Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LINES TO ARCHBISHOP SANCROFT by THOMAS FLATMAN

First Line: WHEN I YOUR UNSOUGHT GLORIES VIEW'D
Last Line: ALMOST INVISIBLE; BUT STILL SHIN'D-UPPON.
Subject(s): SANCROFT, WILLIAM (1617-1693);
MY LORD
When I Your unsought Glories view'd,
And prest (a meane Spectator in the Croud;)
Where every Ey, with sparkling Joy did gaze,
All hearts brimmfull of Blessing, & of Praise;
Extatick with the mighty Theme I went,
And something, some great thing to Write, I meant:
This, sure, said I, must set me all on fire,
This must my dull, unhallow'd Muse inspire:
I try'd in wary words my Verse to dress,
And throng'd my thoughts with awfull Images;
For the bold Work, Materialls I desseign'd
High as Your Station, Humble as Your Minde:
Alas! in vaine! my owne Confusion
Strait tumbled th' ill-attempted @3Babel@1 downe.
Much I desir'd to tell in artfull Rhymes,
Your Magnanimity through the worst of Times
How, like a Rock, amidst the Sea, You stood,
Surrounded with a foaming Popular-Floud;
In that black Night, how You still kept Your way,
When all despair'd the dawning of This Day:
With what true Christian Stoicisme, You durst Owne
The slighted Miter, and abandon'd Crowne;
As @3Cato@1 for the baffled Side declar'd,
Tho' all the Gods, the Conquering Cause preferr'd.
Next, I would have describ'd the Happy Place
Of Your soft minutes in a sweet Recess;
Where all things were in Your Possession,
All You need Wish, for You were all Your Owne[.]
Here Emperours, & Kings, receiv'd at last
The noblest Guerdon for their labours past:
Less splendid were those daies, but more secure,
Their last & best were gloriously Obscure.
O those gay Vallies! o those lofty Hills!
Those silent Rivers! & those murmuring Rills!
The melancholy Grove! & peacefull Shade!
For Ease, & Angells-Conversation made!
The Morning's Breath! the sight o' th' rising Sun,
When he starts forth, his Giant-Race to runn!
Faine wou'd I have said, what cannot be express't
But in the sentiments of a wellpleas'd Breast.
And now (my Lord!) on Your triumphant Day,
What can Your poor unlettred Beadsman say?
Who know's that Praise, at the Poetique rate,
Swell's to a Vice, & must deserve Your hate.
When Heav'n vouchsafe's a @3Miracle@1 to mankinde,
Silence, & Wonder best express our minde.

Durst I Presume, or could Despaire (my Lord!)
I would add Here, for my owne self, one word,
That I might be (whome the World frown's uppon)
An Atome in the beams of Your bright Sun,
Almost Invisible; but still shin'd-uppon.



Home: PoetryExplorer.net