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The herd beneath, who see the weathercock of state

Hung loosely on the church's pinnacle, Believe it firm, because perhaps the day is mild and still ; But when they find it turn with the first blast of fate,

By gazing upward giddy grow,

And think the church itself does so;
Thus fools, for being strong and num’rous known,

Suppose the truth, like all the world, their own;
And holy Sancroft's motion quite irregular appears,

Because 'tis opposite to theirs.

V.

In vain then would the Muse the multitude advise,
Whose peevish knowledge thus perversely lies

In gath’ring follies from the wise ;
Rather put on thy anger and thy spite,

And some kind pow'r for once dispense
Through the dark mass, the dawn of so much sense,
To make them understand and feel me when I write;

The Muse and I no more revenge desire,
Each line shall stab, shall blast, like daggers and like fire;
Ah, Britain, land of angels! which of all thy sins

(Say, hapless isle, although

It is a bloody list we know)
Ilas given. thee up a dwelling-place to fiends?

Sin and the plague ever abound
In governments too easy, and too fruitful ground;

Evils which a too gentle king,
Too flourishing a spring,

And too warm summers bring:
Our British soil is over rank, and breeds
Among the noblest flowers a thousand pois'nous weeds,
And every stinking weed so lofty grows,
As if 'twould overshade the royal rose;
The royal rose, the glory of our morn,
But, ah! too much without a thorn.

VI.
Forgive (original mildness) this ill-govern'd zeal,
'Tis all the angry slighted Muse can do

In the pollution of these days;
No province now is left her but to rail,
And poetry has lost the art to praise,

Alas, the occasions are so few:

None e'er but you
And your Almighty Master knew
With heavenly peace of mind to bear
(Free from our tyrant passions, anger, scorn, or fear)
The giddy turns of pop'lar rage,
And all the contradictions of a poison’d age ;
The Son of God pronounced by the same breath

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Ard those, alas, do ahe,
Like al transcendent excelenee telov:

In Loth, fale medium cheat oar sight,
And far ezaled objecte lessen by their beight:

Thue primitive Bancroft more too high
To be obeerved by tuizar ege,
And rolie the silent year

On his own secret pozuiar sphere,
And sheds, though all unsten, bis sacred infuence here.

VIIL
Kind star, still may'st thoa shed thy sacred influence here,

Or from thy private peaceful orb appear;
For sure we want some guide from heaven to show
'The way which every wand'ring fool below

Pretends so perfectly to know:
And which, for aught I see, and much I fear,

The world has wholly miss'd;

mean the way which leads to Christ: Mistaken idiots! see how giddily they run, Led blindly on by avarice and pride;

What mighty numbers follow them,

Each fond of erring with his guide:
Some whoin ambition drives, seek Heaven's high Son
In Cesar's court, or in Jerusalem:

Others, ignorantly wise,

What could the sages gain but unbelieving scorn;

Their faith was so uncourtly, when they said
That Heaven's high Son was in a village born;

That the world's Savior had been
In a vile manger laid,
And foster'd in a wretched inn?

IX.
Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great,
Say, why the church is still led blindfold by the state ;

Why should the first be ruin’d and laid waste,

To mend dilapidations in the last?
And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty prince,

Thinks Heaven has cancell'd all our sins,
And that his subjects share his happy influence;
Follow the model close, for so I'm sure they should,
But wicked kings draw more examples than the good.

And divine Sancroft, weary with the weight
Of a declining church, by faction, her worst foe, oppress’d,

Finding the mitre almost grown

A load as heavy as the crown,
Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest.

X.
Ah! may no unkind earthquake of the state,

Nor hurricano from the crown,
Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late,
Which, in its dusky march along the plain,

Swept up whole churches as it list,

Wrapp'd in a whirlwind and a mist;
Like that prophetic tempest in the virgin reign,

And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down.
Such were the storms good Sancroft long has borne ;

The mitre, which his sacred head has worn,
Was, like his master's crown, in wreath'd with thorn.
Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last,

The bitter cup is from him pass’d;

Fortune in both extremes
Though blasts from contrariety of winds,

Yet to firm heavenly minds,
Is but one thing under two different names;
And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect seon

Confesses ignorance to judge between;
And must to human reasoning opposite conclude,
To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude.

XI.
Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat,
Shows lustre that was shaded in his seat;

Short glimm’rings of the prelate glorified ;
Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide
Why should the sun, alas! be proud

And though I should but ill be understood,
In wholly equalling our sin and theirs,
And measuring by the scanty thread of wit

What we call holy, and great, and just, and good, (Methods in talk whereof our pride and ignorance inake use), And which our wild ambition foolishly compares

With endless and with infinite;
Yet pardon, native Albion, when I say,
Among thy stubborn suns there haunts that spirit of the Jews,
That those forsaken wretches who to-day

Revile his great ambassador,
Seem to discover what they would have done

(Were his humanity on earth once more)
To his undoubted Master, lleaven's Almighty Son.

VII.
But zeal is weak and ignorant, though wond'rous proud,
Though very turbulent and very loud;

The crazy composition shows,
Like that fantastic medley in the idol's toes,

Made up of iron mix'd with clay,
This crumbles into dust,
That moulders into rust,

Or melts by the first shower away.
Nothing is fix'd that mortals see or know,
Unless, perhaps, some stars above be so;

And those, alas, do show,
Like all transcendent excellence below;

In both, false mediums cheat our sight,
And far exalted objects lessen by their height:

Thus primitive Sancroft moves too high
To be observed by vulgar eye,
And rolls the silent year

On his own secret regular sphere,
And sheds, though all unseen, his sacred influence here.

VIII.
Kind star, still may'st thou shed thy sacred influence here,

Or from thy private peaceful orb appear;
For sure we want some guide from heaven to show
The way which every wand'ring fool below

Pretends so perfectly to know:
And wbich, for aught I see, and much I fear,

The world has wholly miss'd;
I mean the way which leads to Christ:
Mistaken idiots ! see how giddily they run,
Led blindly on by avarice and pride;

What mighty numbers follow them,

Each fond of erring with his guide:
Some whom ambition drives, seek Heaven's high Son
In Cæsar's court, or in Jerusalem :

Others, ignorantly wise,

What could the sages gain but unbelieving scorn ;

Their faith was so uncourtly, when they said
That Heaven's high Son was in a village born;

That the world's Savior had been
In a vile manger laid,
And foster'd in a wretched inn?

IX.

Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great,
Say, why the church is still led blindfold by the state ;

Why should the first be ruin'd and laid waste,

To mend dilapidations in the last ?
And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty prince,

Thinky Heaven has cancell'd all our sins,
And that his subjects share his happy influence;
Follow the model close, for so I'm sure they should,
But wicked kings draw more examples than the good.

And divine Sancroft, weary with the weight
Of a declining church, by faction, her worst foe, oppress’d,

Finding the mitre almost grown

A load as heavy as the crown,
Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest.

X.
Ah! may no unkind earthquake of the state,

Nor hurricano from the crown,
Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late,
Which, in its dusky march along the plain,

Swept up whole churches as it list,

Wrapp'd in a whirlwind and a mist;
Like that prophetic tempest in the virgin reign,

And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down.
Such were the storms good Sancroft long has borne ;

The mitre, which his sacred head has worn,
Was, like his master's crown, inwreath'd with thorn.
Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last,

The bitter cup is from him pass’d;

Fortune in both extremes
Though blasts from contrariety of winds,

Yet to firm heavenly minds,
Is but one thing under two different names;
And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect seca

Confesses ignorance to judge between;
And must to human reasoning opposite conclude,
To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude.

XI.
Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat,
Shows lustre that was shaded in his seat;

Short glimm’rings of the prelate glorified ;
Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide

Why should the sun, alas ! be proud

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