CANTATA VI. The RELIGIOUS

Here tyrant Superstition, ugly fiend, Harpy with an angel's face, Monster in Religion's dress, Thy impious pray'rs and bloody visions end.

Hence with thy sister Persecution, go— Hence with all her pleasing dreams Of martyrs' groans, and virgins' screams, The stretching rack, and horrid wheel, Slow fires, and consecrated steel, And ev'ry priestly implement of woe, And ev'ry threat'ned tool of hoodwink'd zeal, Ingenious Rome can find, or tortur'd nature feel.

From Britain's happier clime repair To southern suns and slavish air— To empty halls, To midnight bells, To cloister'd walls, To gloomy cells Where moping Melancholy dwells— WILLIAM's name shall reach you there, And sink your souls with blank despair.

The hero comes, and with him brings Fair Hope, that soars on Cherub's wings; Firm Faith attends with stedfast eye, Intent on things above the sky, To mortal ken unknown; and She, Meek and seemly, kind and free, Ever hoping, still believing, Still forbearing, still forgiving, Greatest of the heavenly Three.

Britons, join the godlike train, Learn, that all but Truth is vain, And to her lyre attune your joy: No gifts so pure as those she brings, No notes so sweet as those she sings, To praise the heav'nly-favour'd BOY.