The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 1 — Key Ideas to Explore

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.

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.

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._]

ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE

WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IN JUNE 1689

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.

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.