The horrid Popish PLOT
HAPPILY DISCOVERD:
OR,
The English Protestants Remembrancer.
A POEM on the Never-to-be-forgotten
POWDER-TREASON,
And late Burning of several Cart-loads of Popish Books at the Royal Exchange.
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WElcome blest day! that happily didst save
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Our Church and Nation from a threatned Grave:
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A Day! must never Marks of Honour want,
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Whilst there survives one grateful Protestant;
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But in our Calendar shall stand inrold,
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Through every Age, with Characters of Gold.
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As once proud Haman with a cursd Decree,
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Had sign'd God's peoples General Destinie,
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So cruel Factors now of Hell and ROME,
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Resolv'd on Englands universal Doom.
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But Heaven's bright Eye Reveald the Hellish PLOT,
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Which had it prosperd, boldly might have shot
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At the Celestial Throne, put out the Sun,
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And made the World back to its Chaos run.
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Though deep as Hell they laid the Black Designe,
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Fate blasts their Projects with a Countermine:
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And then the desperate Undertakers be,
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Like Haman, sentencd to the fatal Tree.
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Thus Pharaoh perishd, Israel scapd free.
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And shall such Mercies ever be forgot?
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No, no, --- Were we so thankless, they would not
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Permit it; whose new Treasons still we see,
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Revive their Old ones to our Memory.
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The Cockatrice on the same Eggs doth brood;
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Rebellion's Venome is their natural Food.
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Romes Founder by a Wolf (tis said) was nursd,
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And with his Brothers blood her Walls at first
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He cemented: whence ever since we finde
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Her Off spring of a Ravenous, Bloody kinde.
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Long since with Temporal Arms, and Flags unfurl'd,
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She Tyranny ore Conquerd Nations hurl'd;
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And now with Spiritual Thraldom grasps the World.
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Sooner the AEthiop may blanch his skin,
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And Devils cease from tempting Men to sin;
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Sooner shall Darkness dwell in the Suns beams,
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And Tybur mix with our Thames purer Streams,
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Than the slie Jesuit his old Arts will leave,
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Or cursed Nets of Treason cease to weave.
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But now behold! methinks a gallant Sight,
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Doctrines of Darkness yonder brought to light:
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Boonfires in Earnest! where Romes Pamphlets fry,
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And Popish Authors pass their Purgatry.
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Unto the Fire their Books most justly came,
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Which first were wrote to set us in a Flame.
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As in the Air the burning Papers flew,
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We might, in Emblem, that Religion view:
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Which makes a while a glorious glittering Blaze,
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And with gay Pomp inviteth Fools to gaze;
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Pretends directly towards Heav'n to fly
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On Wings of flaming Love and Charity:
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But wait a while, approach a little nigher,
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Its Glory fades, grows faint, and does Expire.
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What at first view appeard so warm and bright,
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Like painted Fires, yields neither Heat, nor Light,
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But Gross and Earthly down it comes again,
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And with its Blackness, where't doth touch, doth stain.
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Was it for this the Monk in his dark Cell,
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With Nitrous Earth, and Brimstone stoln from Hell,
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First compos'd Gun-powder, that it might be
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The future Engine of their Butchery?
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At one sad stroke to Massacre a Land,
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And make them fall, whom Heaven ordain'd to stand?
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Or could the bold, but silly Traitors hope,
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Great Britain ere would Truckle to the Pope?
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Erect and Lofty still her Genius stands,
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And defies all their Heads, and all their Hands.
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Nor shall their Strength or Policy e're reach
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Our Ruine, if our Crimes ope not the Breach.
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Still we are safe, till our Transgression merits
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The dreadful Reformation from such spirits.
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They dig in vain, nor need our Nation fear
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Dark Lanthorns, whilst Gods Candlesticks are here.
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The Purple Whore may lay her Mantle by,
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Until our Sins are of a Scarlet Die.
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Lord! may they never to that Bulk proceed,
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Nor fester so within, that we should need
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Italian Horse-leeches to make us Bleed.
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May Reviv'd London never more become
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The Priests Burnt-offering to Insulting Rome.
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With Guarding Mercies still our Sovereign tender,
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And be thou His, as He's thy Faiths Defender.
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