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 _Boötes 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, Traitors transform to Innocents, Fiends to Saints, Reason to Nonsence, Truth to Perjury; Nay, make their own attesting Records lye, And even the gaping Wounds of Murder whole: If this last Masterpiece requires a Soul. Guilt to unmake, and Plots annihilate, Is much a greater work than to create. Nay both at once to be, and not to be, Is such a Task would pose a Deity. Let _Baal_ do this, and be a God indeed: Yes, this Immortal Honour 'tis decreed, His Sanguine Robe though dipt in reeking Gore, With purity and Innocence all o're, Shall dry, and spotless from the purple hue, The Miracle of _Gideons_ Fleece outdo. Yes, they're resolv'd, in all their foes despight, To wash their more than _Ethiop_ Treason White.