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 prophetick tempest in the virgin reign, And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down. Such were the storms good Sancroft long has born ;

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

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 ev'ning gold the cloud appears so gay,

'Tis but a lowborn vapour kindled by a ray;
At length 'tis overblown and past,
Puff'd by the people's spightful blast,

The dazzling glory dimms their prostituted sight,
No deflowerd 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 poetick 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 im

prove,

To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above;
For, whate'er theologick lev'llers 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 pow'rful blessing of thy pray'rs.
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 ev'ry ornament and grace:
In striving to wash off th' imaginary paint :
Religion now does on her deathbed 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 this 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.]

ODE

ODE*

TO KING WILLIAM,

ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND.

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!

*This Ode, which had been long sought after without success, was first ascertained to be Swift's in the Select Collection of Poems, published by J. Nichols, 1778, vol. IV, page 303. That it is the dean's, there is not the least doubt. He refers to it in the second stanza of his "Ode to the Athenian Society," and expressly marks it by a marginal note, under the title of "The Ode "I writ to the king in Ireland." See "The Gentleman's Jour "nal, July, 1692,” page 13.

DD 3

You

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.

Amaz'd, thy action at the Boyne we see !
When Schomberg started at the vast design:
The boundless glory all redounds to thee,
Th' 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