Humour and mirth had place in all he writ;
     He reconciled divinity and wit.

     I

     Truth is eternal, and the Son of Heaven,
         Bright effluence of th'immortal ray,
     Chief cherub, and chief lamp, of that high sacred Seven,
     Which guard the throne by night, and are its light by day;
         First of God's darling attributes,
         Thou daily seest him face to face,
     Nor does thy essence fix'd depend on giddy circumstance
         Of time or place,
     Two foolish guides in every sublunary dance;
       How shall we find Thee then in dark disputes?
       How shall we search Thee in a battle gain'd,
       Or a weak argument by force maintain'd?
     In dagger contests, and th'artillery of words,
     (For swords are madmen's tongues, and tongues are madmen's swords,)
         Contrived to tire all patience out,
         And not to satisfy the doubt?

     II

       But where is even thy Image on our earth?
         For of the person much I fear,
     Since Heaven will claim its residence, as well as birth,
     And God himself has said, He shall not find it here.
     For this inferior world is but Heaven's dusky shade,
     By dark reverted rays from its reflection made;
       Whence the weak shapes wild and imperfect pass,
       Like sunbeams shot at too far distance from a glass;
            Which all the mimic forms express,
     Though in strange uncouth postures, and uncomely dress;
         So when Cartesian artists try
       To solve appearances of sight
         In its reception to the eye,
     And catch the living landscape through a scanty light,
         The figures all inverted show,
         And colours of a faded hue;
       Here a pale shape with upward footstep treads,
         And men seem walking on their heads;
         There whole herds suspended lie,
       Ready to tumble down into the sky;
       Such are the ways ill-guided mortals go
       To judge of things above by things below.
     Disjointing shapes as in the fairy land of dreams,
       Or images that sink in streams;
       No wonder, then, we talk amiss
       Of truth, and what, or where it is;
       Say, Muse, for thou, if any, know'st,
     Since the bright essence fled, where haunts the reverend ghost?

     III

     If all that our weak knowledge titles virtue, be
     (High Truth) the best resemblance of exalted Thee,
         If a mind fix'd to combat fate
     With those two powerful swords, submission and humility,
         Sounds truly good, or truly great;
     Ill may I live, if the good Sancroft, in his holy rest,
         In the divinity of retreat,
       Be not the brightest pattern earth can show
         Of heaven-born Truth below;
       But foolish man still judges what is best
         In his own balance, false and light,
         Following 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,
     Pleased 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 heedless sphere to run,
     Many an eccentric and unthrifty motion make,
       And thousand incoherent journeys 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.

     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 power 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 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 popular rage,
     And all the contradictions of a poison'd age;
       The Son of God pronounced by the same breath
         Which straight pronounced 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 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 wondrous 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 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 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 Caesar'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 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 past:
         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,
       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
         To lodge behind a golden cloud?
     Though fringed with evening gold the cloud appears so gay,
     'Tis but a low-born vapour kindled by a ray:
         At length 'tis overblown and past,
         Puff'd by the people's spiteful blast,
     The dazzling glory dims their prostituted sight,
       No deflower'd eye can face the naked light:
       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;
       For, whate'er theologic levellers dream,
         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,
         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
       Either our blindness or our fate,
       To lose the providence of thy cares
     Pity a miserable church's tears,
       That begs the powerful blessing of thy prayers.
       Some angel, say, what were the nation's crimes,
       That sent these wild reformers to our times:
         Say what their senseless malice meant,
         To tear religion's lovely face:
       Strip her of every ornament and grace;
     In striving to wash off th'imaginary paint?
       Religion now does on her death-bed lie,
     Heart-sick of a high fever and consuming atrophy;
     How the physicians swarm to show their mortal skill,
     And by their college arts methodically kill:
     Reformers and physicians differ but in name,
       One end in both, and the design the same;
     Cordials are in their talk, while all they mean
       Is but the patient's death, and gain—
       Check in thy satire, angry Muse,
       Or a more worthy subject choose:
     Let not the outcasts of an 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.]

     [Footnote 1: Born Jan., 1616-17; died 1693. For his life, see "Dictionary
     of National Biography."—W. E. B.]

     I

     Virtue, the greatest of all monarchies!
           Till its first emperor, rebellious man,
         Deposed from off his seat,
       It fell, and broke with its own weight
     Into small states and principalities,
         By many a petty lord possess'd,
     But ne'er since seated in one single breast.
           'Tis you who must this land subdue,
           The mighty conquest's left for you,
           The conquest and discovery too:
           Search out this Utopian ground,
           Virtue's Terra Incognita,
           Where none ever led the way,
     Nor ever since but in descriptions found;
         Like the philosopher's stone,
     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
           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 alchymy;
           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 oddly Plato's paradox make good,
     Our knowledge is but mere remembrance all;
     Remembrance is our treasure and our food;
     Nature's fair table-book, our tender souls,
     We scrawl all o'er with old and empty rules,
         Stale memorandums of the schools:
         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 priests, her train, and followers, show
         As if they all were spectres too!
         They purchase knowledge at th'expense
         Of common breeding, common sense,
         And grow at once scholars and fools;
         Affect ill-manner'd pedantry,
     Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility,
         And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown,
         Which greedily they swallow down,
     Still cast it up, and nauseate company.

     IV

         Curst be the wretch! nay, doubly curst!
           (If it may lawful be
         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,
       And fling our scraps before our door!
     Thrice happy you have 'scaped this general pest;
     Those mighty epithets, learned, 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 compared 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 Caesar's learning too:
         Your happy frame at once controls
         This great triumvirate of souls.

     V

     Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate;
         He sav'd his country by delays,
           But you by peace.[1]
         You bought it at a cheaper rate;
     Nor has it left the usual bloody scar,
           To show it cost its price in war;
     War, that mad game the world so loves to play,
           And for it does so dearly pay;
     For, though with loss, or victory, a while
           Fortune the gamesters does beguile,
     Yet at the last the box sweeps all away.

     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 dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' 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 jugglers' tricks,
     Which we call deep designs and politics,
     (As in a theatre the ignorant fry,
         Because the cords escape their eye,
           Wonder to see the motions fly,)
         Methinks, when you expose the scene,
         Down the ill-organ'd engines fall;
     Off fly the vizards, and discover all:
           How plain I see through the deceit!
           How shallow, and how gross, the cheat!
       Look where the pulley's tied above!
       Great God! (said I) what have I seen!
           On what poor engines move
     The thoughts of monarchs and designs of states!
       What petty motives rule their fates!
     How the mouse makes the mighty mountains shake!
     The mighty mountain labours with its birth,
       Away the frighten'd peasants fly,
       Scared at the unheard-of prodigy,
     Expect some great gigantic son of earth;
             Lo! it appears!
       See how they tremble! how they quake!
     Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears.

     VIII

       Then tell, dear favourite Muse!
       What serpent's that which still resorts,
       Still lurks in palaces and courts?
         Take thy unwonted flight,
         And on the terrace light.
           See where she lies!
         See how she rears her head,
         And rolls about her dreadful eyes,
     To drive all virtue out, or look it dead!
     'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence,
     And though as some ('tis said) for their defence
         Have worn a casement o'er their skin,
           So wore he his within,
     Made up of virtue and transparent innocence;
         And though he oft renew'd the fight,
     And almost got priority of sight,
         He ne'er could overcome her quite,
     In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite;
         Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease,
     Resolved to give himself, as well as country, peace.

     IX

     Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat,
     And in some untouch'd virgin strain,
     Show the delights thy sister Nature yields;
     Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields;
             Go, publish o'er the plain
         How mighty a proselyte you gain!
     How noble a reprisal on the great!
           How is the Muse luxuriant grown!
             Whene'er she takes this flight,
             She soars clear out of sight.
     These are the paradises of her own:
           Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse,
             Though ne'er so gently led,
     To the loved pastures where he used to feed,
     Runs violent o'er his usual course.
         Wake from thy wanton dreams,
           Come from thy dear-loved streams,
         The crooked paths of wandering Thames.
             Fain the fair nymph would stay,
           Oft she looks back in vain,
         Oft 'gainst her fountain does complain,
           And softly steals in many windings down,
           As loth to see the hated court and town;
     And murmurs as she glides away.

     X

         In this new happy scene
       Are nobler subjects for your learned pen;
         Here we expect from you
     More than your predecessor Adam knew;
     Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport,
     Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court;
         How that which we a kernel see,
     (Whose well-compacted forms escape the light,
       Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,)
         Shall ere long grow into a tree;
     Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth,
     Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth,
         Where all the fruitful atoms lie;
       How some go downward to the root,
         Some more ambitious upwards fly,
       And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit.
     You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain,
     Your garden's better worth your nobler pain,
     Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again.

     XI

     Shall I believe a spirit so divine
           Was cast in the same mould with mine?
     Why then does Nature so unjustly share
     Among her elder sons the whole estate,
           And all her jewels and her plate?
     Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care,
     Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare:
           Some she binds 'prentice to the spade,
           Some to the drudgery of a trade:
     Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw,
     Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw:
           Some she condemns for life to try
     To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy:
     Me she has to the Muse's galleys tied:
     In vain I strive to cross the spacious main,
         In vain I tug and pull the oar;
         And when I almost reach the shore,
     Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again:
           And yet, to feed my pride,
     Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining breath,
     With promise of a mad reversion after death.

     XII

     Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse,
       The tribute of an humble Muse,
     'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars;
       Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse,
     And kindled first with indolence and ease;
         And since too oft debauch'd by praise,
     'Tis now grown an incurable disease:
     In vain to quench this foolish fire I try
         In wisdom and philosophy:
         In vain all wholesome herbs I sow,
           Where nought but weeds will grow
     Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth)
           By an equivocal birth,
         Seeds, and runs up to poetry.

     [Footnote 1: 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.]

     To purchase kingdoms and to buy renown,
       Are arts peculiar to dissembling France;
     You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown,
       And solid virtue does your name advance.

     Your matchless courage with your prudence joins,
       The glorious structure of your fame to raise;
     With its own light your dazzling glory shines,
       And into adoration turns our praise.

     Had you by dull succession gain'd your crown,
       (Cowards are monarchs by that title made,)
     Part of your merit Chance would call her own,
       And half your virtues had been lost in shade.

     But now your worth its just reward shall have:
       What trophies and what triumphs are your due!
     Who could so well a dying nation save,
       At once deserve a crown, and gain it too.

     You saw how near we were to ruin brought,
       You saw th'impetuous torrent rolling on;
     And timely on the coming danger thought,
       Which we could neither obviate nor shun.

     Britannia stripp'd of her sole guard, the laws,
       Ready to fall Rome's bloody sacrifice;
     You straight stepp'd in, and from the monster's jaws
       Did bravely snatch the lovely, helpless prize.

     Nor this is all; as glorious is the care
       To preserve conquests, as at first to gain:
     In this your virtue claims a double share,
       Which, what it bravely won, does well maintain.

     Your arm has now your rightful title show'd,
       An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend,
     To which they look as to some guardian God,
       That must their doubtful liberty defend.

     Amazed, thy action at the Boyne we see!
       When Schomberg started at the vast design:
     The boundless glory all redounds to thee,
       The impulse, the fight, th'event, were wholly thine.

     The brave attempt does all our foes disarm;
       You need but now give orders and command,
     Your name shall the remaining work perform,
       And spare the labour of your conquering hand.

     France does in vain her feeble arts apply,
       To interrupt the fortune of your course:
     Your influence does the vain attacks defy
       Of secret malice, or of open force.

     Boldly we hence the brave commencement date
       Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ;
     William's the pledge and earnest given by fate,
       Of England's glory, and her lasting joy.

     Moor Park, Feb. 14, 1691.

     I

     As when the deluge first began to fall,
       That mighty ebb never to flow again,
     When this huge body's moisture was so great,
       It quite o'ercame the vital heat;
     That mountain which was highest, first of all
     Appear'd above the universal main,
     To bless the primitive sailor's weary sight;
     And 'twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height
       It be as great as 'tis in fame,
       And nigh to Heaven as is its name;
     So, after the inundation of a war,
     When learning's little household did embark,
     With her world's fruitful system, in her sacred ark,
       At the first ebb of noise and fears,
     Philosophy's exalted head appears;
     And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay,
     But plumes her silver wings, and flies away;
       And now a laurel wreath she brings from far,
       To crown the happy conqueror,
       To show the flood begins to cease,
     And brings the dear reward of victory and peace.

     II

     The eager Muse took wing upon the waves' decline,
       When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew,
       When the bright sun of peace began to shine,
     And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat,
       On the high top of peaceful Ararat;
     And pluck'd a laurel branch, (for laurel was the first that grew,
     The first of plants after the thunder, storm and rain,)
       And thence, with joyful, nimble wing,
       Flew dutifully back again,
     And made an humble chaplet for the king.[2]
       And the Dove-Muse is fled once more,
     (Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd at the war,)
       And now discovers from afar
       A peaceful and a flourishing shore:
         No sooner did she land
       On the delightful strand,
       Than straight she sees the country all around,
       Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile,
     Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown'd,
         And many a pleasant wood;
       As if the universal Nile
       Had rather water'd it than drown'd:
     It seems some floating piece of Paradise,
       Preserved by wonder from the flood,
     Long wandering through the deep, as we are told
           Famed Delos[3] did of old;
       And the transported Muse imagined it
     To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit,
           Or the much-talk'd-of oracular grove;
       When, with amazing joy, she hears
     An unknown music all around,
           Charming her greedy ears
           With many a heavenly song
     Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and love;
     While angels tune the voice, and God inspires the tongue.
       In vain she catches at the empty sound,
     In vain pursues the music with her longing eye,
       And courts the wanton echoes as they fly.

     III

     Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men,
     The wild excursions of a youthful pen;
       Forgive a young and (almost) virgin Muse,
       Whom blind and eager curiosity
           (Yet curiosity, they say,
     Is in her sex a crime needs no excuse)
           Has forced to grope her uncouth way,
     After a mighty light that leads her wandering eye:
     No wonder then she quits the narrow path of sense
       For a dear ramble through impertinence;
     Impertinence! the scurvy of mankind.
     And all we fools, who are the greater part of it,
       Though we be of two different factions still,
         Both the good-natured and the ill,
       Yet wheresoe'er you look, you'll always find
     We join, like flies and wasps, in buzzing about wit.
       In me, who am of the first sect of these,
       All merit, that transcends the humble rules
         Of my own dazzled scanty sense,
     Begets a kinder folly and impertinence
         Of admiration and of praise.
     And our good brethren of the surly sect,
       Must e'en all herd us with their kindred fools:
       For though possess'd of present vogue, they've made
     Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade;
     Yet the same want of brains produces each effect.
       And you, whom Pluto's helm does wisely shroud
         From us, the blind and thoughtless crowd,
       Like the famed hero in his mother's cloud,
     Who both our follies and impertinences see,
     Do laugh perhaps at theirs, and pity mine and me.

     IV

           But censure's to be understood
           Th'authentic mark of the elect,
     The public stamp Heaven sets on all that's great and good,
       Our shallow search and judgment to direct.
           The war, methinks, has made
     Our wit and learning narrow as our trade;
     Instead of boldly sailing far, to buy
     A stock of wisdom and philosophy,
           We fondly stay at home, in fear
           Of every censuring privateer;
     Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the sale,
           And selling basely by retail.
       The wits, I mean the atheists of the age,
     Who fain would rule the pulpit, as they do the stage,
       Wondrous refiners of philosophy,
         Of morals and divinity,
     By the new modish system of reducing all to sense,
       Against all logic, and concluding laws,
         Do own th'effects of Providence,
         And yet deny the cause.

     V

     This hopeful sect, now it begins to see
     How little, very little, do prevail
           Their first and chiefest force
         To censure, to cry down, and rail,
     Not knowing what, or where, or who you be,
         Will quickly take another course:
           And, by their never-failing ways
         Of solving all appearances they please,
     We soon shall see them to their ancient methods fall,
     And straight deny you to be men, or anything at all.
       I laugh at the grave answer they will make,
     Which they have always ready, general, and cheap:
       'Tis but to say, that what we daily meet,
         And by a fond mistake
     Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit,
     And think, alas! to be by mortals writ,
     Is but a crowd of atoms justling in a heap:
           Which, from eternal seeds begun,
     Justling some thousand years, till ripen'd by the sun:
       They're now, just now, as naturally born,
       As from the womb of earth a field of corn.

     VI

         But as for poor contented me,
     Who must my weakness and my ignorance confess,
     That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to see;
         Methinks I'm satisfied to guess,
       That this new, noble, and delightful scene,
     Is wonderfully moved by some exalted men,
     Who have well studied in the world's disease,
     (That epidemic error and depravity,
         Or in our judgment or our eye,)
     That what surprises us can only please.
     We often search contentedly the whole world round,
       To make some great discovery,
         And scorn it when 'tis found.
     Just so the mighty Nile has suffer'd in its fame,
       Because 'tis said (and perhaps only said)
     We've found a little inconsiderable head,
         That feeds the huge unequal stream.
     Consider human folly, and you'll quickly own,
         That all the praises it can give,
     By which some fondly boast they shall for ever live,
       Won't pay th'impertinence of being known:
         Else why should the famed Lydian king,[4]
     (Whom all the charms of an usurped wife and state,
     With all that power unfelt, courts mankind to be great,
       Did with new unexperienced glories wait,)
     Still wear, still dote on his invisible ring?

     VII

       Were I to form a regular thought of Fame,
       Which is, perhaps, as hard t'imagine right,
         As to paint Echo to the sight,
     I would not draw the idea from an empty name;
         Because, alas! when we all die,
       Careless and ignorant posterity,
       Although they praise the learning and the wit,
         And though the title seems to show
       The name and man by whom the book was writ,
         Yet how shall they be brought to know,
     Whether that very name was he, or you, or I?
     Less should I daub it o'er with transitory praise,
         And water-colours of these days:
     These days! where e'en th'extravagance of poetry
       Is at a loss for figures to express
       Men's folly, whimseys, and inconstancy,
       And by a faint description makes them less.
     Then tell us what is Fame, where shall we search for it?
     Look where exalted Virtue and Religion sit,
           Enthroned with heavenly Wit!
           Look where you see
       The greatest scorn of learned vanity!
       (And then how much a nothing is mankind!
     Whose reason is weigh'd down by popular air,
       Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death;
       And hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath,
         Which yet whoe'er examines right will find
       To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!)
     And when you find out these, believe true Fame is there,
       Far above all reward, yet to which all is due:
       And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you.

     VIII

       The juggling sea-god,[5] when by chance trepann'd
     By some instructed querist sleeping on the sand,
       Impatient of all answers, straight became
       A stealing brook, and strove to creep away
         Into his native sea,
       Vex'd at their follies, murmur'd in his stream;
       But disappointed of his fond desire,
       Would vanish in a pyramid of fire.
       This surly, slippery God, when he design'd
         To furnish his escapes,
       Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes
     Than you, to please and satisfy mankind,
     And seem (almost) transform'd to water, flame, and air,
       So well you answer all phenomena there:
     Though madmen and the wits, philosophers and fools,
     With all that factious or enthusiastic dotards dream,
     And all the incoherent jargon of the schools;
       Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and shame,
     Contrive to shock your minds with many a senseless doubt;
     Doubts where the Delphic God would grope in ignorance and night,
         The God of learning and of light
       Would want a God himself to help him out.

     IX

       Philosophy, as it before us lies,
     Seems to have borrow'd some ungrateful taste
       Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties,
         From every age through which it pass'd,
     But always with a stronger relish of the last.
       This beauteous queen, by Heaven design'd
       To be the great original
     For man to dress and polish his uncourtly mind,
     In what mock habits have they put her since the fall!
       More oft in fools' and madmen's hands than sages',
         She seems a medley of all ages,
     With a huge farthingale to swell her fustian stuff,
       A new commode, a topknot, and a ruff,
       Her face patch'd o'er with modern pedantry,
           With a long sweeping train
     Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain,
         All of old cut with a new dye:
         How soon have you restored her charms,
       And rid her of her lumber and her books,
         Drest her again genteel and neat,
           And rather tight than great!
     How fond we are to court her to our arms!
       How much of heaven is in her naked looks!