Yet does this high perfection well proceed From strength of its own native seed, This wilderness, the world, like that poetic wood of old, Bears one, and but one branch of gold, Where the bless'd spirit lodges like the dove, And which (to heavenly soil transplanted) will improve, To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above; As well as here below, (The goddess Muse herself has told me so,) Where high patrician souls, dress'd heavenly gay, Sit clad in lawn of purer woven day. There some high-spirited throne to Sancroft shall be given, In the metropolis of Heaven; Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate here, Translated to archangel there. XII. Since, happy saint, since it has been of late To lose the providence of thy cares, That begs the powerful blessing of thy pray'rs. Strip her of ev'ry ornament and grace; Heart-sick of a high fever and consuming atrophy; How the physicians swarm to shew their mortal skill, And by their college arts methodically kill : rage, Nor be thy mighty spirit rais'd, [The rest of the poem is lost.] ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IN JUNE 1689. I. VIRTUE, the greatest of all monarchies ! It fell, and broke with its own weight But ne'er since seated in one single breast. Search out this Utopian ground, Where none ever led the way, Nor ever since but in descriptions found; With rules to search it, yet obtain'd by none. II. We have too long been led astray; Philosophy, the lumber of the schools, The roguery of alchemy; And we, the bubbled fools, Spend all our present life, in hopes of golden rules. III. But what does our proud ignorance Learning call? Into that deep grave, a book; Think that she there does all her treasures hide, And that her troubled ghost still haunts there since she died; Confine her walks to colleges and schools; Her priest, her train, and followers, shew And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown, IV. Curst be the wretch! nay, doubly curst! To curse our greatest enemy,) (Which since has seized on all the rest,) That knowledge forfeits all humanity ; Taught us, like Spaniards, to be proud and poor, Thrice happy you have 'scaped this general pest; We find in you at last united grown. You cannot be compared to one: I must, like him that painted Venus' face, Virgil and Epicurus will not do, Their courting a retreat like you, Unless I put in Cæsar's learning too: V. Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate: You bought it at a cheaper rate; To shew it cost its price in war : War, that mad game the world so loves to play, For, though with loss, or victory, a while VI. Only the laurel got by peace No thunder e'er can blast: Shoots to the earth and dies: And ever green and flourishing 'twill last, Nor dipt in blood, nor widow's tears, nor orphan's cries. About the head crown'd with these bays, Like lambent fire, the lightning plays ; Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, Makes up its solemn train with death; It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath. VII. The wily shafts of state, those juggler's tricks, * Sir William Temple was ambassador to the States of Holland, and had a principal share in the negotiations which preceded the treaty of Nimeguen, 1679. |