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