A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent,
Shatters the air, and troubles tower and spire;
For Justice hath absolved the innocent,
And Tyranny is balked of her desire:
Up, down, the busy Thames, rapid as fire
Coursing a train of gunpowder it went,
And transport finds in every street a vent,
Till the whole City rings like one vast quire.
The Fathers urge the People to be still,
With outstretched hands and earnest speech in vain!
Yea, many, haply wont to entertain
Small reverence for the mitre’s offices,
And to Religion’s self no friendly will,
A Prelate’s blessing ask on bended knees.
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