# Lutrin/Canto 3

THE
LUTRIN.
CANTO III.
LD Night, Triumphant on a sooty Cloud, Parent of Fears, and Nurse of Sorrow, rode: Burgundia's vinous Fields she hovers round, And sheds her dreery Vapours o'er the Ground: Then tow'rds the fair Lutetian Turrets flies, Distilling Opiats from her humid Eyes.
At lengthMontlerry's lofty Tow'rs she shrouds, Fond of those venerable Old Abodes; The Summit of whose Walls stupendious Height, Steals by Degrees from the deluded Sight; While the strain'd Eye-balls pierce the Clouds in vain, And stretch their fiery Beams the vast Ascent to gain: The weary'd Pilgrim flies the tedious View, The Objects follow, and his Flight pursue. Here Crows and Vultures keep their ruin'd Court; Here Ravens and Funebrous Birds resort; The croaking Toad and Bat in om'nous Squawls Improve the Horror of these desert Walls: Here thirty Winters aged Howlet lay, And claim'd a Refuge from the hated Day; Fruitful of evil Fate the Schrieker cries, And by foretelling Mischiefs magnifies:
In this wild Place retir'd to Meditate, Expecting Night, the sober Creature sate: The Goddess came; Howlet exalts his Voice, Sadning the tuneful Neighbours with his Joys: Complaining Progne trembles with new Pains, And Philomela's Fears o'ercome her Strains: Follow me, Son, said Night. The Feather'd Fate, Rous'd at her Voice, forsook his drowsy Seat; With heavy Wings they press the thickning Air, And darkling their dull Shades to Paris bear; Here both arresting their auspicious Flight On the fam'd Chapel's destin'd Bellfry Light: The Goddess bending from the lofty Arch, Observes the Warriors, and regards their March. The smirking Barber brandishes on high A Bumper, which re-smiles with mutual Joy:
Each deluging in genial Juice his Soul, To Gilotin and Bacchus fill the Bowl.
Shall they then Triumph thus, the Goddess said, And find an easy Conquest in my Shade? Soon these insulting Miscreants shall know, What to my sacred Dignity they owe:
Then gravely nodding to her darling Pride, Her tardy Wings the foggy Air divide: Howlet with equal Pinions takes his Flight, And follows thro' thick Shades his Mother Night. Both to the fatal Sacristy repair, Where lay the dreadful Business of the War: The sullen Deity now makes a Stand, Beholds the Desk, and gives this stern Command:
Rest here, Prophetic Son, in the dark Womb Of this old Desk till rip'ning Time shall come.
The Owl assum'd his delegated Place, And sat expecting with a sage Grimace.
The Champions warm'd with Native Heat and Wine, Unanimous pursue the great Design. The sacred Chapel's Marble Steps ascend, While Bacchus does his friendly Influence lend. The proud Piazza's pass'd, the Heroes now Behind 'em see the Shop of fam'd Rebow; There undisturb'd volum'nous H——— sleeps, Him under Twenty faithful Locks he keeps; Secure from Chandlers, and devouring Fire, The learned Lumber there remains intire.
When Boirude, as the Danger nearer grew, A Tinder-box from his wide Pocket drew; The veiny Flint and hardy Steel ingage, Breathing in Particles of Fire their Rage: Colliding Blows the Atoms disunite, And kindle living Seeds of Infant Light: The new-born Sparks a bluish Flame beget, Which from sulphureous Fumes ejaculate; The waxen Taper glows with borrow'd Fires, And in a lasting bolder Flame aspires. The Heroes with this trembling Star their Guide, (This trembling Star the absent Sun supply'd)
Approach the Temple; Boirude opes the Gate, And manfully conducts the Van in State: As thro' the spacious Solitude they steer, With Talk they dissipate invading Fear.
The Vestry now is feen; each pallid Face Owns the tenebrous Horror of the Place. There lies the Desk, dread Work of wayward Fate; A while they stand its Form to contemplate: 'Till rousing 'em, aloud the Barber cries, This Spectacle is not t'amuse our Eyes: Weare not here conven'd, my Friends, to stare; Time will not stay; the Moments precious are: Into the middle Isle convey the Mass, And fix it on the haughty Chanter's Place. To morrow a plump Prelate's gloating Eyes Shall view the Triumph with uncommon Joys.
Then with an Arm tremendous bravely strove From its old Post the dusty Lump to move. When Oh Distraction! a dread Voice aloud, Was heard to Issue from the hollow Wood;
Brontin grew stiff with freezing Ague-Fear, The Sexton's Colour fled, uprose his Hair, Lamour bemoan'd (to dastard Fear betray'd) The Want of Barberissa and his Bed; Yet strait his Courage recollects, and now Resolves, what e'er Fate means, to stand the Blow; When from his Powdry Roost the Bird of Night With Fate-denouncing Outcries takes his Flight;
Like Statues, Petrefy'd with chilly Fear, Unable to resist, they shake, they stare. Howlet th' Illuminated Wax descry'd, And soon extinguish'd with his Wings their Guide. Now Disarray'd, Confounded; they retreat, Confessing by swift Flight a base Defeat: Their Nerves relax, their trembling Knees in vain Their Bloodless Bodies labour to sustain;
Their Hair Erect, and Grey with sudden Fright The flying Squadron pierce the Shades of Night.
So meet a heedless Troop of wanton Boys In some close Corner, with unpunish'd Noise; Th' indocile Libertines securely play, In idle Pastime truanting the Day; Far from their Studious Masters prying Sight, They give a Loose to Joy, and Revel in Delight. But if stern Argus by Surprise appears, They quit their Pleasures and resume their Fears; Dreading the future Birch and threatning Eye, In Clusters from th' unfinish'd Game they fly.
Discord inrag'd beheld the routed Crowd, And roar'd, like Thunder from a broken Cloud; Then, to revive their Hearts congeal'd with Fear, And rally their base Souls to Second War,
She borrow'd surly Sydrac's Aged Look, Wrinkl'd her Brow, and his long Visage took. Earthward she bent, and to the Sight appears Depress'd beneath the Weight of Fourscore Years, Her Limbs did on a knotted Staff rely, And seem'd to move on Springs of Chicanry: A winking Taper in her Hand she takes, And growling Thus the timid Band bespeaks.
Stop, Miscreant Wretches, whither wou'd you fly? Here neither Bloodshed is, nor Enemy. What! Will you then for a vile Bird alone Your Honour lose, and Enterprize disown? Dare you not stand the impotent Grimace Of one poor Owl? What wou'd you do, alas! If every day like me you saw the Bar, And wag'd with hideous Looks eternal War?
Friendless solicit hard a Hearing now, Then stand a Haughty Judge's rigid Brow; Ear-beat, without his Fee, a Lawyer dead; In Forma Pauperis incessant plead. Believe me, Sons, Experience is my Guide, My self a Chapter sue'd, the Law defy'd. Nor can the Bar shew that tremendous Look, But I a hundred Times have stood its Shock: Dauntless their forward Way my Body barr'd, I'th' Church's Name demanding to be heard. The Church was fruitful then in great Divines, Souls forg'd by Nature for immense Designs. Then Pennyless and Friendless we could go, Farther than now for Love and Money too. In those Triumphant Days, The vilest Head A Prelate and a Chanter durst implead. The World grows old, Time runs a jaded Race, And worn-out Nature teems with her Disgrace.
If yet you cannot Reach your Fathers State, At least their shining Vertues Emulate. Think what Dishonour your bright Names will foul, When Men shall tell the Fable of the Owl. Think how the Chanter with indignant Pride Will mock your Valour, and Attempt deride: Howlet will be the Word, a standing Jest, The Flout of Boys, and Mirth of every Feast.
Yes, I perceive your Souls no longer bear These stinging Thoughts; for Action then prepare: Remember, Sirs, what Prelate 'tis you serve, And snatch the verdant Laurels you deserve; Your Eyes re-sparkle with their wonted Fires, And each Heroick Breast the War requires.
On then; Run; Fly; immortal Honour calls, And Consecrates the Man who bravely falls. So shall the Prelate see with wondring Joy, Your Vengeance swift as your Affront can fly.
This said; the Warring Goddess takes her Flight, Plung'd in a sudden Stream of blazing Light; Restoring to each Breast their Martial Heat, Fills with Herself the bold Triumvirate.
So when the rescu'd Danube, Rhine and Scheld Immortal Churchill, Thee in Arms beheld; The Face of War soon took a brighter Turn; And fainting Squadrons with new Vigour burn: Thy Courage, like the Universal Soul, Darts thro' the Troops and Animates the Whole. Victoria yielding to thy Stronger Charms, Caress'd thy Standard and Embrac'd thy Arms.
Asham'd and Angry at their late Defeat, They light their Taper and their Task repeat: The Noisy Enemy flies off unhurt, And what was late their Terror is their Sport. And now the Desk the Chanter's Pew ascends, A Shout the Chapel's lofty Arches rends: The wormy Boards, by Times corroding Spight Disjoin'd, the lusty Mallet's Blows unite: With their Continu'd Strokes the Pews resound; The Vaults rebellow'd, and the Organ groan'd.
Ah Chanter, buried in profound Repose, Little thy Heart the brooding Mischief knows; But undisturb'd by Grief or anxious Fear, Dreams not what angry Fate is doing here! If in a Vision yet some Pow'r Divine Shou'd to thy Sense reveal the dread Design,
E'er thou wou'dst suffer that ill-shapen Mass, Aspiring so, to Lord it in thy Place; Bold as a dying Martyr woudst thou come, And gloriously Dispute thy hapless Doom: Thy naked Body to the Nails expose, And tender Head to the hard Hammer's Blows: To Mummy bruis'd thou on the Spot wouldst die, And worthless Life refuse with Infamy. But while the Desk to thy Disgrace does rise, In silken Chains Thee gentle Slumber ties.
Now two concluding Strokes the Work compleat, And the Hinge turns on thy unhappy Seat.
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