The Church-scuffle; or, the Noble Labours of the Great Dean of Notre-dame in Paris, for the Erecting in His…

Now Night was in the middle of her reign: Great was her pomp, and spacious was her train. From her large throne of jet, she saw the proud High towers of Paris scorn an humble cloud. Ravens, and all the prophets of the air, Nightly to dormitories near repair: Amongst the rest, for twenty winters foul, In a dark cave, a Sibyl, call'd an Owl, Secur'd herself from Day's oppressing light; And fled abroad, to prophesy at Night. Of great disasters she has early sense, Is an impartial true intelligence. All sects believe her, though she joins with none; The Schismatick flies all communion. Night for her healing touch Nature enthrones, She often cures both crazy minds and bones. Kings fall'n with care below e'en common men, She re-anoints, and makes them kings again. Day wears, but Night repairs, nay makes mankind, The only labour to her reign assign'd, Therefore this Ethiop with Day divides The rule of time; half through her empire slides. Angry to see her reign profan'd with toil, She posted to suppress the noisy broil, And the bold authors; for the great affair, She chose this Owl her premier minister, And call'd her out; her black queen's voice she knew, To her retinue joyfully she flew. Both swiftly through th' august Cathedral past, And found the prison of the engine vast. It lay neglected in a desert room; Night plac'd her bird deep in its dusty womb.

Now Trole and Minnum, two great chiefs elect, Left the Dean's vault, and the slow Verger check'd. He was as vigorous as they in mind, But age and gout detain'd him far behind. Besides, th' old tortoise carried on his back Of necessary tools a boisterous pack, As hammer, chissels, mallet, saw, and nails, Under whose weight his wasted vigour fails. The warriors force through Night's affrightful shade; Then valiantly the high proud dome invade. First they ascend to the magnific porch, Which stor'd the valued learning of the Church.

The Verger stopp'd the troop, whilst, with the dint Of steel, he cut the veins of stubborn flint, And forc'd from thence a spark; the infant bright As soon as born begot another light, Which proves to them a kind of midnight sun, By whose direction boldly they go on. Th' unfolding gates upon the troop let loose Detested shades, like floods through opening sluice. Like a bold caravan the stream they stem, The horrors and the solitude contemn, So on in wilds where never was a road, And reach at length the pulpit's dark abode. Their wonders on the fall'n machine they feast, Like birds upon the carcass of a beast. " How now? said Minnum, come we here to gaze?" And then, ambitious to engross the praise, With a stiff threatening arm, and bending back, He singly made a desperate attack. Ere half his force the engine had receiv'd, (Astonishing! and scarce to be believ'd) A horrid voice out of the pulpit flew, Th' old Verger from his back his burthen threw; The fire from Trole's flaming visage stray'd, Only in his nose, as in a socket, play'd. Pale Minnum like a lily hung his head, With his lost mistress wish'd himself in bed: But, fearing shame, he put false courage on, Seem'd bolder now more danger might be won. The frightful dangerous engine shook once more, With greater resolution than before.

The angry Owl, once more depriv'd of ease, Rushes abroad with greater menaces, Scattering a storm of wind and dust about, Which put their candle and their courage out. Their trembling knees could not their bodies bear; Their nerves were weaker than their staring hair. In wild confusion they slunk all away, Like truants by their whipster catch'd at play. Discord rag'd at their foil, and, in despight Of their base fear, will force them to the fight. In Boyrude's wither'd figure she appears, Aged, but worn with wrangling more than years; Wrinkled, but malice half the cyphers made, And claim to half his wasted visage laid. Her bending trunk she with a staff supports, And hastes to find her warriors' dark resorts. With broken voice, and hoarse with frequent brawl, She cries, "Where are you fled, ye cowards all? Think you, because your odious heads ye hide, Your infamy more odious is not spy'd? Come out, and shew the reason of your fear."

Stung with reproof, with boldness they appear, Proud of th' encounter, and prepar'd to boast, For all of them believ'd the Owl a Ghost. Minnum was fix'd in the opinion strong; His charms had kill'd a Sempstress fair and young, Her heart was crush'd between his voice and face, The kingdom had not such a dangerous place. His voice had fix'd her in the fatal snare: She often came to gaze on him at prayer, And, when his eye was from the book releas'd, He glances shot which pierc'd her tender breast. At length, alas! she perish'd in the fray, Her ruin therefore heavy on him lay. What shape could more exactly fit her soul, Than that of an unlovely bashful Owl, Whom the wing'd Chanters drive out of their sight, And make her live in melancholy night?

With these conceits they swelling came, and cram'd; Minnum for th' Owl a doleful speech had fram'd. He said, "We saw a Ghost or Goblin foul!" Reply'd the Goddess, "Goblin! a poor Owl Drives you from glory by base childish fears, This Owl has been my neighbour thirty years. Near my own house she every evening makes, And sends abroad, her nightly Almanacks. Fear you a foolish timorous Owl's grimace? How durst y' encounter then a Judge's face? Board Lawyers without sees, as I have done, And to myself immortal glory won. Judges from me could not protect the bar, Where spite of them my deeds recorded are. Oh, Sirs! the Church produc'd brave spirits then, A Sexton was as surly as a Dean; Bore wrongs as proudly, and forgave as few: The least of us would a whole Chapter sue. But the old world grows barren by degrees, And breeds no more such gallant souls as these. However, imitate their virtues great, Let not an Owl compel you to retreat. Think what dishonour on yourselves you throw, How insolent you'll make the Chanter grow: From texts he cannot borrow such control, As from the shameful story of the Owl. The thought o' th' Owl will ride you night and day; Dispirit you, though ye be ne'er so gay; Untune your voices when you'd sing your best, Russle your plumes when you are neatly drest, Your surplices, wips, cravats, set with care, E'en women will regard you less than prayer; The pews will be neglected by degrees, And the old Verger lose his Sunday fees. I hear a murmur say your spirits rise, And I see Church-like fury in your eyes. Away to honour, gather laurels fast, With present bravery hide dishonour past."

This said, the warlike Goddess took her flight. And, mounting, streak'd the air with tracks of light, Which fir'd our champions hearts. The Howlard fled; A generous contempt succeeded dread. Th' affront receiv'd from the vile saucy foe On th' engine was reveng'd by many a blow. In mournful tones the pitying organ moan'd, And the whole sympathizing temple groan'd. Ah! when this spacious wooden horse was rear'd, If thou, oh Chanter! hadst the treason heard, Thou, in defence of ecclesiastic pride, Like a true Church Apostle, would'st have dy'd; Rather great Martyr been, than Chanter small, And in red letters shine, or not at all. But sleep thou feed'st does with thy foes combine, And hug thee whilst they compass their design. For now a lofty Ecclesiastic Throne Buries thy Bench, where thou so long hast shone.