deep, O _Albion!_ art thou curst.
No Judgment open Prophanation fears,
For who dreads God, that can preserve his Ears?
Oh save me Providence, from Vice refin'd,
That worst of ills, a _Speculative Mind_![47]
Not that I blame divine Philosophy,
(Yet much we risque, for Pride and Learning lye.)
Heav'n's paths are found by Nature more than Art,
The Schoolman's Head misleads the Layman's Heart.

What unrepented Deeds has _Albion_ done?
Yet spare us Heav'n! return, and spare thy own.
Religion vanishes to _Types_, and _Shade_,
By Wits, by fools, by her own Sons betray'd!
Sure 'twas enough to give the Dev'l his due,
Must such Men mingle with the _Priesthood_ too?
So stood _Onias_ at th' Almighty's Throne,
Profanely cinctur'd in a Harlot's Zone.

Some _Rome_, and some the _Reformation_ blame;
'Tis hard to say from whence such License came;
From fierce Enthusiasts, or Socinians sad?
_C----ns_ the soft, or _Bourignon_ the mad?
From wayward Nature, or lewd Poet's Rhimes?
From praying, canting, or king-killing times?
From all the dregs which _Gallia_ cou'd pour forth,
(Those Sons of Schism) landed in the _North_?--
From whence it came, they and the D----l best know,
Yet thus much, _Pope_, each Atheist is thy Foe.

O Decency, forgive these friendly Rhimes,
For raking in the dunghill of their crimes.
To name each Monster wou'd make Printing dear,
Or tire _Ned Ward_, who writes six Books a-year.
Such vicious Nonsense, Impudence, and Spite,
Wou'd make a Hermit, or a Father write.
Tho' _Julian_ rul'd the World, and held no more
Than deist _Gildon_ taught, or _Toland_ swore,
Good _Greg'ry_[48] prov'd him execrably bad,
And scourg'd his Soul, with drunken Reason mad.
Much longer, _Pope_ restrain'd his awful hand,
Wept o'er poor _Niniveh_, and her dull band,
'Till Fools like Weeds rose up, and choak'd the Land.
Long, long he slumber'd e'er th' avenging hour;
For dubious Mercy half o'er-rul'd his pow'r:
'Till the wing'd bolt, red-hissing from above
Pierc'd Millions thro'----For such the Wrath of _Jove_.
_Hell_, _Chaos_, _Darkness_, tremble at the sound,
And prostrate Fools bestrow the vast Profound:
No _Charon_ wafts 'em from the farther Shore,
Silent they sleep, alas! to rise no more.

Oh POPE, and Sacred _Criticism!_ forgive
A Youth, who dares approach your Shrine, and live!
Far has he wander'd in an unknown Night,