Such were the storms good Sancroft long has born; 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, Though blasts from contrariety of winds, Is but one thing under two different names; And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect And must to human reasoning opposite conclude, To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude. XI. Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat, Why should the Sun, alas, be proud Though fringed with ev'ning gold the cloud appears so gay, 'Tis but a lowborn vapour kindled by a ray; The dazzling glory dims their prostituted sight, Yet Yet does this high perfection well proceed From strength of its own native seed, This wilderness the world, like that poetick 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, Pity a miserable church's tears, That begs the pow'rful blessing of thy pray'rs. Strip her of ev'ry ornament and grace : Religion Religion now does on her death-bed lie, And by their college arts methodically kill : One end in both, and the design the same; Or a more worthy subject choose: Let not the outcasts of this outcast age Provoke the honour of my Muse's rage, Nor be thy mighty spirit rais'd, Since Heaven and Cato both are pleas'd [The rest of the poem is lost.] ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. WRITTEN AT MOOR PARK IN JUNE 1689. 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. "Tis Tis you who must this land subdue, Nor ever since but in descriptions found; II. We have too long been led astray; Too long have our misguided souls been taught With rules from musty morals brought, "Tis you must put us in the way; Let us (for shame!) no more be fed With antique relics of the dead, The gleanings of philosophy; 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? 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 And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown, IV. Curst be the wretch! nay doubly curst! To curse our greatest enemy) (Which since has seiz'd on all the rest) Thrice happy you have 'scap'd this general pest; Those mighty epithets, learn'd, good, and great, Which we ne'er join'd before, but in romances meet, We find in you at last united grown. You cannot be compar'd to one: I must like him that painted Venus' face, Borrow from every one a grace; Virgil and Epicurus will not do, Their courting a retreat like you, Unless I put in Cæsar's learning too: Your |