ton,
And venture Life and Fame to pull him down.
As he went on, his Tongue a trembling seiz'd,
And all his Pow'r of Utterance suppress'd.
So when the Sybil felt th' Inspiring God,
She raving lost her Voice, and speechless stood.
Unhappy Church, by such Usurpers sway'd!
How is thy Native Purity decay'd?
How are thy Prelates chang'd from what they were,
When Laud or Sancroft fill'd the Sacred Chair?
Laud, tho' by some traduc'd, with Zeal adorn'd,
Whilst Patriarcho is despis'd and Scorn'd,
Shall be by me for ever Prais'd, for ever Mourn'd.
Sancroft's unblemish'd Life, divinely Pure,
In its own heav'nly Innocence secure,
The Teeth of Time, the Blasts of envy shall endure.
When for th' Establish'd Faith they should contend,
Meekness and Christian Charity pretend;
But with a blind Enthusiastick Rage,
For Schism and Toleration they engage;
With strange Delight and Vehemence espouse
Occasional Conformists shameful Cause;
Oppress thy Friends, and Vindicate thy Foes,
Thy Guardian Laws to weaken they Combine,
And tamely thy Essential Rights resign.
Thy Antient Truths with [2]Modern Glosses blend,
Destroying the Religion they would mend.
But Muse proceed, nor dwell on Thoughts too long,
That would Inflame thy Satyrizing Song.
Clodio with kindling Emulation heard
What this Triumvirate of Priests declar'd.
Clodio, the Chief of all the Rebel-Race,
Uncheck'd by Fear, unhumbled by Disgrace;
Whose Working, Turbulent, Fanatick Mind
No Tenderness can move, no Ties can bind.
To gain a Rake he'll Drink, and Whore, and Rant;
T'engage a Puritan will Pray and Cant.
So Satan can in diff'ring Forms appear,
Or Radiant Light, or Gloomy Darkness wear.
Thrice he Blasphem'd, and thrice he frantick Swore
By ev'ry Terrible Infernal Pow'r;
Then wav'd his Staff, and said:
Tho N———'s Death has all our Measures broke,
Yet never will we bend to A———'s Yoke.
The glorious Revolution was in vain,
If Monarchy once more its Rights regain.
Let all be Chaos, and Confusion all,
E'er that damn'd Form of Government prevail.
Oh had he liv'd to Perfect his Design,
We soon had rooted out the hated Line!
Howe'er, since Fate has that great Change decreed,
We may on his unfinish'd Scheme proceed.
We may 'gainst Pow'r repos'd in One inveigh,
And call all Monarchy Tyrannick Sway.
We may the Praises of the Dutch advance;
Rail at the Arbitrary Rule of France;
Extol the Commonwealth in Adria's Flood,
WhiC11 for ten rowling Centuries has stood;
Argue how th' Roman and Athenian State
Were only when Republicks truly Great;
Assert in Passive Jacobites despight,
Rebellion is a Freeborn Peoples right;
Disperse a thousand well invented Tales
Of Foreign Gold, the Pope, and Prince of Wales.
'Tis easy the Unreas'ning Mob to guide,
For they are always on the Factious side.
This labour'd here, 'twill be our next Resort,
To Manage and Cajole Sophia's Court.
Toland alone for such a work is fit,
In all the Arts of Villany Compleat.
Besides no Region round shall want a Spy,
That boldly shall the Ministry decry;
Shall Praise the past, the present Reign Condemn,
And all their measures, all their Councels blame;
Shall never fail Objections still to raise,
And turn their greatest Honour to Disgrace.
Like the Supreme directing Hand of Jove,
We'll Act unseen, and all around us Move.
So Catiline the Fate of Rome design'd,
And when h' had form'd the Scheme within his Mind,
In such a warm Harangue his Friends addrest,
And open'd all the Secret of his Breast.
This hit Sigillo's Thoughts, and made him cool,
Tho' just before he scarcely could Controul
The stormy Passion swelling in his Soul;
His restless Soul, that rends his sickly Frame,
Worn with a poys'nous and corroding Flame.
An unjust J———e, and blemish of the M———,
Witness the Bankers long depending Case.
A shallow Statesman, tho' of mighty Fame,
For who cane e'er that Curst Particion Name,
But to his soul Disgrace, and to his Shame?
Nay spight of all his loud and vain Defence,
He shew'd a want of Honesty or Sense,
Tn passing ev'ry Plund'ring Courtier's Grants.
He is (for Satyr dares the Truth declare)
Deist, Republican, Adulterer.
Thus his lov'd Clodio, for his Speech he prais'd,
And Joy and Wonder in the Hearers rais'd.
There spoke the Guardian Genius of our Cause,
Whose ev'ry word deserves Divine Applause.
Not e'en [3]Cethego's self could form a Plot,
More nicely Spun, more exquisitely Wrought.
Tho' he to his immortal envied Fame,
The Glory of the Revolution Claim.
'Twas his profound unfathomable Wit,
Did James and all his Jesuit-train defeat.
He knew Reveal'd Religion was a Jest,
Impos'd upon the World by some designing Priest.
Nor therefore fear'd, but to their Idols Bow'd,
Prevaricating with his King, his God.
A Proteus, ever Acting in Disguise;
A finish'd Statesman, Intricately Wise;
A second Machiavel, who soar'd above
The little Tyes of Gratitude and Love;
Whose harden'd Conscience never felt Remorse,
Reflection is the Puny Sinner's Curse,
But why should I Cethego's Praise pursue,
When all his Virtues, Clodio, shine in you.
Narcisso next, Magnificently Gay,
Smil'd his Assent, but not a word would say.
He fear'd to strain his Voice by talking loud,
Nor was his Quail-pipe made for such a Crowd.
A batter'd Beau, yet Youthful in Decay,
Who Dresses Whores and Games his Time away.
Fond of Sedition, but indulging Vice
With all that Wealth, profusely spent, supplies.
And yet this Debauchee pretends to claim
An Injur'd Patriot's Meritorious Name.
Then squeal'd Orlando, but his furious Heat,
Shew'd him for cool mature Debates unfit,
Nor will we here the Blust'ring Speech repeat.
A bully L, whose wild mad Looks proclaim
His Bosom warm'd with more than Heroe's Flame.
Fighting and Railing are his Chief Delight,
Promiscuously opposing Wrong and Right.
Whate'er he does is always in Extreams,
Sometimes the Whig, sometimes the Tory dames
His various Temper and impetuous Mind,
To every Party is by Starts inclin'd.
He never was, nor e'er will be content
With any Prince, with any Government
Penurio lov'd the Cause, but silent sat,
Nor listen'd to their close intense Debate.
For on his Wealth ran all his Thoughts and Care,
Unblest with thirty thousand Pound a Year,
Scriv'ners Attorneys Bankers are his Train,
The Miser's Equipage, the Orphans Bane.
A narrow Soul amidst the boundless Store,
Who shuns the Wretch, that dares be Just and Poor;
Who Charity and Virtue but esteems
As the Priests Cant, and empty moral Names.
But Factious Zeal sometimes Dilates his Breast,
Nor will the Niggard grudge a flowing Feast,
To Mould the Stern Freeholders to his Hand,
Awe their Elections, and their Votes Command.
But where's the end of this immod'rate Toil?
To make a Puny Girl a Golden Spoil.
Last rose Bathillo, deck'd with borrow'd Bays,
Renown'd for others Projects, others Lays.
A gay, Pragmatical, pretending Tool,
Opiniatively Wise, and pertly Dull.
A Demy-Statesman, Talkative and Loud,
Hot without Courage, without Merit Proud;
A Leader fit for the unthinking Crowd.
With dapper Gesture, but with haughty Look,
His lewd Associates vainly he bespoke.
Do you perform the Politician's Part,
I'll bring th' Assistance of the Muses Art.
The Poet Tribe are all my Devoir,
And write as I Command, as I inspire.
C—g—ve for me Pastora's Death did Mourn,
And her white Name with Sable Verse adorn.
R——— too is mine, and of the Whiggish Train,
'Twas he that Sung immortal Tamerlane,
Tho' now he dwindles to and humbler Strain.
I help'd to Polish G———th's rough, awkward Lays,
Taught him in Tuneful Lines to Sound our Party's Praise.
W———sh Votes with us, who, tho' he never writ,
Yet passes for a Critick and a Wit.
Van's Bawdy, Plotless Plays were once our Boast,
But now the Poet's in the Builder lost.
On A———son we safely may depend,
A Pension never fails to gain a Friend.
Thro' Alpine-hills he shall my Name resound,
And make his Patron known in Classck Ground.
These pay the Tribute to my Merit due,
Call me their Horace, and Mecænas too.
Princes but sit unsettled on their Thrones,
Unless supported by Apollo's Sons.
Augustus had the Mantuan, and Venusian Muse,
And happier N——— had his M———gues.
But A———, that Ill fated Tory Queen,
Shall feel the Vengeance of the Poet's Pen.
Triton, who like the vast Leviathan,
Long wallow'd in the Treasures of the Main,
Was all Attention, and suspended hung,
For ev'ry Rebel heart has not a Tongue,
Besides, there stood a Num'rous Train of P,
Below the Notice of Recording Verse.
Beaus, Biters, Pathicks, Brs and Cits,
Toasters, Kit-Kats, Divines, Buffoons and Wits
Compos'd the Medly Crew; but I forbear
To give 'em any Place, or Mention here.
For since the Muse should Blush to paint their Crimes,
Let Decency restrain th' Invective Rhimes.
When thus their Chiefs had spoke, thro' all the Throng
Repeated Peals of Acclamations rung.
Not Antient Demagogues, with more Applause,
Asserted, and Espous'd the Rabble's Cause.
Now the Assembly to adjourn prepar'd,
When Bibliopolo from behind appear'd,
As well describ'd by th' old Satyrick Bard;
With leering Looks, Bullfac'd, and Freckled fair,
With two left Legs, and Judas-colour'd Hair,
With Frowzy Pores, that taint the ambient Air.
Sweating and Puffing for a while he stood,
And then broke forth in this Insulting Mood.
I am the Touchstone of all Modern Wit,
Without my Stamp in vain your Poets write.
Those only purchase everliving Fame,
That in my Miscellany plant their Name.
Nor therefore think that I can bring no Aid,
I'll print your Pamphlets, and your Rumours spread.
I am the Founder of your lov'd Kit-Kat,
A Club, that gave Direction to the State,
'Twas there we first instructed all our Youth,
To talk Prophane, and Laugh at Sacred Truth.
We taught them how to Toast, and Rhime, and Bite,
To Sleep away the Day, and Drink away the Night.
Some this Fantastick Speech approv'd, some Sneer'd,
The wight grew Cholerick, and disappear'd.
Mean time the Fury smil'd, who all this while
Sat hov'ring on the Summet of the Pile.
A secret and exulting Joy she finds,
To see her Influence brooding on their Minds;
And the bare prospect of such Glorious Ills
Her thoughts with rapt'rous Speculation fills.
Then She ———
With what delight do I my Sons behold,
So resolutely Brave, so fiercely Bold.
Sure nothing can resist their boundless Course,
Nothing subdue their well united Force.
Volpone, who will solely now Command
The Publick Purse, and Tse of the Land,
Wants Constancy and Courage to oppose
A Band of such exasperated Foes.
For how should he, that moves by Craft and Fear,
Or ever greatly think, or ever greatly dare?
What did he e'er in all his Life perform,
But shrunk at the approach of ev'ry Storm;
But when the tott'ring Church his aid requir'd,
With Moderation-Principles Inspir'd,
Forsook his Friends, and decently Retir'd?
Nor has he any real just Pretence
To that vast Depth of Politicks and Sense.
For where's the Depth, when Publick Credit's high,
To manage an o'erflowing Tsy?
Or where the Sense to know the Tricks of Game,
Since Sims, Sir James, and Holloway may Claim
A Knowlege as profound as his, as loud a Fame?
I fear the Man, who dares the Truth assert,
Who never plays the Double-dealing Part;
The Patriot's Soul disdains the Trimmer's Art.
Such Celsus is, but I foresee his Fate
To be supplanted by Sempronia's Hate.
(Sempronia of a Lewd procuring Race,
The Senate's Grievance, and the Court's Disgrace.)
'Tis well he cannot long his Ground maintain,
For Hell wou'd then employ her Fiend in vain.
He never knew to Prostitute the State,
Never by being Guilty to be Great.
Nor yet when publick Storms came rowling on,
Did he or Danger or his Duty shun.
Rome's subtle Priests with Sophistry essay'd,
With Wealth and Honour in the Ballance lay'd,
To shock his Faith; but nothing could controul
The firm Resolves of an unbyass'd Soul.
Descended of a Sire, whose Loyal Pen
So well describes Rebellion's bloody Scene,
Nor Livy nor Thucydides can Vie
With his Superior Sense, and Majesty.
(A History might teach succeeding Kings,
Whence the long Train of all their Sorrow Springs,
What draws their Subjects Love, what moves their Hate,
Who would support their Crowns, who work their Fate.
But such instructive Knowlege never finds
Reception in Misguided Princes Minds.)
Ally'd in Blood and Friendship to the Throne,
He nobly makes his Country's Cause his own;
Whilst others keep their int'rest still in view,
And meaner Spirits meaner ends pursue.
So the fixt Stars harmoniously comply
With the first Publick Motion of the Sky,
Whilst wand'ring Planets oppositely move,
Within the narrow Orbs of private Love.
She stopp'dfor now her Anger 'gan to rise,
Flush'd in her Cheeks, and sparkled in her Eyes.
And well it might a Fury's Passion raise,
That she was forc'd the Worth, she hates, to Praise.
The Dawn dispers'd the Crowd, she took her Flight
To the low Regions of Eternal Night.
O England how revolving is thy State?
How few thy Blessings? How severe thy Fate?
O destin'd Nation, to be thus betray'd
By those, whose Duty 'tis to serve and aid!
A griping vile degen'rate viper Brood,
That tear thy Vitals, and exhaust thy Blood.
A varying Kind, that no fixt Rule pursue,
But often form their Principles anew;
Unknowing where to lodge supreme Command,
Or in the King, or Peers, or Peoples Hand.
One while the People's Sov'raignty they own,
To vex and load a Peaceful Monarch's Crown;
Who to his Subjects, when at length Restor'd,
Without distinction was their common Lord.
What Party else to David's happy Throne,
Would have preferr'd a giddy Absalon?
But when a King is moulded to their Mind,
Then they to him would have all sway confin'd;
Nor in their own defpotick boundless Reign,
Of Injur'd Rights, and Property complain:
Nay with a Standing Force thy Sons wou'd awe;
The Subjects Slavery, the Tyrant's Law.
But if nor King nor Commons will comply
With their detested Acts of Villany.
They strive the P—rs declining Pow'r to raise,
And get Impeachments Voted into Praise.
Blest Patriots these, who Liberty employ,
T' elude thy Laws, and Liberty destroy!
Where is the Noble Roman Spirit fled,
Which once inspir'd thy antient Patriots dead?
Who were above all private Ends, and joy'd
When bravely for the publick Weal they dy'd:
Who spread, like Branching Oaks, their Arms around,
To shelter and Protect the Parent Ground;
Tho' Storms of Thunder rattled o'er their Head,
Yet all was safe beneath their Guardian Shade.
Or sure Historians on our Faith impose,
And never such a Race of Men arose;
Or Nodding Nature to a Period draws;
Or Providence, incens'd by Guilty Times,
With-holds his Grace, and dooms us to our Crimes.
Pardon (for Harmony will bring Relief,
Will sooth thy anxious Cares, and charm thy Grief)
If my Condoling Mournful Muse presume
To visit thy Marcellus Sacred Tomb.
For his Hereditary Gifts alone
Could have Retriev'd thy Fame, and carried down
The Glorious Scene of Triumphs Anna has begun.
O may thy Angel guard her Royal Mind,
That Fav'rites nor Seduce, nor Trimmers Blind,
For 'tis on Her thy Church and State depend,
With Her will Flourish, and with Her will end.
But my shock'd Thoughts the sad Idea shun,
(The sad Idea gives Eternal Moan)
When She shall late, but Ah! too soon comply
With Nature, to adorn her Kindred Sky.
For who can then pretend to wear her Crown?
Who represent the Mother, but the Son?
Oh had the Pow'r that governs humane Fate,
His Years extended to a longer Date,
To what Transcendence had his Genius sprung,
Which was so Ripe, so Perfect, yet so Young!
But when fresh blooming Youth seem'd to proclaim
The lasting Structure of his Beauteous Frame,
When Health and Vigour with a kind Presage,
Promis'd the Hoary Happiness of Age;
Then with a Momentary swift Decay,
Thy Pride, thy darling Hope was snatch'd away.
So, by the Course of the revolving Spheres,
Whene'er a new discover'd Star appears;
Astronomers with Pleasure and Amaze
Upon the Infant Luminary gaze;
They find their Heav'n enlarg'd, and wait from thence
Some Blest, some more than common Influence:
But suddenly alas! the fleeting Light
Retiring leaves their Hopes involv'd in endless Night.
FINIS.