INTOLERANCE.

A SATIRE.

"This clamour, which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion, has almost worn out the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth." ADDISON, Freeholder, No. 37.

START not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane

Of Bulls, Decrees, and all those thundering scrolls,
Which took such freedom once with royal souls,
When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damn'd as fast as now they're made.
No, no-let Duigenan search the papal chair *
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sallow Perceval snuff up the gale
Which wizard Duigenan's gather'd sweets exhale.
Enough for me, whose heart has learn'd to scorn
Bigots alike in Rome or England born,

*The "Sella Stercoraria" of the popes. - The Right Honourable and learned Doctor will find an engraving of this chair in Spanheim's "Disquisitio Historica de Papâ Fœminâ" (p. 118); and I recommend it as a model for the fashion of that seat which the Doctor is about to take in the privy-council of Ireland.

Who loathe the venom, whencesoe'er it springs,
From popes or lawyers, pastry-cooks or kings,
Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns,
As mirth provokes, or indignation burns,
As Canning vapours, or as France succeeds,
As Hawkesb'ry proses, or as Ireland bleeds!

And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days,
When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays
So near a precipice, that men the while

Look breathless on and shudder while they smile
If, in such fearful days, thou 'lt dare to look
To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook

Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain,

While Gifford's tongue and Musgrave's pen re

If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got

To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot,

Whose wrongs, though blazon'd o'er the world they be,

Placemen alone are privileged not to see—

Oh! turn awhile, and, though the shamrock wreathes
My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes
Of Ireland's slavery, and of Ireland's woes,
Live, when the memory of her tyrant foes
Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn,
Embalm'd in hate and canonized by scorn.
When Castlereagh, in sleep still more profound
Than his own opiate tongue now deals around,

Shall wait th' impeachment of that awful day
Which even his practised hand can't bribe away.

Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now, To see how Spring lights up on Erin's brow Smiles that shine out, unconquerably fair,

Even though the blood-marks left by Camden there,

Could'st thou but see what verdure paints the sod
Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod,
And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave,
That warms the soul of each insulted slave,
Who, tired with struggling, sinks beneath his lot,
And seems by all but watchful France forgot t
Thy heart would burn-
yes, even thy Pittite heart
Would burn, to think that such a blooming part
Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms,
And fill'd with social souls and vigorous arms,

*Not the Camden who speaks thus of Ireland:

"To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea, with so many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, ingenious, handsome, and well-complexioned, soft-skinned, and very nimble, by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this Island is in many respects so happy, that Giraldus might very well say, 'Nature had regarded with more favourable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.""

†The example of toleration, which Bonaparte has held forth, will, I fear, produce no other effect than that of determining the British government to persist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own old system of intolerance and injustice; just as the Siamese blacken their teeth, "because," as they say, "the devil has white ones."

Should be the victim of that canting crew,

So smooth, so godly, yet so devilish too;

Who, arm'd at once with prayerbooks and with whips,

Blood on their hands, and Scripture on their lips,
Tyrants by creed, and torturers by text,

Make this life hell, in honour of the next!
Your Redesdales, Percevals, great, glorious

Heaven,

If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven,
When here I swear, by my soul's hope of rest,
I'd rather have been born, ere man was blest
With the pure dawn of Revelation's light,
Yes, rather plunge me back in Pagan night
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,
Than be the Christian of a faith like this,
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey;
Which, grasping human hearts with double hold,
Like Danäe's lover mixing god and gold, ·

Corrupts both state and church, and makes an oath
The knave and atheist's passport into both;

Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know
Nor bliss above nor liberty below,

Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear,
And, lest he 'scape hereafter, racks him here!
But no
- far other faith, far milder beams
Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams;
His creed is writ on Mercy's page above,
By the pure hands of all-atoning Love;

He weeps to see abused Religion twine

Round Tyranny's coarse brow her wreath divine;
And he, while round him sects and nations raise
To the one God their varying notes of praise,
Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be,
That serves to swell the general harmony.*

Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright, That fill'd, oh Fox! thy peaceful soul with light; While free and spacious as that ambient air Which folds our planet in its circling care, The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind. Last of the great, farewell! - yet not the last Though Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past, Ierne still one ray of glory gives,

And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.

*"La tolérance est la chose du monde la plus propre à ramener le siècle d'or, et à faire un concert et une harmonie de plusieurs voix et instruments de différens tons et notes, aussi agréable pour le moins que l'uniformité d'une seule voix." Bayle, Commentaire Philosophique, etc. part ii. chap. vi.