Foll'wing opinion, dark, and blind, That vagrant leader of the mind, Till honesty and conscience are clear out of sight.

IV.

And some, to be large ciphers in a state,
Pleas'd with an empty swelling to be counted great,
Make their minds travel o'er infinity of space,

Rapt through the wide expanse of thought,
And oft in contradiction's vortex caught,
To keep that worthless clod, the body, in one
place:

Errors like this did old astronomers misguide,
Led blindly on by gross philosophy and pride,
Who, like hard masters, taught the sun
Through many a needless sphere to run,
Many an eccentric and unthrifty motion make,
And thousand incoherent journies take,
Whilst all th' advantage by it got,

Was but to light earth's inconsiderable spot. 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.

ས.

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),

Has 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 flow'rs a thousand pois'nous
weeds,

And ev'ry 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 pronounc'd by the same breath
Which straight pronounc'd his death;
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 make use),

And which our wild ambition foolishly compares
With endless and with infinite;

Yet pardon, native Albion, when I say,

Among thy stubborn sons there haunts that spirit of 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,
Made up of iron mixt with clay,

This crumbles into dust,

That moulders into rust,

Or melts by the first show'r 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 observ'd 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 Heav'n, to show

The way which ev'ry 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;

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,

Among proud doctors and disputing pharisees : 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 Saviour 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 heav'n 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 ;