soar
  In search of heaven, than all the Church before: 
  Nor can we be deceived, unless we see
  The Scripture and the Fathers disagree. 440
  If, after all, they stand suspected still,
  (For no man’s faith depends upon his will): 
  ’Tis some relief, that points not clearly known,
  Without much hazard may be let alone: 
  And after hearing what our Church can say,
  If still our reason runs another way,
  That private reason ’tis more just to curb,
  Than by disputes the public peace disturb. 
  For points obscure are of small use to learn: 
  But common quiet is mankind’s concern. 450

     Thus have I made my own opinions clear;
  Yet neither praise expect, nor censure fear: 
  And this unpolish’d, rugged verse I chose,
  As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose: 
  For while from sacred truth I do not swerve,
  Tom Sternhold’s or Tom Shadwell’s rhymes will serve.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 85:  ‘Not to name Mariana, Bellarmine,’ &c.:  all Jesuits and controversial writers in the Roman Catholic Church.]

[Footnote 86:  Hacket was a man of learning; he had much of the Scriptures by heart, and made himself remarkable by preaching in an enthusiastic strain.  In 1591, he made a great parade of sanctity, pretended to divine inspiration, and visions from God.]

[Footnote 87:  The son of the celebrated John Hampden.  He was in the Ryehouse Plot, and fined L15,000, which was remitted at the Revolution.]

[Footnote 88:  ‘Bishop:’  Athanasius.]

[Footnote 89:  ‘Junius and Tremellius:’  Francis Junius and Emanuel Tremellius, two Calvinist ministers, who, in the sixteenth century, joined in translating the Bible from Hebrew into Latin.]

* * * * *

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS: 

A FUNERAL PINDARIC POEM, SACRED TO THE HAPPY MEMORY OF KING CHARLES II.

  I.

  Thus long my grief has kept me dumb: 
    Sure there’s a lethargy in mighty woe,
    Tears stand congeal’d, and cannot flow;
  And the sad soul retires into her inmost room: 
  Tears, for a stroke foreseen, afford relief;
    But, unprovided for a sudden blow,
    Like Niobe we marble grow;
       And petrify with grief.

  Our British heaven was all serene,
    No threatening cloud was nigh,
    Not the least wrinkle to deform the sky;
    We lived as unconcern’d and happily
  As the first age in Nature’s golden scene;
    Supine amidst our flowing store,
  We slept securely, and we dreamt of more: 
    When suddenly the thunder-clap was heard,
    It took us unprepared and out of guard,
    Already lost before we fear’d.