The forward Spright but few Instructions lackt,
Strait by the Moons pale light away he packt,
And in a trice, his Curtains open'd wide,
He sate him by _Achitophels_ Bed-side.
And in this style his artful Accents ran.

Hear _Israels_ Hope, thou more than happy Man,
Beloved on high, witness this Honour done
By Father _Samuel_, and believe me, Son,
'Tis by no common Mandate of a God,
A Soul beatifyed, the blest Abode
Thus low deserting, quits Immortal Thrones,
And from his Grave resumes his sleeping Bones.
But Heavn's the Guide, and wondrous is the way,
Divine the Embassie: hear, and obey.
How long, _Achitophel_, and how profound
A Mist of Hell has thy lost Reason drown'd?
Can the Apostacy from _Israels_ Faith,
In _Israels_ Heir, deserve a murmuring Breath?
Or to preserve Religion, Liberty,
Peace, Nations, Souls, is that a Cause so high,
As the Right Heir from Empire to debar?
Forbid it Heav'n, and guard him every Star.
Alas, what if an Heir of Royal Race,
Gods Glory and his Temples will deface,
And make a prey of your Estates, Lives, Laws;
Nay, give your Sons to _Molocks_ burning paws;
Shall you exclude him? hold that Impious Hand.
As _Abraham_ gave his Son at Gods Command,
Think still he does by _Divine Right_ succeed: