Page:Coopers-Hill.djvu/12

( 9 )

Nor doth he need those Emblems which we Paint,
But is himself the Souldier and the Saint.
Here should my Wonder dwell, and here my Praise,
But my fix’d thoughts my wand'ring eye betrays;
Viewing a Neighbouring Hill, whose Top of late
A Chappel crown'd, till in the common Fate,
The adjoyning Abbey fell: (May no such Storm
Fall on our Times, where Ruin must reform.)
Tell me (my Muse) what monstrous dire Offence,
What Crime could any Christian King incense
To such a Rage? Was’t Luxury or Lust?
Was he so Temperate, so Chaste, so Just?
Were these their Crimes? They were his own much more:
But Wealth is Crime enough to him that's poor;
Who having spent the Treasures of his Crown,
Condemns their Luxury to feed his own.
And yet this Act, to varnish o'er the Shame
Of Sacriledge, must bear Devotion's Name.
No Crime so bold but would be understood
A real, or at least a seeming good;
Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the Name,
And free from Conscience is a slave to Fame.
Thus he the Church at once protects, and spoils:
But Princes Swords are sharper than their stiles.
And thus to th’ Ages past he makes amends,
Their Charity destroys, their Faith defends.
Then did Religion in a lazy Cell,
In empty, airy Contemplations dwell;