Power to demolish, from its base,
Dagon's proud fane, on Dagon's race;
Not thus like Samson ;-false of heart,
The tonsured juggler play'd his part,
God's law in God's own name made void,
Men for their Saviour's sake destroy'd,
Made pure religion his pretence

To rid the earth of innocence;
While Spirits from th' infernal flood

Cool'd their parch'd tongues in martyrs' blood,
And half forgot their stings and flames
In conning, at those hideous games,
Lessons, which he who taught should know
How well they had been learn'd below.
Among the engines of his power

Most dreaded in the trying hour,
When impotent were fire and steel,
All but almighty was the Wheel,
Whose harrowing revolution wrung
Confession from the slowest tongue;
From joints unlock'd made secrets start,
Twined with the cordage of the heart;
From muscles in convulsion drew
Knowledge the sufferer never knew;
From failing flesh, in Nature's spite,
Brought deeds that ne'er were done to light;
From snapping sinews wrench'd the lie,
That gain'd the victim leave to die;
When self-accused,-condemn'd at length,
His only crime was want of strength;
From holy hands with joy he turn'd,
And kiss'd the stake at which he burn'd.
But from the man of soul sublime,
Who lived above the world of time,
Fervent in faith, in conscience clear,
Who knew to love,—but not to fear;
When every artifice of pain
Was wasted on his limbs in vain,

And baffled cruelty could find
No hidden passage to his mind,
The Wheel extorted naught in death,
Except-forgiveness, and his breath.
Such a victorious death to die

Were prompt translation to the sky:
-Yet with the weakest, I would meet

Racks, scourges, flames, and count them sweet;
Nay, might I choose, I would not 'scape
"The question," put in any shape,
Rather than sit in judgment there,
Where the stern bigot fills the chair:
-Rather than turn his torturing Wheel,
Give me its utmost stretch to feel.

NO. IV. THE STATE LOTTERY.

ESCAPED from ancient battle-field,
Though neither with nor on my shield:
Escaped-how terrible the thought
Even of escape !-from Juggernaut ;
Escaped from tenfold worse perdition
In dungeons of the Inquisition;
Oh with what ecstasy I stand
Once more on Albion's refuge-land !
Oh with what gratitude I bare
My bosom to that island-air,

Which tyrants gulp and cease to be,
Which slaves inhale and slaves are free!

For though the wheels, behind my back,
Still seem to rumble in my track,
Their sound is music on the breeze;

I dare them all to cross the seas:

-Nay, should they reach our guarded coast,
Like Pharaoh's chariots and his host,

Monks, Brahmins, warriors, swoln and dead,
Axles and orbs in wrecks were spread.
And are there on this holy ground
No wheels to trail the vanquish'd found?
None, framed the living bones to break,
Or rend the nerves for conscience-sake?
No:-Britons scorn th' unhallow'd touch,
They will not use, nor suffer such;
Alike they shun, with fearless heart,
The victim's and tormentor's part.

Yet here are wheels of feller kind,
To drag in chains the captive mind;
To crush, beneath their horrid load,
Hearts panting prostrate on the road;
To wind desire from spoke to spoke,
And break the spirit stroke by stroke.
Where Gog and Magog, London's pride,
O'er city bankruptcies preside;

Stone-blind at nisi prius sit,

Hearken stone-deaf to lawyers' wit;

Or scowl on men, that play the beasts
At Common Halls and Lord Mayors' feasts,
When venison or the public cause,
Taxes or turtle, stretch their jaws :
There, in a whisper be it said,
Lest honest Beckford shake his head;
Lest Chatham, with indignant cheek,
Start from his pedestal and speak;
Lest Chatham's son in marble groan,
As if restored to skin and bone ;*
There, speak,-speak out,-abandon fear;
Let both the dead and living hear;
-The dead, that they may blush for shame
Amidst their monumental fame ;
-The living, that, forewarn'd of fate,
Conscience may force them, ere too late,

*These lines refer to the statues of British worthies which adorn the Guildhall of London.

Those Wheels of infamy to shun,
Which thousands touch, and are undone.
There,-built by legislative hands,
On Christian ground, an altar stands.

"Stands? gentle Poet, tell me where?"
Go to Guildhall:-"It stands not there!"
True;-'tis my brain that raves and reels
Whene'er it turns on Lottery Wheels;
Such things in youth can I recall
Nor think of thee,-of thee, Guildhall?
Where erst I play'd with glittering schemes,
And lay entranced in golden dreams;
Bright round my head those bubbles broke,
Poorer from every dream I woke ;

Wealth came, but not the wealth I sought;
Wisdom was wealth to me; and taught
My feet to miss thy gates,-that lay,
Like toll-bars on the old " broad. way,"
Where pilgrims paid,-oh grief to tell!
Tribute for going down to hell.

Long on thy floor an altar stood,

To human view unstain'd with blood,
But red and foul in Heaven's pure eyes,
Groaning with infant sacrifice,

From year to year;—till sense or shame,
Or some strange cause without a name,
-'Twas not the cry of innocence,—
Drove such abomination thence:
Thence drove it,—but destroy'd it not;
It blackens some obscurer spot;
Obscurer, yet so well defined,
Thither the blind might lead the blind,
While heralds shout in every ear,
"This is the temple,-worship here."
Thither the deaf may read their way;
"Tis plain;-to find it, go astray!
Thither the lame, on wings of paper,
May come to nothing, like a vapour;

Thither may all the world repair;
A word, a wish, will waft you there;
And, O so smooth and steep the track,
'Tis worth your life to venture back;
Easy the step to Cooper's Hall,*
As headlong from a cliff to fall;
Hard to recover from the shock,
As broken-limb'd to climb a rock.
There, built by legislative hands,
Our country's shame, an altar stands;
Not votive brass, nor hallow'd stone,
Humbly inscribed-❝ To God unknown;"
Though sure, if earth afford a space
For such an altar, here's the place:
-Not breathing incense in a shrine,
Where human art appears divine,
And man by his own skill hath wrought
So bright an image of his thought,
That nations, barbarous or refined,
Might worship there th' immortal mind,
That gave their ravish'd eyes to see
A meteor glimpse of Deity;

A ray of Nature's purest light,
Shot through the gulf of Pagan night,
Dazzling,—but leaving darkness more
Profoundly blinding than before.
-Ah! no such power of genius calls
Sublime devotion to these walls;
No pomp of art, surpassing praise,
Britannia's altar here displays:
A MONEY-CHANGER'S TABLE,-spread
With hieroglyphics, black and red.
Exhibits, on deceitful scrolls,

"The price of Tickets,"-and of Souls;
For thus are Souls to market brought,
Barter'd for vanity,-for naught;

* Where the State Lottery was drawn for many years.