And though I should but ill be understood, And measuring by the scanty thread of wit With endless and with infinite; Yet pardon, native Albion, when I say, Among thy stubborn sons 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, Heaven'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, This crumbles into dust, That moulders into rust, Or melts by the first shower away. Like all transcendent excellence below; 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 which, for aught I see, and much I fear, I mean the way which leads to Christ: Some whom ambition drives, seek Heaven's high Son Others, ignorantly wise, What could the sages gain but unbelieving scorn; In a vile manger laid, And foster'd in a wretched inn? IX. Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great, To mend dilapidations in the last? And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty prince, And that his subjects share his happy influence; Of a declining church, by faction, her worst foe, oppress'd, A load as heavy as the crown, Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest. X. Ah! may no unkind earthquake of the state, Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late, Like that prophetic tempest in the virgin reign, 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 seen And must to human reasoning opposite conclude, XI. Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat, Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide Though fringed with evening gold the cloud appears so gay, 'Tis but a low-born vapor kindled by a ray: At length 'tis overblown and past, The dazzling glory dims their prostituted sight, This wilderness, the world, like that poetic wood of old, There are degrees above, I know, 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, Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate here, XII. Since, happy saint, since it has been of iate To lose the providence of thy cares, Pity a miserable church's tears, That begs the powerful blessings of thy pray'rs. Strip her of ev'ry ornament and grace, Religion now does on her deathbed lie, Since Heaven and Cato both are pleas'd ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. I. VIRTUE, the greatest of all monarchies! It fell, and broke with its own weight By many a petty lord possess'd, But ne'er since seated in one single breast. 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; Too long have our misguided souls been taught Let us (for shame!) no more be fed 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? We scrawl all o'er with old and empty rules, For learning's mighty treasures look 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, show, As if they all were spectres too! Affect ill-manner'd pedantry, Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility. And sick with dregs and knowledge grown, IV. Curst be the wretch! nay, doubly curst! To curse our greatest enemy), Who learn'd himself that heresy first (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; 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 show it cost its price in war; For, though with loss or victory a while VI. Only the laurel got by peace No thunder e'er can blast: Th' artillery of the skies Shoots to the earth and dies: And ever green and flourishing 'twill last, Nor dipp'd 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; |