Household Puppets On Our Hearths To Place. Perhaps Some Barbarous Laws Have Been Preferr'D; I Spake Against The Test, But Was Not Heard; These To Rescind, And Peerage To Restore, My Gracious Sovereign Would My Vote Implore: I Owe Him Much, But Owe My Conscience More. Conscience Is Then Your Plea, Replied The Dame, Which, Well Inform'D, Will Ever Be The Same. But Yours Is Much Of The Chameleon Hue, To Change The Dye With Every Distant View. When First The Lion Sat With Awful Sway, Your Conscience Taught Your Duty To Obey: He Might Have Had Your Statutes And Your Test; No Conscience But Of Subjects Was Profess'D. He Found Your Temper, And No Farther Tried, But On That Broken Reed, Your Church, Relied. In Vain The Sects Assay'D Their Utmost Art, With Offer'D Treasure To Espouse Their Part; Their Treasures Were A Bribe Too Mean To Move His Heart. But When, By Long Experience, You Had Proved, How Far He Could Forgive, How Well He Loved; A Goodness That Excell'D His Godlike Race, And Only Short Of Heaven'S Unbounded Grace; A Flood Of Mercy That O'Erflow'D Our Isle, Calm In The Rise, And Fruitful As The Nile; Forgetting Whence Our Egypt Was Supplied, You Thought Your Sovereign Bound To Send The Tide: Nor Upward Look'D On That Immortal Spring, But Vainly Deem'D, He Durst Not Be A King: Then Conscience, Unrestrain'D By Fear, Began To Stretch Her Limits, And Extend The Span; Did His Indulgence As Her Gift Dispose, And Made A Wise Alliance With Her Foes. Can Conscience Own The Associating Name, And Raise No Blushes To Conceal Her Shame? For Sure She Has Been Thought A Bashful Dame. But If The Cause By Battle Should Be Tried, You Grant She Must Espouse The Regal Side: O Proteous Conscience, Never To Be Tied! What Phoebus From The Tripod Shall Disclose, Which Are, In Last Resort, Your Friends Or Foes? Homer, Who Learn'D The Language Of The Sky, The Seeming Gordian Knot Would Soon Untie; Immortal Powers The Term Of Conscience Know, But Interest Is Her Name With Men Below. Conscience Or Interest Be 'T, Or Both In One, The Panther Answer'D In A Surly Tone, The First Commands Me To Maintain The Crown, The Last Forbids To Throw My Barriers Down. Our Penal Laws No Sons Of Yours Admit, Our Test Excludes Your Tribe From Benefit. These Are My Banks Your Ocean To Withstand, Which, Proudly Rising, Overlooks The Land; And, Once Let In, With Unresisted Sway, Would Sweep The Pastors And Their Flocks Away. Think Not My Judgment Leads Me To Comply With Laws Unjust, But Hard Necessity; Imperious Need, Which Cannot Be Withstood, Makes Ill Authentic, For A Greater Good. Possess Your Soul With Patience, And Attend: A More Auspicious Planet May Ascend; Good Fortune May Present Some Happier Time, With Means To Cancel My Unwilling Crime; (Unwilling, Witness All Ye Powers Above!) To Mend My Errors, And Redeem Your Love: That Little Space You Safely May Allow; Your All-Dispensing Power Protects You Now. Hold, Said The Hind, 'Tis Needless To Explain; You Would Postpone Me To Another Reign; Till When You Are Content To Be Unjust: Your Part Is To Possess, And Mine To Trust. A Fair Exchange Proposed Of Future Chance, For Present Profit And Inheritance. Few Words Will Serve To Finish Our Dispute; Who Will Not Now Repeal, Would Persecute. To Ripen Green Revenge Your Hopes Attend, Wishing That Happier Planet Would Ascend. For Shame Let Conscience Be Your Plea No More: To Will Hereafter, Proves She Might Before; But SHe's A Bawd To Gain, And Holds The Door. Your Care About Your Banks Infers A Fear Of Threatening Floods And Inundations Near; If So, A Just Reprise Would Only Be Of What The Land Usurp'D Upon The Sea; And All Your Jealousies But Serve To Show Your Ground Is, Like Your Neighbour-Nation, Low. To Intrench In What You Grant Unrighteous Laws, Is To Distrust The Justice Of Your Cause; And Argues That The True Religion Lies In Those Weak Adversaries You Despise. Tyrannic Force Is That Which Least You Fear; The Sound Is Frightful In A Christian'S Ear: Avert It, Heaven! Nor Let That Plague Be Sent To Us From The Dispeopled Continent. But Piety Commands Me To Refrain; Those Prayers Are Needless In This Monarch'S Reign. Behold! How He Protects Your Friends Oppress'D, Receives The Banish'D, Succours The Distress'D: Behold, For You May Read An Honest Open Breast. He Stands In Day-Light, And Disdains To Hide An Act, To Which By Honour He Is Tied, A Generous, Laudable, And Kingly Pride. Your Test He Would Repeal, His Peers Restore; This When He Says He Means, He Means No More. Well, Said The Panther, I Believe Him Just, And Yet---- And Yet, 'Tis But Because You Must; You Would Be Trusted, But You Would Not Trust. The Hind Thus Briefly; And Disdain'D To Enlarge On Power Of Kings, And Their Superior Charge, As Heaven'S Trustees Before The People'S Choice: Though Sure The Panther Did Not Much Rejoice To Hear Those Echoes Given Of Her Once Loyal Voice. The Matron Woo'D Her Kindness To The Last, But Could Not Win; Her Hour Of Grace Was Past. Whom, Thus Persisting, When She Could Not Bring To Leave The Wolf, And To Believe Her King, She Gave Her Up, And Fairly Wish'D Her Joy Of Her Late Treaty With Her New Ally: Which Well She Hoped Would More Successful Prove, Than Was The Pigeon'S And The Buzzard'S Love. The Panther Ask'D What Concord There Could Be Betwixt Two Kinds Whose Natures Disagree? The Dame Replied: 'Tis Sung In Every Street, The Common Chat Of Gossips When They Meet; But, Since Unheard By You, 'Tis Worth Your While To Take A Wholesome Tale, Though Told In Homely Style. A Plain Good Man,[37] Whose Name Is Understood (So Few Deserve The Name Of Plain And Good), Of Three Fair Lineal Lordships Stood Possess'D, And Lived, As Reason Was, Upon The Best. Inured To Hardships From His Early Youth, Much Had He Done, And Suffer'D For His Truth: At Land And Sea, In Many A Doubtful Fight, Was Never Known A More Adventurous Knight, Who Oftener Drew His Sword, And Always For The Right. As Fortune Would (His Fortune Came, Though Late) He Took Possession Of His Just Estate: Nor Rack'D His Tenants With Increase Of Rent; Nor Lived Too Sparing, Nor Too Largely Spent; But Overlook'D His Hinds; Their Pay Was Just, And Ready, For He Scorn'D To Go On Trust: Slow To Resolve, But In Performance Quick; So True, That He Was Awkward At A Trick. For Little Souls On Little Shifts Rely, And Coward Arts Of Mean Expedients Try; The Noble Mind Will Dare Do Anything But Lie. False Friends, His Deadliest Foes, Could Find No Way But Shows Of Honest Bluntness, To Betray: That Unsuspected Plainness He Believed; He Looked Into Himself, And Was Deceived. Some Lucky Planet Sure Attends His Birth, Or Heaven Would Make A Miracle On Earth; For Prosperous Honesty Is Seldom Seen To Bear So Dead A Weight, And Yet To Win. It Looks As Fate With Nature'S Law Would Strive, To Show Plain-Dealing Once An Age May Thrive: And, When So Tough A Frame She Could Not Bend, Exceeded Her Commission To Befriend. This Grateful Man, As Heaven Increased His Store. Gave God Again, And Daily Fed His Poor. His House With All Convenience Was Purvey'D; The Rest He Found, But Raised The Fabric Where He Pray'D; And In That Sacred Place His Beauteous Wife Employ'D Her Happiest Hours Of Holy Life. Nor Did Their Alms Extend To Those Alone, Whom Common Faith More Strictly Made Their Own; A Sort Of Doves[38] Were Housed Too Near Their Hall, Who Cross The Proverb, And Abound With Gall. Though Some, 'Tis True, Are Passively Inclined, The Greater Part Degenerate From Their Kind; Voracious Birds, That Hotly Bill And Breed, And Largely Drink, Because On Salt They Feed. Small Gain From Them Their Bounteous Owner Draws; Yet, Bound By Promise, He Supports Their Cause, As Corporations Privileged By Laws. That House Which Harbour To Their Kind Affords, Was Built, Long Since, God Knows For Better Birds; But Fluttering There, They Nestle Near The Throne, And Lodge In Habitations Not Their Own, By Their High Crops And Corny Gizzards Known. Like Harpies, They Could Scent A Plenteous Board, Then To Be Sure They Never Fail'D Their Lord: The Rest Was Form, And Bare Attendance Paid; They Drank, And Ate, And Grudgingly Obey'D. The More They Fed, They Raven'D Still For More; They Drain'D From Dan, And Left Beersheba Poor. All This They Had By Law, And None Repined; The Preference Was But Due To Levi'S Kind; But When Some Lay-Preferment Fell By Chance, The Gourmands Made It Their Inheritance. When Once Possess'D, They Never Quit Their Claim; For Then 'Tis Sanctified To Heaven'S High Name; And, Hallow'D Thus, They Cannot Give Consent, The Gift Should Be Profaned By Worldly Management. Their Flesh Was Never To The Table Served; Though 'Tis Not Thence Inferr'D The Birds Were Starved; But That Their Master Did Not Like The Food, As Rank, And Breeding Melancholy Blood. Nor Did It With His Gracious Nature Suit, Even Though They Were Not Doves, To Persecute: Yet He Refused (Nor Could They Take Offence) Their Glutton Kind Should Teach Him Abstinence. Nor Consecrated Grain Their Wheat He Thought, Which, New From Treading, In Their Bills They Brought: But Left His Hinds Each In His Private Power, That Those Who Like The Bran Might Leave The Flour. He For Himself, And Not For Others, Chose, Nor Would He Be Imposed On, Nor Impose; But In Their Faces His Devotion Paid, And Sacrifice With Solemn Rites Was Made, And Sacred Incense On His Altars Laid. Besides These Jolly Birds, Whose Corpse Impure Repaid Their Commons With Their Salt-Manure; Another Farm[39] He Had Behind His House, Not Overstock'D, But Barely For His Use: Wherein His Poor Domestic Poultry Fed, And From His Pious Hands Received Their Bread. Our Pamper'D Pigeons, With Malignant Eyes, Beheld These Inmates, And Their Nurseries: Though Hard Their Fare, At Evening, And At Morn, A Cruise Of Water And An Ear Of Corn; Yet Still They Grudged That Modicum, And Thought A Sheaf In Every Single Grain Was Brought. Fain Would They Filch That Little Food Away, While Unrestrain'D Those Happy Gluttons Prey. And Much They Grieved To See So Nigh Their Hall, The Bird That Warn'D St Peter Of His Fall; That He Should Raise His Mitred Crest On High, And Clap His Wings, And Call His Family To Sacred Rites; And Vex The Ethereal Powers With Midnight Matins At Uncivil Hours: Nay More, His Quiet Neighbours Should Molest, Just In The Sweetness Of Their Morning Rest. Beast Of A Bird, Supinely When He Might Lie Snug And Sleep, To Rise Before The Light! What If His Dull Forefathers Used That Cry, Could He Not Let A Bad Example Die? The World Was Fallen Into An Easier Way; This Age Knew Better Than To Fast And Pray. Good Sense In Sacred Worship Would Appear So To Begin, As They Might End The Year. Such Feats In Former Times Had Wrought The Falls Of Crowing Chanticleers[40] In Cloister'D Walls. Expell'D For This, And For Their Lands, They Fled; And Sister Partlet,[41] With Her Hooded Head, Was Hooted Hence, Because She Would Not Pray A-Bed. The Way To Win The Restive World To God, Was To Lay By The Disciplining Rod, Unnatural Fasts, And Foreign Forms Of Prayer: Religion Frights Us With A Mien Severe. 'Tis Prudence To Reform Her Into Ease, And Put Her In Undress To Make Her Please; A Lively Faith Will Bear Aloft The Mind, And Leave The Luggage Of Good Works Behind. Such Doctrines In The Pigeon-House Were Taught: You Need Not Ask How Wondrously They Wrought: But Sure The Common Cry Was All For These, Whose Life And Precepts Both Encouraged Ease. Yet Fearing Those Alluring Baits Might Fail, And Holy Deeds O'Er All Their Arts Prevail; (For Vice, Though Frontless, And Of Harden'D Face, Is Daunted At The Sight Of Awful Grace;) An Hideous Figure Of Their Foes They Drew, Nor Lines, Nor Looks, Nor Shades, Nor Colours True; And This Grotesque Design Exposed To Public View. One Would Have Thought It Some Egyptian Piece, With Garden-Gods, And Barking Deities, More Thick Than Ptolemy Has Stuck The Skies. All So Perverse A Draught, So Far Unlike, It Was No Libel Where It Meant To Strike. Yet Still The Daubing Pleased, And Great And Small, To View The Monster, Crowded Pigeon Hall. There Chanticleer Was Drawn Upon His Knees Adoring Shrines, And Stocks Of Sainted Trees: And By Him, A Misshapen, Ugly Race; The Curse Of God Was Seen On Every Face: No Holland Emblem Could That Malice Mend, But Still The Worse The Look, The Fitter For A Fiend. The Master Of The Farm, Displeased To Find So Much Of Rancour In So Mild A Kind, Enquired Into The Cause, And Came To Know, The Passive Church Had Struck The Foremost Blow; With Groundless Fears And Jealousies Possess'D, As If This Troublesome Intruding Guest Would Drive The Birds Of Venus From Their Nest; A Deed His Inborn Equity Abhorr'D; But Interest Will Not Trust, Though God Should Plight His Word. A Law,[42] The Source Of Many Future Harms, Had Banish'D All The Poultry From The Farms; With Loss Of Life, If Any Should Be Found To Crow Or Peck On This Forbidden Ground. That Bloody Statute Chiefly Was Design'D For Chanticleer The White, Of Clergy Kind; But After-Malice Did Not Long Forget The Lay That Wore The Robe And Coronet. For Them, For Their Inferiors And Allies, Their Foes A Deadly Shibboleth Devise: By Which Unrighteously It Was Decreed, That None To Trust Or Profit Should Succeed, Who Would Not Swallow First A Poisonous Wicked Weed:[43] Or That, To Which Old Socrates Was Cursed, Or Henbane Juice To Swell Them Till They Burst. The Patron (As In Reason) Thought It Hard To See This Inquisition In His Yard, By Which The Sovereign Was Of Subjects' Use Debarr'D. All Gentle Means He Tried, Which Might Withdraw The Effects Of So Unnatural A Law: But Still The Dove-House Obstinately Stood Deaf To Their Own And To Their Neighbours' Good; And Which Was Worse, If Any Worse Could Be, Repented Of Their Boasted Loyalty: Now Made The Champions Of A Cruel Cause. And Drunk With Fumes Of Popular Applause; For Those Whom God To Ruin Has Design'D, He Fits For Fate, And First Destroys Their Mind. New Doubts Indeed They Daily Strove To Raise, Suggested Dangers, Interposed Delays; And Emissary Pigeons Had In Store, Such As The Meccan Prophet Used Of Yore, To Whisper Counsels In Their Patron'S Ear; And Veil'D Their False Advice With Zealous Fear. The Master Smiled To See Them Work In Vain, To Wear Him Out, And Make An Idle Reign: He Saw, But Suffer'D Their Protractive Arts, And Strove By Mildness To Reduce Their Hearts: But They Abused That Grace To Make Allies, And Fondly Closed With Former Enemies; For Fools Are Doubly Fools, Endeavouring To Be Wise. After A Grave Consult What Course Were Best, One, More Mature In Folly Than The Rest, Stood Up, And Told Them, With His Head Aside, That Desperate Cures Must Be To Desperate Ills Applied: And Therefore, Since Their Main Impending Fear Was From The Increasing Race Of Chanticleer, Some Potent Bird Of Prey They Ought To Find, A Foe Profess'D To Him, And All His Kind: Some Haggard Hawk, Who Had Her Eyrie Nigh, Well Pounced To Fasten, And Well Wing'D To Fly; One They Might Trust, Their Common Wrongs To Wreak: The Musquet And The Coystrel Were Too Weak, Too Fierce The Falcon; But, Above The Rest, The Noble Buzzard[44] Ever Pleased Me Best; Of Small Renown, 'Tis True; For, Not To Lie, We Call Him But A Hawk By Courtesy. I Know He Hates The Pigeon-House And Farm, And More, In Time Of War Has Done Us Harm: But All His Hate On Trivial Points Depends; Give Up Our Forms, And We Shall Soon Be Friends. For Pigeons' Flesh He Seems Not Much To Care; Cramm'D Chickens Are A More Delicious Fare. On This High Potentate, Without Delay, I Wish You Would Confer The Sovereign Sway: Petition Him To Accept The Government, And Let A Splendid Embassy Be Sent. This Pithy Speech Prevail'D, And All Agreed, Old Enmities Forgot, The Buzzard Should Succeed. Their Welcome Suit Was Granted Soon As Heard, His Lodgings Furnish'D, And A Train Prepared, With B'S Upon Their Breast, Appointed For His Guard. He Came, And Crown'D With Great Solemnity; God Save King Buzzard, Was The General Cry. A Portly Prince, And Goodly To The Sight, He Seem'D A Son Of Anak For His Height: Like Those Whom Stature Did To Crowns Prefer: Black-Brow'D, And Bluff, Like Homer'S Jupiter: Broad-Back'D, And Brawny-Built For Love'S Delight; A Prophet Form'D To Make A Female Proselyte. A Theologue More By Need Than Genial Bent; By Breeding Sharp, By Nature Confident. Interest In All His Actions Was Discern'D; More Learn'D Than Honest, More A Wit Than Learn'D: Or Forced By Fear, Or By His Profit Led, Or Both Conjoin'D, His Native Clime He Fled: But Brought The Virtues Of His Heaven Along; A Fair Behaviour, And A Fluent Tongue. And Yet With All His Arts He Could Not Thrive; The Most Unlucky Parasite Alive. Loud Praises To Prepare His Paths He Sent, And Then Himself Pursued His Compliment; But By Reverse Of Fortune Chased Away, His Gifts No Longer Than Their Author Stay: He Shakes The Dust Against The Ungrateful Race, And Leaves The Stench Of Ordures In The Place. Oft Has He Flatter'D And Blasphemed The Same; For In His Rage He Spares No Sovereign'S Name: The Hero And The Tyrant Change Their Style By The Same Measure That They Frown Or Smile. When Well Received By Hospitable Foes, The Kindness He Returns, Is To Expose: For Courtesies, Though Undeserved And Great, No Gratitude In Felon-Minds Beget; As Tribute To His Wit, The Churl Receives The Treat. His Praise Of Foes Is Venomously Nice; So Touch'D, It Turns A Virtue To A Vice: "A Greek, And Bountiful, Forewarns Us Twice." Seven Sacraments He Wisely Does Disown, Because He Knows Confession Stands For One; Where Sins To Sacred Silence Are Convey'D, And Not For Fear, Or Love, To Be Betray'D: But He, Uncall'D, His Patron To Control, Divulged The Secret Whispers Of His Soul; Stood Forth The Accusing Satan Of His Crimes, And Offer'D To The Moloch Of The Times. Prompt To Assail, And Careless Of Defence, Invulnerable In His Impudence, He Dares The World; And, Eager Of A Name, He Thrusts About, And Jostles Into Fame. Frontless, And Satire-Proof, He Scours The Streets, And Runs An Indian-Muck At All He Meets. So Fond Of Loud Report, That Not To Miss Of Being Known (His Last And Utmost Bliss) He Rather Would Be Known For What He Is. Such Was, And Is, The Captain Of The Test, Though Half His Virtues Are Not Here Express'D; The Modesty Of Fame Conceals The Rest. The Spleenful Pigeons Never Could Create A Prince More Proper To Revenge Their Hate: Indeed, More Proper To Revenge, Than Save; A King, Whom In His Wrath The Almighty Gave: For All The Grace The Landlord Had Allow'D, But Made The Buzzard And The Pigeons Proud; Gave Time To Fix Their Friends, And To Seduce The Crowd. They Long Their Fellow-Subjects To Enthral, Their Patron'S Promise Into Question Call, And Vainly Think He Meant To Make Them Lords Of All. False Fears Their Leaders Fail'D Not To Suggest, As If The Doves Were To Be Dispossess'D; Nor Sighs, Nor Groans, Nor Goggling Eyes Did Want; For Now The Pigeons Too Had Learn'D To Cant. The House Of Prayer Is Stock'D With Large Increase; Nor Doors Nor Windows Can Contain The Press: For Birds Of Every Feather Fill The Abode; Even Atheists Out Of Envy Own A God: And, Reeking From The Stews, Adulterers Come, Like Goths And Vandals To Demolish Rome. That Conscience, Which To All Their Crimes Was Mute, Now Calls Aloud, And Cries To Persecute: No Rigour Of The Laws To Be Released, And Much The Less, Because It Was Their Lord'S Request: They Thought It Great Their Sovereign To Control, And Named Their Pride, Nobility Of Soul. 'Tis True, The Pigeons, And Their Prince Elect, Were Short Of Power, Their Purpose To Effect: But With Their Quills Did All The Hurt They Could, And Cuff'D The Tender Chickens From Their Food: And Much The Buzzard In Their Cause Did Stir, Though Naming Not The Patron, To Infer, With All Respect, He Was A Gross Idolater. But When The Imperial Owner Did Espy, That Thus They Turn'D His Grace To Villany, Not Suffering Wrath To Discompose His Mind, He Strove A Temper For The Extremes To Find, So To Be Just, As He Might Still Be Kind; Then, All Maturely Weigh'D, Pronounced A Doom Of Sacred Strength For Every Age To Come. By This The Doves Their Wealth And State Possess, No Rights Infringed, But Licence To Oppress: Such Power Have They As Factious Lawyers Long To Crowns Ascribed, That Kings Can Do No Wrong. But Since His Own Domestic Birds Have Tried The Dire Effects Of Their Destructive Pride, He Deems That Proof A Measure To The Rest, Concluding Well Within His Kingly Breast, His Fowls Of Nature Too Unjustly Were Oppress'D. He Therefore Makes All Birds Of Every Sect Free Of His Farm, With Promise To Respect Their Several Kinds Alike, And Equally Protect. His Gracious Edict The Same Franchise Yields To All The Wild Increase Of Woods And Fields, And Who In Rocks Aloof, And Who In Steeples Builds: To Crows The Like Impartial Grace Affords, And Choughs And Daws, And Such Republic Birds: Secured With Ample Privilege To Feed, Each Has His District, And His Bounds Decreed; Combined In Common Interest With His Own, But Not To Pass The Pigeon'S Rubicon. Here Ends The Reign Of This Pretended Dove; All Prophecies Accomplish'D From Above, From Shiloh Comes The Sceptre To Remove. Reduced From Her Imperial High Abode, Like Dionysius To A Private Rod, The Passive Church, That With Pretended Grace Did Her Distinctive Mark In Duty Place, Now Touch'D, Reviles Her Maker To His Face. What After Happen'D Is Not Hard To Guess: The Small Beginnings Had A Large Increase, And Arts And Wealth Succeed, The Secret Spoils Of Peace. 'Tis Said, The Doves Repented, Though Too Late, Become The Smiths Of Their Own Foolish Fate: Nor Did Their Owner Hasten Their Ill Hour; But, Sunk In Credit, They Decreased In Power: Like Snows In Warmth That Mildly Pass Away, Dissolving In The Silence Of Decay. The Buzzard, Not Content With Equal Place, Invites The Feather'D Nimrods Of His Race; To Hide The Thinness Of Their Flock From Sight, And All Together Make A Seeming Goodly Flight: But Each Have Separate Interests Of Their Own; Two Czars Are One Too Many For A Throne. Nor Can The Usurper Long Abstain From Food; Already He Has Tasted Pigeons' Blood: And May Be Tempted To His Former Fare, When This Indulgent Lord Shall Late To Heaven Repair. Bare Benting Times, And Moulting Months May Come, When, Lagging Late, They Cannot Reach Their Home; Or, Rent In Schism (For So Their Fate Decrees), Like The Tumultuous College Of The Bees,[45] They Fight Their Quarrel, By Themselves Oppress'D; The Tyrant Smiles Below, And Waits The Falling Feast. Thus Did The Gentle Hind Her Fable End, Nor Would The Panther Blame It, Nor Commend; But, With Affected Yawnings At The Close, Seem'D To Require Her Natural Repose: For Now The Streaky Light Began To Peep; And Setting Stars Admonish'D Both To Sleep. The Dame Withdrew, And, Wishing To Her Guest The Peace Of Heaven, Betook Herself To Rest. Ten Thousand Angels On Her Slumbers Wait, With Glorious Visions Of Her Future State.