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