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   Chapter 11 No.11

The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 1 By Jonathan Swift Characters: 1338

Updated: 2017-12-01 00:03

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 wor

ld, 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.

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