THE MISFORTUNES OF St. Paul's CATHEDRAL  
Can we Consult th' Eternal Mighty Fates,  
Which give fixed Laws to Greatest Kings and States:  
And know what they above have once degreed  
For their poor Vassals, we should have no need  
To make Reflections on what 'ere is done;  
Or be solicitous for what's to come:  
Free from such Cares we unconcerned could sit,  
Like Loyal Subjects, ready to submit.  
But since the Gods will not such favour show  
To shallow, find Being's here below;  
Thy'l not deny a Pardon sure, if we  
Encompassed with whole Troops of Misery;  
In mournful Accents do at length express.  
Nor need we study for a Thame more fit  
For serious Tragedy, than Comic Wit:  
If we but look upon that Sacred Place,  
Which did too much ungrateful England grace;  
We must confess its infelicity  
Exceeds the Bounds of an Hyperbole.  
That stately Pile, and Sacred to the Name  
Of Thee Great Paul, is now the Nations shame.  
Thou most unhappy Church, there's none can be  
In pure unhapiness compared to Thee.  
You may derive your Royal Pedigree  
From him, who was of Saxon Monarchy  
The greatest glory, nay yet farther, who  
Was something greater, giving Birth to you.  
For many Ages did you stand entire,  
Whilst every one your glory did admire:  
This Bitish Isle, tho' great, could not contain  
A thing so large as thy prodigious Name.  
No Nation then so rude, but strove to be  
Spectators of all Art's Epitome.  
Thousands of wand'ring Pilgrims round thee throng,  
Sated with joy and admiration.  
'Twas such a glorious, rare amazing Scene,  
That they could scarce believe what they had seen.  
But thy Illustrious Splendour proved to be  
The Prologue to a Future Tragedy:  
For Gods at last stood in an ecstasy,  
To see a thing so great, so brave as Thee.  
How much says Jove that Palace doth outshine  
This mean, this despicable House of mine?  
It derogates too much from my Grandeur;  
I can no longer this affront endure.  
'Tis fit that these bold Sons of Earth should know,  
That their Dominion only is below:  
These higher Orbs, the Clouds and Sky, are mine;  
Nor will I my Prerogative resign.  
From hence their swelling thoughts will soar so high;  
They'll scorn the Gods, and huffed their Deity.  
This Second Babel therefore soon shall down,  
For fear they Rival me too in my Crown.  
He gave the word: th' officious Lightning ran;  
And like the Caesar, saw and overcame.  
Yet Jove himself, who does Heaven's Sceptre sway,  
Respect and Honour to this place did pay:  
His strict Injunctions to the Flames were such,  
He suffered not their greedy hands to touch  
The Body, or Foundation of the Choir;  
But only checked th' ambition of the Spire.  
That Lofty Head, which did too high aspire,  
Was soon Lopped off by the victorious Fire.  
Then did that Tyrant, Time, the common Foe  
Of aged things, strive hard to overthrow  
Thy weak and tottering Columns, but in vain;  
For all its Force thou well couldst then sustain:  
Great CHARLES, That Earthly God did Thee Defend,  
Who was to holy things a constant Friend;  
Thy Friend and thy Physician he did prove,  
Fed with the Sacred Fire of zealous Love.  
He healed thy wounds; nor did he leave thee so;  
But added to thy State a Portico.  
But when thy Zealous Patron Charles had been  
Huffed by bold Rebels, when their Plots were green;  
His Native Right out-justled by the Rout,  
And Treacherous Swords against the Sceptre fought;  
When that prevailing Party bore such Sway,  
Nought could, but Royal Blood, their Rage allay;  
Those Hurricanes of State who could withstand,  
When dismal Ruin overflowed the Land?  
Thy spotless Innocency proved to be  
But an incentive to their Cruelty.  
So does the harmless Dove a Victim fall  
To Hawks, which Banquet at her Funeral.  
Thy Loyalty did truly then appear,  
Thy didst a part in all his Sufferings bear  
Who was the Lord's anointed; and we own  
It fit, that Kings don't mourn, or die alone.  
Like a dejected Widow, you had on  
Griefs Livery, because your Lord was gone.  
No Chorister durst then approach that Choir,  
Which Men, nay Angels once might well admire.  
Thy Hymns Divine were Banished; and the noise  
Of Horses louder than the choicest voice.  
Though Marble, you sure wept to see such Guests  
So near your Hallowed Altar daily feast.  
Unparallelled Profaneness! since we know,  
That Heathens never used their Temples so.  
Their Blind Devotion still such reverence paid  
To those Mock-Gods which their own hands had made,  
What 'ere was dedicated to their Name,  
Might not be touched by any thing profane.  
But our Reformers were so frugal grown,  
They thought it was too much for God alone,  
A whole Cathedral to Monopolise.  
And therefore were so zealous and so wise,  
Him and his service both they bid farewell;  
And suffer Horses in his Courts to dwell.  
Religion sure, is brought to strange decay,  
When none but Horses tread the sacred way.  
Those Storms were overblown at last; the Air  
Once more began to look serene and fair:  
Our Prince's Restauration seemed to be  
A happy and long-wished for jubilee.  
Those Eyes which seldom saw that Stranger sleep,  
Oppressed with misery, forgot to weep.  
The sad Reflections on past Tyaanny  
Were swallowed up in thoughts of Liberty.  
Such universal joy as knows no Bounds,  
In e'vry Loyal Subjects heart was found.  
Then did you like those Embers that have lain  
In heaps of Ashes, your Lost Strength regain:  
In peace and Triumph than you had a share;  
Because misfortunes you so well did bear.  
No strength so great, no universal sway;  
But must at last to Nature Tribute pay.  
The Bloomish Rose, the Glory of ehe Spring,  
By one cold Blast is left a silly thing.  
When Phoebus with the greatest State and Pride,  
Mounted his Chariot, doth in Triumph ride;  
Some sullen and malicious Cloud in spite,  
With Sabel-Curtains doth eclipse his Light.  
So was thy Infant-Bliss a Martyr made,  
Toth' utmost rage of cruel flames betrayed:  
Flames crueler than those which destroy  
Thy walls, the works o'th' Gods o Troy  
A fiery Army sure's enough to make  
The haughtiest and most darted spirit quake:  
Such grimed looked Enemies did then appear;  
Which never understood what 'twas to spear,  
The frowning General his well-marshalled Troops  
Summons together; then about him looks:  
My Fellow-soldiers, you have always been  
With Laurel Crowned; but yet have never seen  
An Enemy so vast, so brave as this;  
Who of the greatest danger worthy is.  
Behold a City sleeping and secure,  
Not apprehending us, or danger near:  
One bold attack will make her Towers shake;  
The next a place so unprovided take.  
Here Heaps of Gold, and Jewels crowded lie,  
As if it were the World's vast Treasury  
A Prospect of such Plunder sure would set  
New Edges on your Swords, and Courage whet  
He spoke: th' impatient Troops in haste fall on,  
As if they thought, they'd been kept back too long.  
Each takes his several Post; thus did they fight;  
And than their rallied Companies unite.  
Horrour's Effigies then filled every place,  
To see its Ruin marching on apace.  
In vain they supplicate the mighty power  
Of conquering Flames, and shed a fruitless Shower  
Of being Tears, whilst each repeated cry  
Helps to make up the Scene of Misery.  
The Sun when he his Course had scarce half run,  
Blushing, Retires, to see himself outdone;  
To see a Fire on Earth so strangely bright,  
Which made continual day, and knew no Night.  
Such Clouds of Smoak each Minute did arise;  
The Gods might think 'twas some great Sacrifice.  
A Real Sacrifice it was; but such,  
No Tongue or Pen can 'ere lament too much:  
Mistake most dismal, and unheard device,  
When Altars are themselves the Sacrifice.  
Those Sacred Temples which did others save,  
Now burned to Ashes cannot find a Grave:  
But must with common things confused lie,  
Unless distinguished by an Elegy.  
In this how kindly did the Fates conspire?  
Though Urns they wanted, yet had Funeral Fire.  
Thy Crisis now unhappy Church we see,  
Who long had struggled with hard Destiny:  
Trials of Fire you did before endure,  
Which purged your Dross, yet left you not secure:  
These Flames Impartial were, and moved down all;  
Nor could you 'ere have had a nobler fall;  
Sharing your Fate, when others did attend,  
Ambitious of their Mother-Churches End.  
The difference this; although you'd all one death,  
On them alone the Fates bestowed new breath:  
They only risen again, 'tis only they,  
Who seem to antedate the general day.  
Continual Changes through each Creature pass,  
Until Transformed again to what it was.  
Heaven's glorious Host, the Stars with sparkling Eyes  
Have their Declinings, but they set to rise.  
Although Queen Cynthia constant Waning bears,  
In her full Lustre she sometimes appears.  
So is the Oak, when it with Storms hath striven,  
The Glory, and the Monarch of the Grove,  
Of all its brave and green array bereft,  
To Cruel Winter's Mercy naked left;  
But when the Rage of envious Winter's gone,  
It's new green Livery is soon put on.  
Those dying Plants, which lately soughts a Tomb,  
Within their Mother Earth's indulgent Womb  
Put forth their Heads, and stand amazed awhile,  
To see again one universal Smile.  
Each Tree and Plant, looks then so brisk and gay,  
Nature itself seems to keep Holiday.  
New Vigour is infused to every thing,  
But only you; you know no second Spring.  
Your utter Ruines by the Fates decreed;  
Who give fresh wounds, and laugh to see them bleed.  
Pandora's Box was empty once; but we  
Behold another fruitful Progeny  
Of Evils and Misfortunes, hover round  
Thy dislocated Members on the ground.  
Though one would think the Fates should tired be  
Of one continud ' Scene of Cruelty;  
Or that their Wit, nay Rage could not invent  
A Plague for thee, which has not yet been sent;  
Triumphing on your Ruins now they tread,  
Like an Insulting Conqueror o'er the Dead.  
Behold a place, which lately did appear  
Too great a Labour for an Age to rear;  
In twice six years, so rich, so stately grown,  
As if Devouring Flames it ne'er had known.  
Strange Paradox! can Fire, that dismal thing,  
New strength and Honour to a City bring?  
Such was thy Fate, O London; Lo it came  
To Usher in thy present Wealth and Fame:  
That there might Room and fit Reception be  
For such a Stately, Noble thing as thee.  
Compared to you Old London's mean and low,  
As Shrubs which under Cedar's shadows grow.  
Of other Cities you may well be Queen,  
When every House does like a Palace seem.  
The Proud Egyptian Memphis famed of old,  
A Rival Pyramid may here behold.  
Those Churches, which with you had equal fate  
In Fire and Ashes, both live now in State:  
They all appear in such a Splendid Dress,  
Their Ruin seems their greatest Happiness.  
But for Precedence striving, could not stay,  
For thee their Mother-Church to lead the way.  
On them, though plenteous Showers of Joy did fall,  
Poor Gideon's Fleece was dry amongst them all.  
Whilst all things else their joy in Triumph sound,  
Like an unpitied Beggar on the ground,  
Poor solitary Nymph You set alone,  
The only Auditor of your own Moan.  
O sad Catastrophe! how changed are you?  
Of what you were, you scarce the shadow show.  
Full of pretended piety and Care  
We ruin'd what the very Flames did spare.  
We pulled down what their Mercy let remain;  
But have forgot to build Thee up again.  
Those Hands, whose Strength and Vigour than was shown;  
Are useless now, and paralytic grown  
Forsaken of false Friends, you sadly stand  
Derision's common Object through the Land.  
This wounded deeper than all former Ills;  
For more than wretched's he whom pity kills.  
A rough, confused, imperfect thing are you;  
As Chaos was, 'ere any Form it knew.  
One part begun, unfinished does admire,  
After so many years to be no higher:  
It looks upon those Heaps of Stones below,  
And fancies them to be remiss and slow:  
It frets and fumes, to see their strange Delay;  
And bids them hasten, hasten, come away.  
They sighing, answer ah! we cannot move,  
Unless supported by the zeal and Love  
Of some Maecenas; 'tis the joyful sound  
Of such a Voice must raise us from the ground.  
Although we don't believe, th' Enchanting Lyre  
Of Orpheus could the very Stones inspire:  
Or that the Stones should so ingenuous be,  
To dance and keep an uniformity;  
An with such good Invention were filled,  
That they themselves the City Thebes did build;  
Yet we shall scarce this Place Rebuilded see,  
Unless that Method now Repeated be:  
For whilst the Stones for aid doth Sigh and Moan,  
More deal than they, and Flinty we are grown.  
Hundreds of Priests, and Levites every day  
Are thy Spectators; so they pass away.  
But scarce one good Samaritan is found,  
To pity, or relieve thee on the Ground.  
Although so many wear the Holy Robe,  
Most prove such Friends, as others did to Job  
Unhappy Church! well mayst thou long to be  
Reduced to a pure Non-Enity.  
Till than we'll not disgrace the Name of Paul;  
But Thee Misfortunes Hieroglyphic call.  
FINIS.