Illustrious Sorceries do less!

This final Resolution made, at last
Some Mystick words, and invocations past,
They call'd the Spirit of a late Court-Scribe;
Once a true Servant of the Plotting Tribe:
When both with Forreign and Domestick Cost,
He plaid the feasted Sanedrims kind Host.
H'had scribbled much, and like a Patriot bold,
Bid high for _Israels_ Peace with _Egypts_ Gold.
But since a Martyr. (Why! as Writers think,
His Masters Hand had over-gall'd his Ink.)
And by protesting _Absoloms_ wise care,
Popt into Brimstone ere he was aware.
Him from the Grave they rais'd, in ample kind,
His sever'd Head to his seer Quarters joyn'd;
Then cas'd his Chin in a false Beard so well,
As made him pass for Father _Samuel_.
Him thus equipt in a Religious Cloak,
They thus his new-made Reverence bespoke.

Go, awful Spright, hast to _Achitophel_,
Rouze his great Soul, use every Art, Charm, Spell:
For _Absolom_ thy utmost Rhetorick try,
Preach him Succession, roar'd Succession cry,
Succession drest in all her glorious pride,
Succession Worshipt, Sainted, Deify'd.
Conjure him by Divine and Humane Pow'rs,
Convince, Convert, Confound, make him but ours,
That _Absolon_ may mount on _Judahs_ Throne,
Whilst all the World before us is our own.

The forward Spright but few Instructions lackt,
Strait by the Moons pale light away he packt,
And in a trice, his Curtains open'd wide,
He sate him by _Achitophels_ Bed-side.
And in this style his artful Accents ran.

Hear _Israels_ Hope, thou more than happy Man,
Beloved on high, witness this Honour done
By Father _Samuel_, and believe me, Son,
'Tis by no common Mandate of a God,
A Soul beatifyed, the blest Abode
Thus low deserting, quits Immortal Thrones,
And from his Grave resumes his sleeping Bones.
But Heavn's the Guide, and wondrous is the way,
Divine the Embassie: hear, and obey.
How long, _Achitophel_, and how profound
A Mist of Hell has thy lost Reason drown'd?
Can the Apostacy from _Israels_ Faith,
In _Israels_ Heir, deserve a murmuring Breath?
Or to preserve Religion, Liberty,
Peace, Nations, Souls, is that a Cause so high,
As the Right Heir from Empire to debar?
Forbid it Heav'n, and guard him every Star.
Alas, what if an Heir of Royal Race,
Gods Glory and his Temples will deface,
And make a prey of your Estates, Lives, Laws;
Nay, give your Sons to _Molocks_ burning paws;
Shall you exclude him? hold that Impious Hand.
As _Abraham_ gave his Son at Gods Comman