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 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 wond'rous proud,
Though very turbulent and very loud;
The crazy composition shows,
Like that fantastick 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 show'r 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 observ'd by vulgar eye,
And rolls the silent year
On his own secret regular sphere,
And sheds, though all unseen, his sacred influence here.
