ender Paw.
At a poor Herd of feeble Heifers flies,
Ere the rough Bear, tusk'd Boar, or spotted Leopard dies.
Thus flusht, great Sir, thy strength in _Israel_ try:
When their Cow'd Sanedrims shall prostrate lye,
And to thy feet their slavish Necks shall yield;
Then raign the Princely Savage of the Field.

Yes, _Israels_ Sanedrin, 'twas they alone
That set too high a Value on a Throne;
Thought they had a God was Worthy to be serv'd;
A Faith maintain'd, and Liberty preserv'd.
And therefore judg'd, for Safety and Renown
Of _Israels_ People, Altars, Laws and Crown,
Th'Anointing Drops on Royal Temples shed
Too precious Showrs for an Apostates Head.
Then was that great Deliberate Councel giv'n,
An Act of Justice both to Man and Heav'n,
_Israels_ conspiring Foes to overthrow,
That _Absolon_ should th'Hopes of Crowns forego.
Debarr'd Succession! oh that dismal sound!
A sound, at which _Baal_ stagger'd, and Hell groan'd;
A sound that with such dreadful Thunder falls,
'Twas heard even to _Semiramis_ trembling Walls.

But hold! is this the Plots last Murd'ring Blow,
The dire divorce of Soul and Body? No.
The mangled Snake, yet warm, to Life they'll bring,
And each disjoynted Limb together cling.
Then thus _Baals_ wise consulting Prophets cheer'd
Their pensive Sons, and call'd the scatter'd Herd.

Are we quite ruin'd! No, mistaken Doom,
Still the great Day, yes that great Day shall come,
(Oh, rouse our fainting Sons, and droop no more.)
A Day, whose Luster, our long Clouds blown o're,
Not all the Rage of _Israel_ shall annoy,
No, nor denouncing Sanedrims destroy.
See yon North-Pole, and mark _Booetes Carr_:
Oh! we have those Influencing Aspects there,
Those Friendly pow'rs that drive in that bright _Wain_,
Shall redeem All, and our lost Ground regain.
Whilst to our Glory their kind Aid stands fast,
But one Plot more, our Greatest and our Last.

Now for a Product of that subtle kind,
As far above their former Births refin'd,
As Firmamental Fires t'a Tapers ray,
Or Prodigies to Natures common Clay.
Empires in Blood, or Cities in a Flame,
Are work for vulgar Hands, scarce worth a Name.
A Cake of _Shew-bread_ from an Altar ta'ne,
Mixt but with some Levitical King-bane,
Has sent a Martyr'd Monarch to his Grave.
Nay, a poor Mendicant Church-Rake-hell slave
Has stab'd Crown'd Heads; slight Work to hands well-skill'd,
Slight as the Pebble that _Goliah_ kill'd.
But to make Plots no Plots, to clear all Taints,
Tra