Upon Parties Poem by Nicholas Amhurst

Curst be that busy Wretch, that human Beast,
(Some crafty Statesman or ambitious Priest)
Who first his own pernicious Schemes to build
His native Country with Divisions fill'd;
The Bands of Friendship and Relation tore,
And broke that Union we enjoy'd before;
All social Rights and social Ties dissolv'd,
And into Factions the blind World involv'd.

What mighty Ills by Party have been done?
What Empires ruin'd? What long Wars begun?
What Treasure and what Bloodshed has it cost?
What Millions for a Party have been lost?
To this we owe the Curse of every Age,
Treason, Sedition, Feud, and civil Rage;
To this we owe, that, drunk with frantick Zeal,
The holy Bigot draws his thirsty Steel;
For trifling Piques his Neighbour's Life demands,
And stains in kindred Blood his impious Hands;
Hence Crowds enrag'd with fatal Anger meet,
And the mad Populace embroil the Street;
Hence Cato perish'd in his Country's Cause.
And Julius triumph'd o'er the Roman Laws;
Hence York and Lancaster, with Rival Might,
Led forth their wasteful Armies to the Fight;
While each contended for supream Command,
And with wild Havock strew'd the bleeding Land;
Hence we derive the Discords and the Woes,
Which in the last dire Century arose,
With her own Wounds the jarring Nation bled
A Monarch in rebellious Chains was led,
And the Church bow'd to Earth her sacred Head.

But why on distant Evils do I dwell,
Which our own factious Times describe so well?
Unnumber'd Sects unnumber'd Schemes devise,
And mutual Vengeance reddens in their Eyes;
Each in their Right believes himself alone,
And rails at all Religions but his own:
The Tory with his sworn Opinions big,
Glows with hot Zeal, and cries G---d d------n the Whig;
The Whig, of his Perswasion full as vain,
Damns the vile Tory, in as proud a Strain;
The Papist and the Protestant by turns,
As Interest dictates, or as Conscience burns;
Idolater! and Heretick! exclaim;
Such are the Honours paid the Christian Name!

Nay, farther does this rude Distemper reach,
For ev'n the Ladies now Religion preach,
O'er their Bohea in Politicks debate,
And drop their Scandal for Affairs of State;
For Marlborough some, and some for Ormond plead,
Just as the Parish Priest has fram'd their Creed:
In Love all Damsels are extreamly Nice,
And think a Mungril--match a shameful Vice,
Each takes her Likeness to the Marriage Bed,
Whigs mate with Whigs and Tories Tories wed,

Thus Man--on--Man eternal War proclaims,
Branding each other with opprobrious Names;
And lest with them their Enmity should cease,
And when they die, the World be hush'd in Peace,
A num'rous Race of Successors they raise,
To propagate their Feuds in after Days;
Soon as they learn to speak, their careful Sires
Light in their tender Breasts the Party--fires,
Master is taught to lisp the Doctor's Name,
And pretty little Miss must do the same;
They must not play with Presbyterian Boys,
Nor let a Low--Church Girl prophane their Toys;
As they grow up, the Seeds of Party shoot,
And in their ripen'd Breasts take deeper Root:
Those whom they fled, when Children, still they fly,
Upon their Persons cast an evil Eye;
The same ill Will tenaciously maintain,
And fight their Father's Quarrels o'er again.