Disjointing shapes as in the fairy land of dreams,
Or images that sink in streams;
No wonder, then, we talk amiss
Of truth, and what, or where it is:
Say Muse, for thou, if any, know'st
Since the bright essence fled, where haunts the reverend ghost?
III.
If all that our weak knowledge titles virtue, be
(High Truth) the best resemblance of exalted Thee,
If a mind fix'd to combat fate
With those two powerful swords, submission and humility,
Sounds truly good, or truly great;
Ill may I live, if the good Sancroft in his holy rest,
In the divin'ty of retreat,
Be not the brightest pattern earth can show
Of heav'n-born Truth below:
But foolish man still judges what is best
In his own balance, false and light,
Foll'wing opinion, dark, and blind,
That vagrant leader of the mind,
Till honesty and conscience are clear out of sight.
IV.
And some, to be large ciphers in a state,
Pleas'd with an empty swelling to be counted great;
Make their minds travel o'er infinity of space
Rapp'd through the wide expanse of thought,
And oft in contradiction's vortex caught,
To keep that worthless clod, the body, in one place:
Errours like this did old astronomers misguide,
Led blindly on by gross philosophy and pride,
