Necessity, thou tyrant conscience of the great, Say, why the church is still led blindfold by the state; Why should the first be ruin'd and laid waste, To mend dilapidations in the last? And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty Prince, Thinks Heaven 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 prophetic tempest in the virgin reign, And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down. 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. 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 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. XII