Be these great mysteries, I here unfold,
Amongst your oiler's institutes enrolled;
Preserve them sacred, close and unrevealed,
As ancient Rome her Sybil's books concealed.
Let no bold heretic with saucy eye
Into the hidden unseen archives pry,
Lest the malicious flouting rascals turn
Our church to laughter, raillery, and scorn.
Let never rack, or torture, pain, or fear,
From your firm breasts the important secrets tear.
If any treacherous brother of your own
Shall to the world divulge, and make them known,
Let him by worst of deaths his guilt atone.
Should but his thoughts, or dreams suspected be,
Let him for safety, and prevention die,
And learn in the grave the art of secrecy.
’But one thing more, and then with joy I go,
Nor urge a longer stay of fate below.
Give me again once more your plighted faith,
And let each seal it with his dying breath.
As the great Carthagenian[1] heretofore
The bloody reeking altar touched, and swore
Eternal enmity to the Roman power,
Swear you (and let the Fates confirm the same)
An endless hatred to the Lutheran name!
Vow never to admit, or league, or peace,
Or truce, or commerce with the cursèd race;
Now, through all age, when time or place soe'er
Shall give you power, wage an immortal war;
Like Theban feuds, let yours yourselves survive,
And in your very dust and ashes live;
Like mine, be your last gasp their curse.'———At this
They kneel, and all the sacred volume kiss;
Vowing to send each year an hecatomb
Of Huguenots, an offering to his tomb.
In vain he would continue;—abrupt death
A period puts, and stops his impious breath;
- ↑ Hannibal
