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INTOLERANCE; A SATIRE, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Start not, my friend, nor think the muse will stain
Last Line: And feels but half thy loss while grattan lives.
Alternate Author Name(s): Little, Thomas
Subject(s): Great Britain - Revolution, 1688; Religious Discrimination; English Revolution, 1688; Religious Conflict


START not, my friend, nor think the muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane
Of Bulls, Decrees, and all those thundering scrolls,
That took such freedom once with royal souls,
When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damn'd as fast as now they're made.
No, no -- let D -- gen -- n search the papal chair
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sallow P -- rc -- v -- l snuff up the gale
Which wizard D -- gen -- n's gather'd sweets exhale.
Enough for me, whose heart has learn'd to scorn
Bigots alike in Rome or England born,
Who loathe the venom, whencesoe'er it springs,
From popes or lawyers, pastry-cooks or kings, --
Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns,
As mirth provokes, or indignation burns,
As C -- nn -- ng vapours, or as France succeeds,
As H -- wk -- sb'ry proses, or as Ireland bleeds!

And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days,
When bigot zeal her drunken antics plays
So near a precipice, that men the while
Look breathless on and shudder while they smile --
If, in such fearful days, thou'lt dare to look
To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook
Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain,
While G -- ff -- rd's tongue and M -- sgr -- ve's pen remain --
If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got
To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot,
Whose wrongs, though blazon'd o'er the world they be,
Placemen alone are privileged not to see --
Oh! turn awhile, and, though the shamrock wreathes
My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes
Of Ireland's slavery, and of Ireland's woes,
Live, when the memory of her tyrant foes
Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn,
Embalm'd in hate and canonized by scorn.
When C -- stl -- r -- gh, in sleep still more profound
Than his own opiate tongue now deals around,
Shall wait th' impeachment of that awful day
Which even his practised hand can't bribe away.

And oh! my friend, wert thou but near me now,
To see the spring diffuse o'er Erin's brow
Smiles that shine out, unconquerably fair,
E'en through the blood-marks left by C -- md -- n there, --
Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod
Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod,
And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave,
That warms the soul of each insulted slave,
Who, tired with struggling, sinks beneath his lot,
And seems by all but watchful France forgot --
Thy heart would burn -- yes, e'en thy Pittite heart
Would burn, to think that such a blooming part
Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms,
And fill'd with social souls and vigorous arms,
Should be the victim of that canting crew,
So smooth, so godly, -- yet so devilish too;
Who, arm'd at once with prayer-books and with whips,
Blood on their hands, and Scripture on their lips,
Tyrants by creed, and torturers by text,
Make this life hell, in honour of the next!
Your R -- desd -- les, P -- rc -- v -- ls, -- O gracious Heaven,
If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven,
When here I swear, by my soul's hope of rest,
I'd rather have been born ere man was blest
With the pure dawn of Revelation's light,
Yes, -- rather plunge me back in Pagan night,
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,
Than be the Christian of a faith like this,
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey;
Which, binding policy in spiritual chains,
And tainting piety with temporal stains,
Corrupts both state and church, and makes an oath
The knave and atheist's passport into both;
Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know
Nor bliss above nor liberty below,
Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear,
And, lest he 'scape hereafter, racks him here!
But no -- far other faith, far milder beams
Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams;
His creed is writ on Mercy's page above,
By the pure hands of all-atoning Love;
He weeps to see his soul's religion twine
The tyrant's sceptre with her wreath divine,
And he, while round him sects and nations raise
To the one God their varying notes of praise,
Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be,
That serves to swell the general harmony.

Such was the spirit, grandly, gently bright,
That fill'd, O Fox! thy peaceful soul with light
While blandly spreading like that orb of air
Which folds our planet in its circling care,
The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind
Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind.
Last of the great, farewell! -- yet not the last --
Though Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past,
Ierne still one gleam of glory gives,
And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.




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