THE CONFINEMENT Of the SEVEN BISHOPS.  

WHere is there Faith, or Justice to be found?  
Sure, the World Trembles, Nature's in a sound,  
To see her Pious Sons, Designed to Fall,  
A Victim, for Religion, Truth and All.  
The Charms of Piety, are no Defence,  
Against the New found Power, that can Dispense  
With Laws, to Murder Innocence:  
Surely, unless some Pitying God look down,  
And stop the Threatening Torrent, it will drown  
Divinity itself.—  
The Bishop's Prisoners are, we tamely see;  
The Reverend Prelates forced to Bow the Knee  
To Antichrist: No, Mighty Monarch, know,  
Tho' we must pay to Caesar what we Owe;  
There is a Power Supreme, by which You Live,  
Whose Arm is longer, and Prerogative  
Larger by far, than Yours, whose very Word  
Can blast Your Hopes, and turn Your two edged Sword;  
Can make this Titular Vicegerent know,  
Virtue, like Palm's Depressed, does higher grow.  
Tho' Robed in all the Grandeur of the State,  
Courtiers, like Radiant Stars about You wait,  
Midst of Your Glorious Joys, when You put on  
That Awful Presence, which becomes a Throne:  
Belshazzer like, Three Words upon a Wall,  
'Twill Dash Your Joys, and make Your Glory Fall:  
His Holiness, That Patriot of Strife,  
Tho' he can grant You Pardon, cannot Life.  
Arise then, Mighty Sir, in Godlike Mean!  
As of thy Valour, Let thy Truth be Seen,  
Free from Mistrust, Let all Your Words be clear  
By Action; Let Your Promises appear,  
Protect the Church, which brought You to the Crown;  
You know 'tis Great, and Honourable to Own,  
A Kindness done; But to Reward with Death,  
The Happy Instruments, That gave You Breath,  
Is mean; and might a Catholic Conscience sting,  
To cut the Hand of that, Anoints You King.