Classic Poem

Hail, pious days! thou most propitious time,
When hated moderation was a crime,
When sniv'ling saints were cropped for look of grace,
And branded for a conventicle face,
Whole floods of gore distained the guilty years,
Noses ragou'd, and fricassees of ears;
When rampant Laud the church's thunder threw,
His sacred fury no distinction knew:
The people suffered and the priesthood too.
But now behold the bright inverted scene,
Mercy returns in a forgiving queen:
Her senate's anger burns in milder fires,
Proud of that clemency which she inspires.
Calmly they try their enemy professed,
And though they damn the doctrine, save the priest;
On the deluded tool look mildly down,
And spare the factious pedant for the gown.
So when in sullen state, by peasants bound,
The gen'rous lion walks his thoughtful round,
Should some small cur his privacy invade,
And cross the circle which his paws had made,
Fired with disdain, he hurls his eyes below,
But loath to grapple with so mean a foe,
Bestrides him shivering with inglorious fear,
And pisses on the wretch he scorns to tear.